Lotuspetals

DECEMBER 5, 1976...

Michael Jackson had spent years dealing with this exact same pattern. His best friend would start liking a boy, she'd tell Michael all about it—much to his dismay—and then she would be out on a date with said boy, the newest addition to a category Michael titled ‘perverted creeps’. They had nothing to give you—they only wanted one thing, and they cared very little for anything else, not bothering to even falsely express that they might take care of you in any way.

But it was correct of them to be so indifferent in that department, because you really weren't interested in love. You just wanted a good time.

Or, that was what you kept telling yourself, because you believed it stitched up the wounds in your heart each time another fraction broke, when another man would do something that proved he was just like the rest.

Their attention was merely placebo, however, because you weren't stitching up or fixing anything. You were only making your avoidance and your inner sadness worse. And the most difficult thing of all was that you didn't understand why you felt so sad when all the dopamine hits had quietened at the end of each day.

Michael bore witness to the fallout of every single one of your romantic experiences. 'Romantic' couldn't really be the word, for they showed you the very opposite; and he hated that he could count on two hands the amount of times you’d been triggered to cry your eyes out in his waiting arms. Why did you keep doing this to yourself over and over again? At the time, as an incredibly confused and painfully lovestruck adolescent—lost in the agony of a seemingly unrequited love—Michael couldn't begin to fathom an understanding.

On a Californian winter evening in '76, you were seventeen years old, returning home from a movie theatre date with a twenty-three year old industry professional. Wildly inappropriate of course, given that you weren't even of age, and also in that he knew exactly what he was taking you out on a date to eventually achieve.

You often got yourself wrapped up in these predicaments because you hadn't yet gained the necessary quality of self-respect. These men were a 'fun' distraction from the stress of your real life, so you indulged in the experiences no matter how inappropriate they may have been. A seventeen year old girl should not be dating a twenty-three year old man by any means, especially not one who belonged to the very industry that so easily held dominance over that same girl.

You'd asked him to drop you off at Hayvenhurst, because you wanted to be with Michael for the evening. You'd actually been thinking about him for most of the date's duration.

And you didn't tell the man that Hayvenhurst was where the Jacksons lived, but he already knew, and arrogantly expected an introduction.

"Thanks," you grinned at the door—although there was no soul in your smile—and then you leaned forward to kiss him quickly.

"So, do I get to see Michael Jackson?" he asked imposingly, raising a brow in expectation.

"No," you said simply.

"Why not?"

"Because he's not a performing seal. Go see him in concert."

You shut the door, rolling your eyes and shaking your head of the idiot you'd just spent the last two hours pretending to laugh with.

But then you smiled as you turned—beaming, even—as you remembered who you had the privilege of spending the rest of the night with. Who you could laugh genuinely with, and who always made your heart happy. Michael Joseph Jackson.

Through the foyer you skipped, greeting his siblings and his mother.

"Hey, where's Mike?" you asked.

Katherine almost let a knowing look adorn her features, for you looked so adorably happy at the mere questioning of where he was located.

"In the living area, sweetheart. He's watching a film."

"Okay, thank you!"

Walking a little further, you finally reached your best friend, sat cuddled up on the couch under a Peter Pan blanket, and tucking into a bowl of popcorn—often the only food he'd let himself eat.

You entered happily, and his eyes lit up when he saw you, though you noticed that sad look that often seemed to permeate the shine.

"Hey, Minnie! I didn't know y' were comin' over."

"Of course I am, Mickey," you giggled, curling up next to him, knees to your chest as you rested against his shoulder. "It's a cold winter night."

"I don't think it's that cold, actually," Michael shrugged, maneuvring the Peter Pan blanket so that it now enveloped you both in its warmth.

You squinted. It really wasn't, and you found yourself with no other excuse for why you really needed to cuddle up with him tonight. So, you said nothing more on that.

"How was your date?" Michael asked with indifference, although he knew he needed to ask, in the interest of politeness.

