We all remember the story of Henry mills and his mother, the legendary Emma Swan. being brought together in order to become a true family. But what if in another world, Henry wasn’t the only one born that day. In this world two babies were born, one a boy and another a girl. This girl was to be known as Bailey Gold. This girl was to be Destin to be the adopted daughter of the Dark One; Rumplestiltskin..
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Regardless of how you may perceive him, he has consistently made it clear that he had no desire to change his skin or “bleach it.” He was a proud black man who remained deeply connected to the BLACK community.
Liking Michael Jackson when his skin tone appeared lighter only to justify overlooking his blackness is absurd. I’m not aware of all the specific incidents that caused such a disturbance today, but accusing Michael of denying his blackness and using that to justify your concealed racism is incredibly insulting. As a black woman, to Michael, and to every other black person who has faced similar challenges, I find this accusation deeply hurtful.
The bathroom still carried the warmth of your shower, the mirrors fogged over in a soft haze while golden afternoon sunlight filtered through the frosted windows of Hayvenhurst.
The room smelled faintly of vanilla lotion and shea butter, your favorite combination, and quiet music drifted lazily from the bedroom radio just beyond the open door.
Sitting comfortably on a towel spread across the tiled floor, one leg stretched out before you, you smoothed a layer of warm wax over your calf with practiced ease, entirely absorbed in what had become just another part of your routine.
RIIP—
You didn’t even notice Michael leaning against the doorway until his voice floated over.
“…Mama?”
You glanced up.
There he was in his favorite red, mickey cardigan, a white button-up underneath and a pair of black pants, damp curls still clinging to his forehead from his own shower.
His arms were folded across his chest as he watched you with the same expression he’d worn when you’d first taught him how to bake cookies—equal parts curiosity and concern.
“What’re you doin’?”
You smiled as you casually ripped off another strip without flinching or even blinking. “Waxing.”
“I know that…” he said, slowly stepping inside. “But…why?”
You blinked once. “…To get rid of hair?”
“But you’re already smooth, baby.”
“Well, I have to maintain that, honey.” You chuckled out, putting another strip of wax on your leg.
“You don’t have to though, your legs…” You looked at Michael and he did an ‘okay’ sign whilst nodding appreciatively.
You giggled at his silliness. “I just prefer to not have leg hair, Michael. I’ve been doing this for years now.”
RIIIP—
“Ohh, okay.” He crouched beside your leg, chin resting on one hand while he watched with genuine fascination.
“So…that stuff just…pulls all the hair out?”
“Mhm.”
“…Every single one?”
“Yep.”
“Doesn’t hurt?”
You paused. “…Baby.”
“What?”
“You know it hurts.”
He frowned dramatically.
“I’ve heard people say that but…” He shrugged confidently. “People exaggerate everything.”
You looked at him. “…Michael.”
“No, really!” he insisted, already smiling. “I mean, people screamed about getting tattoos too.”
“You don’t even have tattoos.” You raised an eyebrow.
“I know, but still.” He puffed out his chest like he was Popeye eating a can of spinach. “I’ve got a high pain tolerance.”
You stared at him with a straight, deadpan look. “Really? Do you?”
“Absolutely.”
“Mikey.”
“I do, (Name).”
“You cried because your tea was too hot.”
“That burned my tongue…!” He blinked his wide eyes and frowned a little.
“You cried because the dentist cleaned your teeth too hard.”
“They were rough….and it still hurts!” He huffed out, holding his cheek.
You couldn’t help but still coo and kiss his cheek, he immediately smiled. Your kisses always were the best cure.
“I still powered through it though mama, didn’t I?”
“Yes you did.”
He pointed dramatically at himself and grinned proudly.
“Then, I can handle pain.”
You stared for several long seconds before setting the wooden spatula down, exhaling.
“…You really wanna do this?”
“I do.”
“You sure?”
“I am.”
“You can’t get mad at me.”
“I won’t.”
“You promise?”
“I promise.”
“…Okay. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
———————
Michael now sat stiffly on the edge of the bathtub with one pant leg rolled nearly to his thigh while you carefully spread a smooth, even layer of warm wax across his shin.
His expression had changed entirely.
Gone was the fearless performer who had proudly announced his pain tolerance.
In his place sat your very nervous husband whose breathing had become noticeably quicker with every stroke of the wooden applicator.
His fingers gripped the edge of the tub so tightly his knuckles had turned pale. “…It…it’s supposed to be this warm?” he asked quietly.
“Mm-hmm.”
“It feels…strange.”
“That’s normal.”
“…Normal strange?”
