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𑣲⋆ otw! era michael jackson x reader ⠀₊⠀ ׁ⠀ word count — 658
summary : one of the jobs that comes with being a boyfriend, according to michael, is being a taste tester for his girlfriend’s notoriously bad cooking
includes : fluff, kissing, established relationship, etc.
m. list
california, 1979
the kitchen was filled with the clattering of silver pots and pans on the stove while the blur of los Angeles heat and noise— honking and cheers leaked in from the open living room window.
your hair was tied back and your long polkadot dress brushed against the wooden floors barely as you worked in the kitchen.
to say that you knew what you were doing however..
your boyfriend’s voice pulled your attention as it spread across the small apartment flat.
“baby!” he called, “the movies almost on!” his voice said in that familiar gentle and breathy tone.
michael revealed himself from behind the wall, his deep set brown eyes lighting up when he found you.
the sleeves of his striped yellow and black sweatshirt were rolled up, revealing the smooth skin of his arms beneath as they rested on the sides of his black jeans.
“there you are,” he smiled as he stepped closer, his eyes flickering to the events on the stove.
his smile faded slightly while confusion took over his face, his gaze turning back to you.
if there was one sentence anyone could identify you as, it would be that you were certainly not a great cook.
that didn’t stop you from trying anyway. after all, practice is what makes perfect.
he leaned slightly against the counter.
“is this what you’ve been doing the whole time?”
you nodded, your smile still existing faintly on your lips.
“i’m trying out a new mac and cheese recipe i saw in the newspaper,” you clarified, stirring the pot.
michael hummed.
“really? you didn’t like the one from— what was it.. the betty crocker cookbook? i thought that was your favorite one.”
“when i attempted it though, it looked and tasted nothin’ like it was supposed to.”
your boyfriend let out a soft laugh under his breath, his hands finding the sides of his face.
“i don’t think thats the book to blame, baby.”
you shot him a look, causing for him to only laugh harder as he rose from against the counter and stepped behind you, his hands resting on your shoulders.
“i’m just joking, you know that.”
as his head leaned down beside yours, his voice had practically been a whisper in your ear, his hands moving to your waist.
you wouldn’t admit it out loud that you knew that michaels words were true.
even if you do recall best to your memory that you’re sure you followed that recipe word for word.. that obviously wasn’t the case— although you just couldn’t exactly pinpoint where things went wrong.
you didn’t concern over it, either.
because you had your boyfriend— Michael, who was kind enough to volunteer to taste your cooking.. something you wouldn’t even do yourself.
surpassingly and nonetheless fortunate, michael hasn’t gotten sick yet.
you scooped out some mac and cheese with the wooden solid spoon and blew on it for a few moments before offering it over your shoulder to the man behind you.
you watched as michael ate it without protest and chewed silently with no sudden disgust flickering over his expression.
“how is it?” you asked expectantly after he finished swallowing.
Michael leaned over and pressed a quick kiss to your cheek.
“it’s good..” he smiled, pausing. “but maybe.. we could order in?”
your expression darkened almost instantly, michael’s hands around your waist tightening slightly.
“no—baby, it’s just this once,” he added quickly, his voice apologetic.
“you said that last time too.” you murmured, a smile tugging at your lips as you turned around. “did you think i forgot?”
he laughed, shaking his head, pulled you closer and gently untying your hair from the loose hold you had it in.
“cmon,” he said softly. “we’ll order something good.”
you brushed a strand behind your ear, no longer in the mood to argue.
𑣲⋆ bad! era michael jackson x reader ⠀₊⠀ ׁ⠀ word count — 767
summary : in which you cancel your plans last minute to nurse your husband back to health.
includes : fluff, marriage, kissing, sick michael, etc
based on this request
m.list
𝐌𝐢𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐞𝐥 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐚 𝐟𝐞𝐰 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬 𝐢𝐧 before he was shoved back into bed and drowned in a pile of blankets.
you wouldn’t let him.
he sniffled lightly, watching you walk back in the bedroom with a bottle of medicine.
“baby,” he said hoarsely, “m’fine, rea—“
“say ‘aah’” you cut in, holding a spoonful of dark liquid to his mouth which Michael could already assume from looks alone it was going to be terribly bitter.
his eyes looked up at you, a frown breaking across his lips.
he opened his mouth to protest, but you beat him to it.
“your fever is at 102 degrees,” you reminded him, ushering the spoon toward him once again. “drink up.”
he reluctantly closed his eyes and opened his mouth, wincing once he swallowed and the taste registered.
it had truly tasted how it looked— bitter despair.
when he opened his eyes again, you were looking at him, faint traces of a coy smile on your face.