You took a deep sigh, throwing your legs over his lap. Instinctively, he wrapped an arm around your waist, masterfully concealing how this mode of cuddling made him go wild inside every time. To Michael, it always felt like you were a couple whenever you snuggled into him like this. He stroked your hair now as you spoke.

"Not the best,” you admitted.

"As usual," he muttered, looking at the television.

"He's attractive though. Real goodlookin'. He's nice to me, I guess."

"You guess," Michael repeated.

"Mm." With absent mind, you held the hand of his that was at your midsection, and ran your fingers over the knuckles.

"So, where did you go?" he asked, still looking ahead.

"Uh, the movies. He made me sit through this boring, pretentious thing—I couldn't even tell you the plot."

Michael chuckled, because whenever the two of you went to the movies together, the choice of film was furthest from pretentious. If they weren't horror movies, they were the silliest, most comical sights—usually chosen by Michael.

"And," you added hesitantly, "he basically just spent the whole time with his hand on my inner thigh, inching higher and higher until it got close to the end of the movie and I managed to excuse myself to go to the restroom."

Michael felt a visceral reaction upon hearing those words. His jaw clenched, and he tightened his grip around your waist. This wasn't mere jealousy—no, he'd already been dealing with that. Instead, it was complete disgust at the man's behaviour, and he wished you wouldn't put yourself in these situations so much, but he knew you weren't to blame at all. It was so difficult for him—he wished deeply that he could pull you out of this endless cycle. There was never to be a happy ending as long as you continued to run around with those types. Michael knew that men were bad enough without the added element of exploitation and predation, so he stood firm on the fact that you had no chance of being treated correctly with the men you sought out.

"Did he do anythin' else?" he asked quietly.

"We kissed a few times. He's a good kisser, but nothin' special."

"So, he didn't grope you again?"

"Michael," you flushed, feeling awkward. "He touched me, yeah. I wouldn't say he groped me."

You were incredibly naive in this period, and it seemed to be only Michael that knew when you were being taken advantage of. He hated that you didn't see it the same way he did, often not until after the fact, and he believed that was because you subconsciously viewed yourself as an object to be touched, since that was how you'd always been treated.

"You said you needed to go to the restroom 'cause he wouldn't stop movin' his hand up y' thigh," Michael pointed out.

He'd caught you there, so now you had to brush it off and change the subject. "Oh—um, yeah, anyway, that was really nothin'."

You didn't want any more questions because you knew how critical Michael was in regard to the men you dated. He had a right to be, although you didn't appreciate the warnings at the time. You definitely should've done, in retrospect.

"Missed your cuddles," you murmured into his chest, breathing in the familiar, comforting scent of sandalwood and enjoying the beat of his heart—though it was actually quite quick, you noticed.

"Mikey, why's your heart beatin' so fast?" you asked obliviously, innocent to his desires.

"Oh, um... Is it?" Michael's cheeks began to heat up.

"Yeah, are you anxious about somethin'? Joseph, maybe?"

Yes. The perfect excuse—safe from the real reasoning, the one that told how he was deeply, hopelessly in love with you and that it was in turn difficult to regulate his breathing whenever you looked so beautiful, laying down on his chest...

"Oh, uh… yeah. Um, we don't have to talk about him."

"Yeah, I know," you whispered, squeezing his arm soothingly. "That's on your terms."

Michael sighed of relief that he'd saved himself with the most convenient lie, and you both sat in silence for a little while, as you watched The Band Wagon, one of his favourites.

He thought now, about how you had no idea that just an hour prior to your visit, he had been in his bedroom, writing a song about you. A tear had fallen on the sheet of scribbled handwriting, because he despaired over how he wouldn't ever let himself share the art with you. It was a song he was proud of, and one that spoke of his feelings more vulnerably than he'd ever been, but he ultimately rendered himself pathetic. Here he was, pouring his heart out to you in a love song, while you were out on a date with another guy. Michael could give you so much more than those men ever could, but he was losing hope that you would ever see him in that light. Teardrops had fallen on the guitar Tito had gifted to him, and as you now laid on his chest, he thought about how he'd defiantly wiped the liquid off the wood earlier, endeavouring to continue on with composing chords for a song that would likely never see the light of day.