“Yes.”
“…Or concerning strange?”
You couldn’t stop smiling. “Normal strange.”
He swallowed hard as you pressed the cloth strip firmly over the wax, smoothing it down several times.
His eyes followed every single movement of your hands. “You’re pressing awful hard.”
“It has to stick.”
“…Does it?”
“Yes.”
“…Maybe…” He laughed nervously. “…Maybe it already stuck enough.”
You ignored him, continuing to smooth the strip with practiced ease.
Michael stared at it in horrified silence before slowly lifting his gaze toward you. “Honey?”
“Yes Michael?”
“…When…when you pull…”
“Mm?”
“…Don’t…” He cleared his throat. “…Don’t pull too hard.”
You blinked. “Michael.”
“…Yeah?”
“That’s literally how the hair comes out.”
His face fell.
“…Oh.”
Silence.
“…Maybe…” he whispered hopefully, “…maybe just…ease it out?”
You burst into laughter.
“I’m serious!” He exclaimed.
“You can’t ease wax off.”
“Why not?”
“Because then it hurts more.”
His eyes widened so dramatically they looked ready to pop out of his head.
“…MORE?”
You nodded.
He immediately began shaking his head.
“No, no, no, no…” he muttered, already trying to slide backward off the tub. “You know what? I’ve thought about it, and body hair is natural. Hair protects us. Hair has feelings probably. We don’t need to do this—“
You gently grabbed his wrist before he could make his escape.
“You promised you’d prove me wrong.”
“I did…”
He looked at you with the expression of a man who had just realized he had signed a legally binding contract without reading it first.
“…Can we renegotiate?”
“No.”
“…Please?”
“No.”
“…What if I do the dishes for a month?”
“No.”
“I’ll organize the pantry.”
“No.”
“I’ll even eat brussels sprouts.”
You smiled sweetly. “No.”
You laughed softly. “Michael, even if you do all that, you can’t just have that strip of wax on your leg forever.”
“I’ll wear pants forever, I don’t like wearing shorts anyway—“
“Michael Joseph Jackson.”
Michael sighed dramatically before squeezing his eyes shut so tightly tiny lines formed around them. “…Okay…” he whispered. “Let’s count, please mama?”
“Okay.” You nodded half-heartedly.
Michael inhaled and exhaled so rapidly like he was performing for Wembley in front of millions.
“One—“
RIIIIP.
The scream that erupted from him was so spectacularly loud that every bird resting peacefully on the roof exploded into the sky at once in a frantic cloud of flapping wings.
Somewhere outside, a squirrel bolted across the yard in terror and all the animals around the home looked at the house in confusion.
Outside, one of the gardeners jumped nearly three feet into the air.
“JESUS CHRIST!”
His hedge clippers lurched sideways and shaved the top off an innocent rose bush. “OH SHIT!”
Another gardener dropped his rake.
“What happened?!”
“WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?”
“SOUNDED LIKE A MOUNTAIN GOAT??”
“IN CALIFORNIA??”
Inside, Michael was still screaming.
“AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”
Michael lurched forward, clutching his shin with both hands as though you had just amputated it.
“MY LEG!”
You stared at him, the wax strip still pinched between your fingers.
“Michael.”
“IT’S GONE!”
“It’s still attached.”
“I FELT MY SOUL LEAVE MY BODY!”
“It was one strip.” You were already laughing.
Not loudly.
Not enough for him to hear.
But your shoulders had begun shaking uncontrollably.
“Mama!” he cried. “Don’t laugh!”
“I’m not—” You snorted. “I’m not laughing.”
“You are! What the—you’re smiling!”
He held his perfectly healthy shin as you covered your mouth.
“I can’t believe you let that happen!”
“You asked me to do it. I warned you.”
“I didn’t know!”
“I told you.”
“You didn’t tell me it was gonna feel like SATAN HIMSELF WAS RIPPIN’ MY SKIN OFF.”
“It wasn’t that bad.”
“WASN’T THAT BAD?!”
He looked down at the waxing strip you’d just removed.
His already big eyes grew enormous as he looked at his hair.
“…That’s…” He pointed sadly. “Those were mine.”
“Mhm.”
“They’re gone.”
“Mhm.”
“They died.”
You burst into laughter at his dramatic antics.
He immediately pointed toward the waxing kit sitting peacefully on the counter.
“You.” He narrowed his eyes at it. “…You evil little machine…”
Of course, the kit—being inanimate—didn’t respond.
“You hurt me.”
Another dramatic pause.
“…And you’ve been hurtin’ my wife all this time?!”