“Nicely done.” you cooed, “that wasn’t so hard, huh?”
Michael only shook his head, laughing softly under his breath.
but then once his laughter subdued, he looked over at you more seriously, watching as you began to put everything away.
you were still in that fitted, short dress that caught light from the room chandelier every time you moved,
your hair that still held lingering scents of hairspray and cascaded down your back in gloss ribbons,
and your makeup— lustrous, wispy lashes with glossed mocha nude lips.
Aside from replacing your Christian Louboutins with your cozy animal house slippers, everything on you served as a reminder that you had casted away your plans for tonight at the last minute because your husband had come down with a fever.
“your friends are probably wondering where you are.” he murmured.
you didn’t respond immediately, nor did you meet his gaze as you stored the medicine in the bedrooms cupboards.
“i can take care of myself.” he added, pushing himself up to rest against the headboard.
“Lay down,” you said simply, walking back over to guide him down with one hand on his shoulder.
Michael exhaled, settling back into the covers as he continued to search for your eyes, his hand weakly reaching for yours that now rested on the bedside.
“I'd hate to be the reason you’re canceling,” he admitted. “Go have fun, I'll be fine.”
finally, your eyes flickered over to him.
“You're a patient, you shouldn’t worry about those kinds of things right now.”
“I'm your husband first and foremost, am I not?” he tugged lightly on your hand. “You work hard enough already, go enjoy yourself.”
“Yes, you’re my husband,” you adjusted the blankets on him once more, tucking him in thoroughly, “but as your wife, I want to make sure you’re okay.”
Michael looked at you silently for a few moments.
as much as your admission tugged at his heartstrings, he couldn’t help but feel bad.
he looked away, his hands resting over his chest.
“You're going to get bored.”
“i’m very much engaged taking care of you.”
his eyes flickered back to you, slightly narrowed.
“you just always have to have the last word, don’t you?”
you smiled, patting his cheek gently before resting your hand on his forehead, “you’re only now realizing?”
it appears you truly hadn’t been upset, that you didn’t secretly resent him for ruining your night.
michaels expression softened slowly, a sheepish smile curling upon his lips because he felt he could enjoy being taken care of by his sweetheart without feeling shameless about it.
he let out a sigh, closing his eyes although a smile lingered on his face.
“i hate being sick.”
“i know.” you hummed, carefully swiping stray curls from his face before you leaned down to give a quick kiss to the side of his face, a faint mark the shape of your lips taking place like a token.
his eyes opened and his arms raised immediately, refusing your acts of affection.
“what are you doing? you’ll get sick!” he exclaimed to which you only laughed.
“what’s wrong?” you asked obliviously, trying to pry his hands away, “maybe i can take your sickness away.”
the absurdity of your words made him give a laugh of his own.
“through a kiss? that isn’t how it works,”
“what’s the harm in trying?”
you managed to get past his arms, pressing your lips against his to which once it landed, he couldn’t bring himself to refuse.
when you eventually backed away, looking so notoriously smug, michael could only smile.
𝑴𝒊𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒆𝒍’𝒔 𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒔 around the steering wheel tightened enough to border on pain as he forced his eyes on the road, his chest—a black tie and buttoned black blouse— rising and falling with shallow breaths.
No matter how upset he was, he wasn’t reckless enough to begin driving like a madman and endanger both of you.
“You let them walk all over you.”
You shifted in your seat beside him, giving him a look with furrowed brows, fatigue apparent on your features, with no time for his confrontation.
“What are you even talking about right now?”
he stopped at a red light, letting out a deep breath while still refusing to look at you.
“Is it fun? letting all of those men delude themselves into thinking they could be with you?”
In his words, an unfathomable amount of heat had surged through you.
“What are you trying to say?” you exploded. “that i’m purposefully leading men on by sitting there minding my business?”
you didn’t give him a chance to answer, letting out a scoff as you moved to unbuckle your seatbelt, the motion making his gaze immediately snap to your form.
“What are you doing?! we’re on the road!”
“getting away from you. I don't need the ride.” you grabbed your minimal amount of belongings, not sparing a glance as you opened the door with a click, Michael's hand missing you by just a few inches as you walked out.
the california heat came down on you like waves, and so did the confused stares of the drivers around you.
you closed the door behind you firmly, walking your way out of the road as you heard your boyfriend call out to you from the lowered window of his Rolls-Royce.
you didn’t bother looking back, your heels audibly announcing your frustration as they slammed against the pavement.
Once you reached the sidewalk, the streetlight had finally turned green— wheels and rough engines filling the air.
but then came an absurd amount of honking.
you stopped at the commotion, turning around to be met with the sight of your boyfriend approaching you— his vehicle parked in the middle of the moving road as angry curses were shouted at him from behind.
he didn’t pay any attention to the comments, his long legs moving with purpose to catch up to you.