"You're so warm," you murmured. "I was waiting for this all evening."

Michael held you tighter, kissing atop your head. Anyone who didn't know you both would've certainly declared you a couple, and anyone who did know you—such as Michael's family—strongly declared that you were both secretly in love, because you never liked to be apart from each other for a single moment. It was that you were each other's safe space from the scariness of the outside world—but truthfully, it was a lot more than that too.

"Didn't your guy give you any cuddles?"

"He's not my guy, and yes, he did, but they're not the same."

"Why are they not the same?" Michael asked, heart fluttering at your words.

"I don't know," you said quietly against his chest. "There's just somethin' about you. Safety, I think."

Michael bit his lip, not expecting you to say something so beautifully intimate. "Yeah, I feel that way too. Um—about you. Safety..."

"Yeah?" You lifted your head to look up at him sincerely.

But Michael was still looking at the television, feeling self-conscious. "Mhm."

He changed the subject. "’m fightin' the urge to get up and dance," he laughed. Fred Astaire was performing a routine before him on the screen, and it was one he had learnt as a small child, that he knew off by heart.

"Do it—I wanna watch," you giggled, but then actually protested against what you'd just said. "Wait, no, don't. I'm comfy like this."

"Yeah, that's why I'm fightin' the urge, honey," Michael smiled, kissing your temple. His heart was racing now, for a multitude of reasons—firstly, your pretty body all cuddled up into him; then, your words of how you felt so safe with him and didn’t want to let him go; and then the fact that he'd literally just called you honey and kissed your head as though you were his girl. You didn't bat an eyelid, because he did say and do things like that sometimes, but there were certain ways in which he would that had him feeling as though he'd been placed in an alternate timeline where you were both in the relationship he dreamed of at night.

You reached up to play with the slight frizz of his afro.

"Damn, how big does Joseph want y'all to keep it at, Bambi?"

"What, y'think it looks bad on me?"

"No, idiot," you nudged him, "I just mean it's a lot of upkeep."

"Oh," Michael said shyly. "Yeah, 'm not allowed to have it any shorter."

Now you were staring at him without even realising, and Michael felt incredibly insecure, certain that you must have been examining his acne and his nose and everything else he hated about himself. He looked to the television again, leaning his palm against his cheek to cover as much of his face as possible.

Meanwhile, to oppose Michael's assumption, you suddenly had an urge to tell him how pretty he was.

"You look really handsome with it though," you smiled. "It suits you."

He turned back to look down at you. So you weren't examining his faults?

"Uh, thank you," he murmured bashfully, hating himself for how awkward he was sometimes. Most of the time he was effortlessly himself with you, but he did frequently act shy whenever he had to uncomfortably mask the way you made him feel.

You thought it was adorable when he got like this, and it often made you wonder what he was like with girls. Michael was eighteen and had never had a real girlfriend before, but he'd been out on dates and kissed during all of them. You wondered how he reacted when one of those girls surely complimented him, and the thought of such a thing surprisingly produced in you a strange anxiety—one you didn't recognise the reality of at the time, but it was one you would later understood to be that of jealousy.

There was no way seventeen-year-old you would've been able to recognise that, even when Michael's own siblings—hell, even his mother, and even Joseph—would make comments alluding to that very thing.

You continued to play with Michael's hair, your fingers gliding over the crown before gently threading between the tight coils. He never let anyone else touch his afro except you—although now even you were on thin ice, where you watched as he turned his head from the television again, squinting at you in annoyance.

"Yes?" You batted your lashes playfully.

"Stop it," he said plainly, gesturing to his fro and trying not to laugh.

"Why?" you giggled. "I thought I had special permission to play with your hair."

"Yeah, but not when you're tuggin' on it."

"’m not tuggin' on it! I'm playin' with it gently, to soothe you."

"Alright, I'm exaggeratin', but y' gonna mess it up." He reached his hand up to take yours off him, and you pouted.