He gasped.
“Mama…” Michael looked at you with genuine heartbreak. “…How long you been sufferin’?”
You stared at him. “I’m not suffering.”
“You are!”
“It doesn’t hurt anymore.”
“YES IT DO!”
“It doesn’t.”
“It HAS TO.”
He glared at the innocent container of wax like it had personally insulted him.
“…You oughta be ashamed of yourself!”
He smacked the container off the counter. “I let you into my home, and you hurt me and my wife!”
Then he slowly crawled across the floor, sitting down next to you until his head landed dramatically in your lap. “I’m never trustin’ that thing again.”
Your fingers immediately found his curls, gently scratching his scalp as you just shook your head. “There you go.”
He sniffled.
“My leg still hurts.”
“I know.”
“I think it’s throbbin’.”
“I know.”
“…Can you kiss it?”
You laughed.
“You are soo dramatic.”
“Mama…” He looked up at you with those eyes. Who could say no?
You leaned down and pressed a tiny kiss against the smooth strip on his shin.
“There.”
He sighed happily.
“…Better.”
Several quiet moments passed while your fingers combed gently through his damp curls.
Then—
“…Uhm…honey?”
“Mhm?”
“…Promise me somethin’.”
“What is it?”
“If anybody asks…”
He looked up with watery brown eyes.
“…Tell ’em I fell.”
You smiled softly. “You want me to lie?”
“…Please.”
“‘Thought lying was bad.”
“Just this once, (Name)!” He clasped his hands together.
“You don’t understand baby…my brothers will make fun of me for 20 centuries if they found out about this…” Michael begged.
You just stared at him for the umpteenth time this hour before exhaling.
“But baby, you have a whole smooth perfect strip on your skin, what am I supposed to say? That you fell on a wax strip?”
“Uh…make up something! I’ll just wear long pants for the whole month— just please…cover f’me?” He looked up at you.
You laughed so hard you had to wipe tears from your own eyes.
“Alright.”
He relaxed again as you kissed his temple.
“…Thank you, (Name).”
———————
A week later…
The Jackson brothers had gathered in the living room, talking over coffee while laughter echoed comfortably through Hayvenhurst.
Michael wandered in wearing athletic shorts and long white socks, carrying a bowl of popcorn.
He plopped onto the couch.
Halfway through adjusting one of his socks, his pant leg rode up.
Jackie froze. “Hold up.”
Michael looked up.
“What?”
Tito leaned forward. “…Mike.”
Jermaine narrowed his eyes. “…Is that…”
Marlon pointed. “…Why is there one perfectly smooth rectangle on your leg?”
Silence.
Michael slowly looked down.
“…Oh.”
He immediately tugged the fabric down.
“Nothin’.” His voice went up one octave.
“It ain’t nothin’,” Jackie narrowed his eyes.
Jermaine leaned closer.
“…Mike.”
A pause.
“…Did…”
He whispered dramatically as he looked around before leaning his head close to Michael.
“…Did she wax you?”
The room filled with the brothers fell quiet.
Michael stared at them.
Then sighed.
“…Maybe.”
He closed his eyes, expecting them to clown on him, for them to torment him with this for years at every family gathering but…
Nobody laughed.
Instead—
Jackie slowly nodded. “…Yeah.”
Michael blinked in confusion.
“…Yeah?”
Jackie rolled up his own pant leg.
A suspiciously smooth strip sat on his calf.
“My wife dared me…it hasn’t grown back in months.”
Tito immediately lifted his jeans.
“…Mine said it’d ‘only sting for a second.’”
Jermaine groaned, shuddering.
“They all say that.”
Marlon pointed at himself.
“…Thought it’d be relaxing….that people were just exaggerating…”
Michael gasped. “You too?”
Jackie sighed deeply.
“I screamed.”
Marlon touched his own pant leg.
“Carol counted to three.”
Michael looked hopeful.
“Did she actually count?”
“…No.”
Michael’s face crumpled.
“Mine too.”
Jermaine nodded solemnly.
“That’s how they get you.”
“They all do that?”
“They all do that.”
Michael looked utterly devastated.
“…It’s not just me then?”
“No.”
“You were tricked.”
“I was.”
Jackie placed a comforting hand on Michael’s shoulder. “You survived.”
“I did.”
Marlon wrapped an arm around both of them. “We all survived.”
Jermaine joined the hug.
“Brothers.”
Michael sniffed dramatically.
“…Survivors.”
“Survivors.” They all said in unison.
Meanwhile, you and the other wives just stared at your husbands with straight, deadpan expressions.