"I thought you told me the other day that it was wash day on Wednesday. And that's tomorrow."

"No, I said Thursday. We're on Sonny and Cher tomorrow."

"Oh."

Michael started to laugh. "Play with my hands instead, if y' have to fidget w' somethin'."

For some reason, your stomach twisted with a million quivering butterflies when you heard those words come from his lips.

For some reason. How naive of you to yet again not look any deeper into a quite obviously non-platonic feeling. All you did was brush it off.

You grinned, taking his hand in yours and smoothing your digits through his, taking a deep breath at how peaceful it all felt. Your head nestled in his chest, legs over his lap, fingers gliding over each other's softly... Michael truly was your one and only safe space. Sometimes you wished there was a way you could have him with you at all times, always grounding you and keeping you protected.

"Are y' doin' okay, Tink?" Michael asked all of a sudden, and so quietly you almost didn't hear him aside the lively sound of music playing on the television. There was real sincerity and a clear tone of concern in Michael's voice, as though it was a question he'd been wanting to ask for a while. Questions like those were usually futile with you however, because you would always shrug them off with an easy 'yeah, I'm fine.'

You didn't look up. Instead, you snuggled further into his chest, and squeezed the hand you were still toying with. "Why do you ask?"

Michael desperately wanted to say something he couldn't.

Because I'm in love with you, and I want you to be my girl, away from all the disgusting men that keep using you.

But unfortunately, he couldn't have been any less prepared to come out with something so wild. The chances of such a confession backfiring were incredibly high. So, he opted for something else.

"I feel like... you're quieter now," he replied instead. "And... slippin' into things that might not be right for you."

"Like what?" you asked in intrigue, still pressed against his shirt.

"Doesn't matter," he whispered, kissing the top of your head. "Just promise me you'll always tell me everythin'?"

"Promise," you whispered back, accepting the pinky he offered to you.

But you felt sad all of a sudden. What had he meant?

He wasn't wrong—you were quieter, much more subdued, and it was the way you'd been cuddling into him so much recently that had him worrying about you even more than he already did. Over the last few months, you'd been holding him so tight as though he were a literal anchor—never before had you been so clingy with your best friend. Indeed, you were struggling with many things, where playful relationships with men and cuddles with your best friend were distractions from your feelings and thoughts. But the playful relationships were in fact a huge part of the problem, and in their cruelty and dismissiveness, they really weren't very playful at all.

"I don't like when those guys take advantage of you," Michael blurted out.

At first, you didn't know what to say. Michael had approached you on this topic a few times already, and you disliked each conversation more than the last.

"Mikey, they don't take advantage. They like me, but... nothin' ever works out. I'm too complicated, they say."

"Yeah, an' y' not complicated at all. 's jus' an excuse for when they've got what they wanted."

"What do you mean?" you asked reluctantly, voice melancholy.

But Michael shook his head, regretting his decision to bring up the topic. "No, we don't need to talk about that. I just wanted to check if y' were takin' care of y'self."

"Yes, Michael. I'm grown—of course I'm takin' care of myself."

You were feeling a little irritated now, rejecting the fact that you had ever ignorantly been taken advantage of, because that accusation sounded to you as though you lacked autonomy and allowed people to walk all over you.

Not exactly, but you were a naive young girl in an oppressive, often dangerous industry, fooling around with men in their twenties while you were barely out of your teens. Michael had a very valid point.

"I know," he whispered, although he didn't believe you for one moment. He made it his responsibility to perform as much of that care as possible, but he could only do so much.

Some slightly awkward silence followed, and then he spoke again.

"D'you wanna go to New York for a lil bit? I've heard they're openin' up all these new disco techs, and maybe we'll see some snow while we're there?"

"I'd love to, Bambi," you smiled, still stuck on what he'd just alluded to but willing to ignore it for friendship's sake. "Y'wanna go this weekend?"

"Mhm. I've missed spendin' time with y' like that. Y'know, where we can actually go out and do somethin'... I feel like all we do is cuddle and watch television if we're not workin'."