You all then looked at each other whilst sipping on your drinks, all of you wore the same look that said—
“Girl. Are they deadass?”
Michael looked over at you from the middle of the hug, lower lip still pouting.
“Mama?” He called to you.
“Yes, baby?”
“…Tell them I was brave.”
You smiled despite yourself, sighing.
“Michael was very brave.”
His chest puffed up immediately.
“You hear that?”
Jermaine nodded with utmost seriousness. “The bravest.”
Jackie wiped away an imaginary tear. “Our little brother.”
Tito solemnly patted his back. “A warrior.”
Marlon squeezed him again. “A true survivor.”
The wives simply exchanged one exhausted look before shaking their heads in perfect unison.
Honestly…men.
.
.
.
Note: This idea came to me when my stupid brother said that waxing wasn’t that bad—that 🥷🏾was deaddd wronggg 😂
He still looks at me like I threw away all his money in a treasure chest into the ocean 😒 what a drama queen 😂
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is this a safe space to admit that when theres no new fics for me to read i have nothing else to do with my life.. at all
i’m manifesting everyone with writers block to be able to snap out of it and feed the people,, you guys are the backbone of tumblr we can’t do this without you 😞
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your wish is my command ˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ hope you enjoy this doll (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)
♡₊˚ 🏆・₊✧𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐦𝐦𝐲, 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥
♡ song of the year wasn't the only thing michael planned on claiming that night.
୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ thrad!era ⟡ michael jackson x presenter!fem!reader
FEBRUARY 25, 1986
you stand backstage at the 28th annual grammy awards with the soft hum of the audience drifting through the curtains like a warm tide, the air buzzing with the kind of electricity that only nights like this can hold, and you breathe in slowly as you go over your lines for the third time, whispering them under your breath while your fingers trace the cue cards even though you already know every word by heart, your pulse steady but alert because you want everything to be perfect, not just for the show but because you know he is somewhere out there in the crowd watching you with those dark eyes that always make your stomach flutter, and the thought alone sends a quiet warmth through your chest as you straighten your posture and prepare to step into the lights.
the stage manager gives you a gentle nod and you walk out into the golden glow of the auditorium, the applause rising like a wave that washes over you as you smile at the sea of faces, the cameras, the glittering gowns and tuxedos, the shimmering set pieces that catch the light like jewels, and you let your voice carry with practiced grace as you welcome everyone, your tone warm and confident even though your heart is beating a little faster than usual because you know he is somewhere in the audience listening to every word. "good evening everyone and welcome to the twenty eighth annual grammy awards, we are so excited to celebrate the incredible music and artistry that defined this past year, thank you all for being here tonight."
you hold the microphone with both hands as the applause settles, the lights softening just enough to let you see the first few rows of the audience, and your gaze flickers instinctively toward the spot where you know he is seated, catching only the faint outline of his silhouette, the familiar tilt of his head, the quiet stillness of his posture that always gives him away, and even from this distance you feel the invisible thread between you tighten, a secret connection woven through months of stolen moments and whispered conversations and careful glances that no one else has ever noticed.
you continue with your lines, introducing the first categories of the night, your voice steady and smooth as you guide the audience through the ceremony, and each time you step offstage you feel the adrenaline settle into your bones like a soft hum, the backstage crew moving around you with practiced precision, the sound of applause rising and falling like a heartbeat behind the curtains, and you take a moment to breathe, to center yourself, to remind yourself that you are here to work even though your heart keeps drifting toward him like a compass that cannot help but point north.
when it is time for you to present the next award, you step back into the lights with a smile that feels natural and warm, the audience greeting you with another wave of applause, and you read the nominees with clear, confident rhythm before opening the envelope with a practiced flourish, your voice lifting as you announce the winner, the crowd erupting as the popular male artist makes his way toward the stage with a bright grin and an energy that fills the room, his excitement contagious as he climbs the steps and approaches you with open arms.
you expect a handshake or a quick hug, something simple and professional, but instead he leans in with a warm smile and presses a friendly kiss to your cheek, his hand resting lightly on your arm as he murmurs his thanks for your support on the charity project you worked on together, and you feel your breath catch in surprise as the audience reacts with soft laughter and applause, your cheeks warming as you laugh awkwardly and try to keep your composure, reminding yourself that it is harmless, that it is friendly, that it is nothing more than a gesture of appreciation in front of a room full of people.