"Well, I do love cuddlin’ and watchin' television," you giggled with a happy smile, "but won't it be great to cuddle under the snowflakes, walkin' down Brooklyn Bridge? I saw it's forecast to snow this weekend."

"It’ll be great," Michael grinned, though as he looked at you, strangely enough his heart was breaking. Only in its explained context did that feeling make sense.

Because you'd go to New York with him, you'd share a bed together in a hotel room, you'd cuddle up under the snow and stars, you'd dance with each other all night, go on dinner dates, playfight under the comforter... But every time, whenever a passerby would compliment the two of you for what a lovely couple you made, you would only laugh and grimace.

"God, no. He's just my best friend! We'd never be together."

The stranger would chuckle to themselves and walk away, not believing your statement for a second, but Michael would be left spiralling. Because this was what happened every time. Whenever he started to feel as though he could pluck up the courage to tell you how he really felt, you'd do or say something that triggered so much shame and embarrassment in him that he would again end up retreating to a refusal to say anything of the sort.

It would be five seasons passed—from the winter of '76 to the spring of '78—before Michael Jackson would finally tell the girl of his dreams how he felt. So much emotional suffering would carry him through the period in between, but nevertheless he persisted, and in the end… he got the girl.

angelcrescent © 2026 ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡🧁₊˚⊹♡ ╱ i love writing 70s mike omg he’s my baby

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“What the hell are you talking about?” Megan chimes in, leaning in with her elbows on the table as if to hear you better.

“When Jaafar turned twenty-one, I was twelve.” You tell them slowly, feeling a prickle of insecurity running down your spine from how intently your friends are staring at you. One of them even has her mouth dropped open, as if you’ve shocked her that badly.

“So how old are you saying he is now?” Cassie pipes up again, tilting her head to the side as if she’s trying to do the math in her head and coming up short. Your words just aren’t making sense to them, like you’re purposefully playing a prank on them.

They all knew Jaafar was older than you, but none of them ever thought he could possibly be older than twenty-three, maybe twenty-four, but even that was pushing it. Most of them still refused to believe you, assuming that he could only be a few months older than you. He didn’t look a day over twenty, but with what you’re insinuating, he’s almost a decade over.

“He turns thirty in a few weeks,” you say simply, taking another sip from your drink as the table erupts in shrieks and shouts. Everyone’s voices were overlapping, yelling excitedly that you had to be lying, that there was no way your boyfriend was twenty-nine years old.

You just sat back and let them talk over themselves with a pleased little smile on your face. You remember the first time you found out how old Jaafar was, and how you laughed in his face when he told you. He’d sat you down on the couch, resting his elbows on his knees as if he had something extremely difficult to tell you.

At this point, you’d only been on a handful of dates, and while you knew he was older than you, exact ages had never really come up. And, quite frankly, it barely ever crossed your mind. The two of you had such a good time together no matter what you were doing, and all of your thoughts seemed occupied by him even when you were apart.

So when Jaafar sat you down and told you that he was twenty-eight years old, almost twenty-nine and a whole eight years older than you, you laughed at him. His brow furrowed and he straightened his stance, looking at you with disbelief.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” you squeak out through your laughter, and Jaafar braces himself for the rejection he’s certain is coming, “this has to be a fucking joke.”

“Why would I lie about it?” He asks, and even after only a few weeks of knowing each other, you catch on to the concern lacing his voice. You do your best to calm down, taking big, dramatic breaths to steady your heart rate and get your giggles under control. 

“That’s not what I mean,” you reach for him, grab his hand where it had fallen on the cushion between you and squeeze, “it’s just that there’s no way you’re telling me you’re almost thirty.”

“I’m not almost thirty,” he says defensively, voice creeping up an octave in a way that makes you grin, “I’ve got over a year till I’m thirty.”

“No, I know,” you scooch closer, “but it’d be easier for me to believe that you’re nineteen.”

As if to prove your point, you reach over and settle your palms on either side of his face. You look at him intently, as if you’re searching for something in his features. Jaafar can’t look you in the eye, the experience far too intimate, especially with him already feeling so stressed about this conversation, your reaction.