you step aside to give him space for his acceptance speech, your smile polite and steady even though your mind is still catching up with the unexpected moment, and as the lights shift to focus on him you let your gaze drift toward the audience again, searching instinctively for the one face that matters most, and when you find him your breath catches because michael isn’t just tense, he’s wound so tightly he looks like he might snap if anyone so much as brushes against him. his jaw isn’t only clenched, it’s locked, the muscle ticking beneath his skin as if he’s fighting every instinct in his body not to get up and drag you off that stage, his eyes don’t just stay on you, they burn into you, dark and sharp and unblinking that sends a shiver down your spine as his fingers curl harder against his knee, knuckles whitening, breath tightening in his chest.
he tries to hide it, he really does, but you know him too well, you know the way his emotions flicker beneath the surface like sparks waiting to catch fire, and you can see the jealousy simmering in the tightness of his shoulders, the way he shifts in his seat as if trying to shake off the image of another man’s lips on your cheek, the way his gaze keeps darting between you and the artist onstage as if replaying the moment over and over in his mind, each repetition tightening something inside him until he looks like he might burst from the pressure alone.
the artist continues his speech, completely unaware of the storm brewing in michael’s chest, thanking his team and the fans and the people who supported the charity project, his voice warm and enthusiastic as the audience applauds again, and you keep your expression calm even though you can practically feel the jealousy radiating off him, thick and hot, filling the space between you even from across the room. it’s in the way he won’t blink, the way his lips press into a thin line, the way his foot taps once, twice, three times before he forces it still. he’s trying to stay composed for the cameras, for the crowd, for the moment, but his eyes give him away completely. they’re dark with something possessive, something wounded, something that says he didn’t expect to see another man’s mouth anywhere near you tonight.
when the segment ends and you walk offstage, your heart is still fluttering from the intensity of his stare, your mind replaying the moment in the same way you know he is, and as you step into the dim backstage hallway you press a hand to your cheek where the kiss landed, not because it meant anything but because you know it meant something to him, and the thought alone makes your chest tighten with a mix of affection and worry as you wait for the next cue, the distant sound of applause echoing through the walls like a reminder that the night is far from over.
you lean against the backstage wall for a moment, letting the cool surface steady you as you go over your next lines, your voice soft as you rehearse under your breath, and even though you are alone for now you can still feel the weight of his gaze lingering on your skin, a silent promise that the night will only grow more intense from here, and you close your eyes for a moment, breathing in the charged air of the grammy awards, knowing that the real storm has only just begun.
you stay backstage for a few minutes after your last presentation, letting the noise of the audience settle into a distant hum as you breathe in the dim hallway, the soft glow of the backstage bulbs warming your skin while you rehearse your next lines under your breath, your voice low and steady as you try to shake off the lingering awkwardness from earlier, your fingers brushing your cheek again even though you keep telling yourself it was nothing, just a friendly gesture, just a moment that should not matter, yet you can still feel the ghost of michael’s stare like a hand closing around your ribs, tightening with every breath you take.
the stage manager calls your name again and you straighten your shoulders, smoothing your gown as you step toward the curtain, your heart beating a little faster because this category is bigger, heavier, more important, and you want to deliver it perfectly, especially knowing he is out there somewhere watching you with that quiet intensity that always makes your pulse skip, and as you step into the lights again the applause rises like a warm tide, the golden glow washing over you as you smile at the audience with practiced grace.
you hold the microphone with both hands, grounding yourself in the familiar weight of it as you begin to speak, your voice steady and warm as you welcome the audience back from the short break, the cameras gliding across the room like silent birds while the crowd settles into their seats, and you let your gaze sweep gently across the front rows, your eyes catching the faint outline of his silhouette again, the soft shimmer of his jacket, the stillness of his posture that tells you he has not relaxed since the moment he saw that kiss.
you inhale slowly, letting the moment settle before you continue, your voice carrying clearly through the auditorium. "it is my honor to present one of the most meaningful categories of the night, a category that celebrates the power of music to move us, to unite us, and to change the world. these are the nominees for song of the year." the screens behind you light up with clips and audio, the audience reacting with soft murmurs and applause as each nominee appears, and you stand poised and elegant, your heart thudding quietly beneath your ribs as you hold the envelope in your hand.
when the final nominee fades and the applause settles, you open the envelope with careful precision, your breath catching for a moment as you read the name printed inside, and you lift your gaze to the audience with a soft smile that feels both warm and electric. "and the grammy for song of the year goes to… we are the world, michael jackson and lionel richie."