You just lean forward and plant a kiss on the tip of his nose, smiling when he scrunches up his nose at the contact.

“So you’re not gonna turn and run away because I’m too old?” Jaafar asks, and it makes you scoff that this was even a possibility he was expecting.

“Please, it’ll take a lot more than that to get rid of me,” you tease, leaning forward again, “plus, you’re too cute for me to leave.”

You snap back into reality when you realize your friends have all quieted down, the shock of the moment evaporating the more they sit with it. The rest of the night passes unremarkably, with no more revelations shocking the group. When you return home, kicking off your shoes and locking the door behind you, Jaafar is there to greet you in a matter of seconds.

“You’ll never guess what happened,” you say with a beaming smile before Jaafar’s able to even greet you. He’s grinning at you, at your excitement, looking at you fondly in a way that makes your heart hammer against your ribs.

“What happened?” He asks, always game to go along with your antics, even when they’re at his expense. 

“None of them knew how old you are,” you say matter-of-factly, and Jaafar gets a confused look on his face, even though he’s still smiling at you. “They all thought I was lying to them.”

“How did that come up?” Jaafar inquires, watching as you lean yourself back against the counter. After spending the whole night apart, he’s craving your presence, so he crowds you in, pining you back with his hands on either side of your hips on the countertop, looking at you with that confused sort of smile the whole time.

“Dunno,” you shrug, “well, at first they were mad at you for not inviting me to your twenty-first birthday.”

“You were twelve,” he counters with a grin, and you smile back at the fact that the two of you had the same exact thought.

“I know that, but they didn’t,” you tell him, “and then they asked how old you really were, and I said twenty-nine, and then they all yelled at me.”

“They yelled?” His concern comes back, always looking out for you even if it has to be retroactive.

“I guess it was more like yelling near me,” you correct yourself, “they just couldn’t believe it.”

“Well, you couldn’t either,” he teases gently, and you settle your hands against his ribs. In return, he shifts his hold onto your hips with a gentle squeeze that has you beaming up at him.

“I know,” you say sweetly, “you’re just too pretty, it’s unbelievable.”

Your shameless flirting hits him like a train, and he goes all shy in an instant. No matter how long the two of you are together, how often you heap compliments upon him, he can never get used to that raw adoration you have for him. It’s too much to handle in such a large dose, with your attention fully on him, it’s like his brain just shuts down.

Ducking his head, Jaafar thinks back to a few moments before and then straightens up, leveling you with an unimpressed look. 

“Did you say twenty-nine, or almost thirty?” He asks, and you grin because you know he sees right through you.

“Almost thirty,” you say, and Jaafar groans dramatically, slumping forward and resting his head against your shoulder.

“You have to stop saying that,” he grumbles against your skin, “I’m not thirty yet.”

“That’s why I said almost.” Your response is cheeky, and it makes Jaafar squeeze your hips again, an increase in pressure that sends a shiver down your spine. It’s like he doesn’t know the effect he has on you, when he does things like this.

“I’m twenty-nine until the day I turn thirty,” he straightens up, takes in the mischief in your eyes and bites his bottom lip in an attempt to contain his smile, “stop saying almost thirty. It makes me feel old.”

“You are old,” you tease, and Jaafar’s shoulders slump as he sighs dramatically.

“You’re so mean to me, I don’t know what to do with you,” he purses his lips as if he’s thinking, racking his brain for a response even though you both know where this is going.

“I can think of a few things,” you practically purr, and for a few seconds, the two of you lapse into silence, just staring at one another. Jaafar cracks first, his smile taking over his face as he laughs at your ridiculous comment. You follow soon after, amazed that you could hold it together for so long.

The two of you are just a giggling tangle of limbs, pressed against the counter, and you’ve never been happier.

this was such a good request omggggg i hope you enjoy!!! i'm happy to cook up more age gap jaafar if you guys want i lowkey absolutely completely love this whole vibe. like this is so me i can't lie