the room erupts into applause, cheers rising like a wave that shakes the floor beneath your feet, and you look toward the aisle where he stands, his expression unreadable for a moment as he rises from his seat, but then his eyes lock onto yours and everything inside you stills because he is not looking at the audience, he is not looking at the cameras, he is not even looking at the stage itself, he is looking only at you, his gaze sharp and unwavering as he begins to walk toward you with a new calmness that feels too controlled, too deliberate, like a storm holding itself together by sheer force of will, and beside him lionel richie rises as well, moving with him up the aisle like it’s the most natural thing in the world, smiling at the crowd but clearly aware of where this is going, and as they reach the steps lionel goes first, pulling you into a warm, effortless side hug that makes you laugh softly through the shock of it all, his hand patting your shoulder in genuine pride as he murmurs something you barely catch before he steps back with an approving grin.
you swallow hard as he moves toward you, each step drawing the world in tighter until everything else fades into a soft blur. your fingers clamp around the envelope, the paper bending under the tension, but his eyes stay fixed on yours with a steady focus that makes the crowd feel distant and unimportant. the air seems to shift as he gets closer, warm and dense, settling over your skin like something quietly electric.
when he reaches you, he slips an arm around your waist with a certainty that steals your breath. his touch isn’t forceful, just sure, like he’s anchoring you in place without needing to say a word. he looks down at you with his head tilted slightly to the side, studying you with a softness that makes your chest tighten. his teeth catch lightly on his lower lip, a small, unguarded gesture that gives away how much this moment matters to him. and even through all that tenderness, you can still sense the jealousy flickering in his eyes, a faint shadow beneath the warmth. it is not harsh or angry, just a quiet ache he cannot hide, something that tightens his hold on your waist for a heartbeat. his hand squeezes gently, not enough to hurt, just enough to let you feel the emotion he is trying so hard to keep contained.
then he leans in and kisses you.
not a quick peck, not a shy brush of lips, but a soft, sure, deliberate kiss that melts the entire room into silence for a heartbeat before the audience explodes into gasps and cheers and applause, the sound crashing over you like a tidal wave as your eyes flutter shut for a moment, your heart racing wildly as his lips linger just long enough to make it clear that this is not a mistake, not a slip, not a friendly gesture, but a declaration, a reveal, a claim spoken without words in front of the entire music industry.
when he pulls back, he gives you a small, playful wink that makes your stomach flip, his hand brushing your waist one last time before he turns to accept the award from you, his fingers brushing yours with a warmth as he takes the grammy into his hands, the crowd still roaring with excitement as he steps toward the microphone with that soft, shy smile that always makes people melt.
he waits for the applause to settle, his posture relaxed but his eyes flicking toward you every few seconds with a quiet possessiveness that only you can read, and when he finally speaks his voice is gentle, warm, and full of gratitude. "thank you, thank you so much." he pauses as the applause rises again, his smile widening before he continues. "i want to thank lionel, first of all, for being such an incredible partner in creating this song. he is a true friend and a true artist, and i am so grateful for everything we were able to do together."
he shifts the award in his hands, his voice softening with sincerity. "i want to thank every artist who came together for this project, everyone who gave their time and their hearts to something bigger than all of us. this song was made with love, with hope, and with the belief that we can make the world a better place when we stand together."
the audience applauds again, "and of course, i want to thank the fans, because none of this would be possible without your love and your support. you inspire me every single day, and i am so grateful for you."
he pauses, his smile turning a little mischievous, his eyes sliding toward you again with a glimmer that makes your breath catch. "and, um… i guess i should also say…" he lifts the grammy slightly, his tone light but unmistakably pointed. "some people should be a little more careful about kissing another man's lady."
the audience bursts into laughter, cheers rising as people clap and whistle, the cameras catching your face as your cheeks burn with embarrassment and surprise, your hand lifting instinctively to cover your mouth as you try not to laugh, and michael just smiles, that soft, cheeky smile that tells you he knows exactly what he is doing, exactly how flustered he is making you, and he is enjoying every second of it.
he finishes with a warm, humble thank you before stepping away from the microphone, and as he walks back toward you he gives you another small wink, his fingers brushing your waist again as he passes, the touch subtle but full of meaning, and you feel your heart flutter helplessly as he heads back down the steps, the audience still buzzing with excitement from the unexpected reveal.
you stand there for a moment, trying to steady your breathing as the cameras cut away and the stage manager ushers you offstage, your mind spinning, your cheeks still warm, your heart pounding with a mix of shock and affection and something deeper, something that feels like it has been waiting to surface for a long time, and as you step into the dim backstage hallway again you know he will find you soon, and you know the conversation waiting between you will be one you will never forget.
the hallway feels calmer than the stage, dimmer and softer, the noise of the grammy crowd fading into a distant echo as you step into the quiet. you’re still warm from the lights, still breathless from everything that happened, your mind replaying the moment he kissed you in front of everyone like a scene you can’t quite believe is real. you press your hand lightly to your lips, trying to steady yourself, when you hear him behind you, his footsteps slow and sure, carrying that familiar mix of confidence and emotion that always gives him away.
when you turn, he’s already watching you, his grammy tucked under one arm, his shoulders relaxed but his eyes still burning with that jealousy he hasn’t shaken off yet. he walks toward you with a softness that contradicts the storm you know is still swirling inside him, and when he reaches you he stops close enough that you can feel the warmth of him settle around you like a blanket. his voice is gentle when he speaks, even though his eyes are still sharp with emotion. "you okay baby?" he asks quietly, his hand brushing your arm in a way that makes your breath catch. "i didn’t mean to overwhelm you out there."
you nod, though your heart is still racing, and he studies your face for a moment, searching for any sign of discomfort. when he finds none, his expression shifts, softening into something warm but edged with that quiet, simmering jealousy he’s trying so hard to keep under control. "i just… i couldn’t sit there and watch that," he murmurs, "him kissin' you like that. i know it was friendly, i know it didn’t mean anything, but it still…" he trails off, shaking his head slightly, his jaw tightening for a moment before he exhales slowly. "it still bothered me."
you whisper his name softly, and he gives a small smile, one that’s both apologetic and a little proud, like he knows he’s being ridiculous but he also knows he’d do it all again. "i’m not gonna pretend i wasn’t jealous," he says, his voice low and honest. "i was. i still am." he leans in a little, his voice dropping to a softer tone. "but i’m glad everyone knows now. i’m glad they know who my woman is... the woman i get to love."
your cheeks warm instantly, and he notices, his smile turning a little smug but still gentle, still full of affection. "guess i made the night a little more interesting." he adds, his tone playful but certain. lifting the grammy slightly, his eyes glimmering with pride.
you roll your eyes at him, but you’re smiling, and he sees it, his expression softening again as he cups your jaw with one hand, his thumb brushing your skin with a tenderness that makes your chest ache. "you did amazing tonight," he whispers. "i’m so proud of you."
you tell him you’re proud of him too, and his smile grows, warm and bright, the kind of smile that lights up his whole face. he glances down at the grammy in his hand, then back at you, and the warmth in his eyes deepens. "i got my award," he says softly. "and i got you. that’s all i wanted tonight."
he leans in closer, his voice dropping into something playful, something that makes your stomach twist. "c’mon," he murmurs, kissing your temple. "let’s go home so i can show you how jealous i was."
your eyes widen and you slap his chest lightly, your voice a shocked whisper. "michael!" he laughs softly, the sound warm and sweet, his shoulders shaking just a little as he catches your hand gently, his fingers curling around yours with an ease that makes your heart flutter.
"i’m teasing," he says, though the sparkle in his eyes tells you he’s enjoying every second of your reaction. "but i do wanna get you out of here."
you’re still flustered, still warm, but you’re smiling, and he sees it, his own smile stretching wider as he gives your hand a gentle tug. he leads you down the hallway toward the exit, his grammy tucked under his arm, his fingers laced with yours like he’s never letting go. when he pushes open the door to the cool night air, the limo waiting just outside, he glances back at you with a look so full of pride and happiness it makes your chest swell.
he’s got his grammy.
he’s got his girl.
and he looks like he’s floating.
you squeeze his hand, your smile soft and full, and he squeezes back, his voice low and warm as he whispers, "let’s go home."
hey dolls 🌸 just wanted to say sorry if my recent fics haven't been my best. i've been dealing with some personal stuff lately and it's been making it really hard to find motivation to write, and i've also recently started therapy, so i've been trying to focus on myself a little more. i know i probably shouldn't be sharing this, and this is honestly a little embarrassing to admit lol, but i don't have friends to talk to about this stuff, and you guys honestly feel like friends to me, so i wanted to be honest about why some of my writing might feel a little shit. i also feel really guilty about the requests that have been sitting in my inbox for months now, and i'm genuinely so sorry to everyone who's been waiting. thank you for still reading my stuff and supporting me, it genuinely means so much. i still really wanna write and make things you guys enjoy, even when i'm struggling. requests are still open btw !! feel free to send them in <3 i love you all !!
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PAIRING: thriller era!michael x upcoming black singer!reader (afab)
SUMMARY: in 1983, Thriller has transformed Michael Jackson into the biggest star on the planet, just as your debut album launches you into the spotlight as music's newest rising sensation. while the media is desperate to paint the two of you as rivals competing for the top of the charts, the truth is far quieter and much more complicated. a chance meeting backstage at an awards show blossoms into shared melodies and a friendship that's built on understanding the pressures of fame. as the two of you get to know each other, the line between friendship and love begins to blur.
A/N: hi lovelies!! i hope you all enjoy this little AU <3 i might turn this into a full fic but we'll see!! i've tried to omit the use of Y/N in this au just to switch things up 🫶🏽 if you have any requests, you can put them in my requests or inbox and if you wish to join my permanent taglist, you can join here.
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Los Angeles, 1983.
You stand backstage of the Billboard Music Awards in your new designer gown as the hallway buzzes with assistants carrying garment bags, photographers shouting names and the roar of thousands of fans waiting beyond the curtains.
This is your first major awards show and your first televised performance since releasing your debut album. No pressure, of course.
"You nervous?"
The voice that speaks to you is soft and gentle. You turn around and come face to face with Michael Jackson. You've seen him in magazines, but you've never met him in person. You know that his second album, Thriller, has caused him to catapult into fame. Thriller ironically was released around the same time as your debut album, Paper Hearts.
His black curls frame his face, the unmistakable red jacket catching the stage lights as he offers you a small, almost bashful smile.
"A little," you admit.
He nods knowingly. "I still get nervous."
You can't help but laugh. "No way."
"Mhm." His shoulders lift in a tiny shrug. "I think that it means you care about your work."
The sincerity in his voice helps to settle the storm in your chest. Before you can thank him, someone calls his name.
"They need you for rehearsal, Michael!"
He looks toward the voice before turning back to you. "You'll do wonderful."
A smile tugs at your lips. "Thank you, that actually helps calm my nerves a little."
His own smile grows a little brighter, eyes crinkling at the corners. "I'm glad."
You both stand there, smiling at each other. The noise of the hallway fades into the background as you simply stand there, two performers hiding the same nerves beneath expensive clothes and carefully rehearsed confidence. Then, one of his assistants rushes over. "Michael, they're waiting."
"Oh, right. Good luck tonight." He gives you a small wave before disappearing down the corridor, surrounded by security and production staff. Just before he turns the corner, he glances back over his shoulder and flashes you one last encouraging smile.
You smile, steadying your breath. Your own assistant comes up to you with her clipboard. "Are you ready?"
You take a deep breath, smiling as you remember Michael's encouraging words. "As ready as I'll ever be."
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Your name echoes through the arena as you step onto the stage. The applause is polite at first. People have heard your hit single on the radio, but tonight is the first time many of them will actually see you.
The lights dim as you approach the piano in the middle of the stage. You close your eyes as you start playing the first few notes of your single Heartbeat.
Then you start to sing the lyrics. By the second chorus, the audience is on its feet and when you finish, the applause is deafening.
As you thank everyone and leave the stage, adrenaline still courses through you as you step backstage again, your chest rising and falling with excited breaths.
"You were incredible."
You don't even have to turn around this time. Michael stands a few feet away, applauding with genuine enthusiasm.
"I meant what I said."
Your cheeks warm. "You watched?"
"Of course."
"But you had your own rehearsal."
He grins sheepishly. "I...may have asked someone to keep me updated."
A laugh escapes you. "That's sweet."
"I liked your bridge."
"You did?"
"Yeah, I liked the key change." He hums the melody effortlessly. "Most people would've played it safe, but you didn't."
You stare at him. "You noticed that?"
"I notice music."
You smile at him and open your mouth to respond, however, a photographer pokes his head into the hallway. "Michael! Quick photo with the nominees!" His manager appears almost instantly behind him, ushering him to the red carpet.
Your own manager enters, guiding you to the red carpet as well. "Come on. They're putting all the breakthrough artists together."
The two of you end up standing side by side in front of the wall covered with Billboard logos.
"C'mon, closer!" one photographer calls.
Michael takes a small step toward you, your shoulders brushing. Flashes from the cameras nearly blind you as reporters step closer to capture the two of you.
"Look this way!"
More flashes come as you and Michael pose. One photographer laughs. "You two look like you've known each other for years."
Michael glances at you. "We met..." He checks an imaginary watch. "About fifteen minutes ago."
You smile. "But he's already given me a pep talk."
"And you proved me right." He grins.
You and Michael continue to stand there as the cameras continue flashing. Little do the both of you know, the media is starting to stir up a story of the rivalry between pop's newest rising star and the newly named King of Pop.