“Are you stupid?!” you shriek, gesturing toward the chaos he jeopardized.
he was in front of you in no less than a few seconds, his hands immediately taking place behind your neck, firmly yet nonetheless gently crushing his lips against yours in a manner unique to his light-headed, clumsy ones—
it held guilt, regret, and a mess of emotions poured into it all at once, painting a desperate and apologetic picture.
one of his hands moved to wrap around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer, unrelenting in stealing your breath.
It wasn't until you placed your hands on his chest and pushed him away firmly that the two of you actually got the chance to breathe.
“i’m sorry,” he said immediately, his voice breathless as his hands relocated to your wrists, pulling you back toward him slightly as he searched for your eyes.
“I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” he murmured, “for saying those things— I don't think that way at all. I'm.. i don’t know what’s wrong with me i just—“
you looked at him, catching your breath.
he continued, his voice dropping lower.
“i never should have said any of it.” his hand left your wrist and slowly tucked a lock of hair behind your ear.
“You can hate me, but please let me at least take you home. It's dark out.”
you glanced at his parked Rolls-Royce, still in the middle of the road as angry cars swerved around past it.
“that won’t be possible when you lose your license,” you proclaimed, although your tone had mostly been of amusement; the anger you felt so prominent earlier now melting slowly.
“why the hell would you just park in the middle of the road like that?”
his hands found the back of your head once again as he pressed a few kisses over your cheekbones, enveloping you in a hug afterward.
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𑣲⋆ thriller era! michael jackson x reader ⠀₊⠀ ׁ⠀ word count — 1,644
summary : in which michael jackson is convinced he hates his temporary manager, and that it’s nothing like obsession.
includes : assistant reader, enemies to lovers / tension (?), jealousy, etc.
a/n : ayoooo idk it’s my first time writing something in this kinda vibe it was fun tho but im trying to lessen the length of my one shots rn it’s my goal to get under 500 words
m.list
— 1984
It was simple, Michael didn’t like you.
Maybe it even went as far as to say that the man couldn’t stand you.
Always wearing that carved frown on your face as you swiftly and efficiently solved any arising issues before a soul could notice.
Any missing equipment? You had a backup and had already arranged for it to be replaced with the snap of your fingers.
A scheduling conflict with a press interview or rehearsal? You started jotting on your clipboard and rerouted the entire day’s schedule within a few minutes.
In short, you were exceptional at your job since being temporarily appointed his manager for the Victory Tour—
Your work ethic nearly challenged Michael’s, a die-hard perfectionist with no room for nonsense.
Perhaps the two of you could’ve gotten along due to this similarity you shared, but your personality had gotten in the way.
The first instance dated back to rehearsal before the show at Arrowhead Stadium, Kansas City.
The crew crowded around the stage, music playing from the speakers as Michael and his brothers ran through their dancing routine to smoothly transition from one song to another.
Although it was only a demo run, Michael, the man he was, took it very seriously. He had long discarded his jacket and moved rigorously, calling for one take after another despite practice having been meant to end hours ago.
As the music came to an end, so did the routine, his brothers collapsing onto the floor like a pack of dominoes from exhaustion.
Michael wiped his face with the edge of his shirt, his breath shallow as he smiled and looked back toward the crew.
“One more run,” he announced.
His words settled throughout everyone nearly instantly, as if commanded by a godly being, his brothers already on their feet and the crew playing back the music.
The song had only run for a few seconds before being abruptly cut off with the click of your finger, the stage entering silence as all eyes directed toward you.
You stood with that same expression: narrowed eyes, slightly knotted brows, and a subtle frown.
Also with that damn clipboard in your hand.
After a few moments, your voice finally cut through the air.
“We’re done here.” You raised your arm, glancing toward your silver watch.
Confusion flickered over Michael’s features as he gestured toward his brothers.
“We weren’t finished.”
“We’re already two hours and thirty minutes over time, and you have an interview at seven,” you pointed out.
You didn’t wait for his response, already in the process of ordering the crew to begin packing away the equipment.
Michael frowned, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“The show is in two days. We need to do ano—”
“Then you’ll start two hours and thirty minutes earlier tomorrow.” you cut in, turning toward him.
As his deep-set browm eyes locked onto yours, Michael could certainly acknowledge one fact—
Whatever this was had never happened before.
You had the world’s most successful and arguably most talented pop star of the century standing in front of you, telling you what he wanted—
And you had the audacity to cut him off and snap at him like a child?
Perhaps he was getting ahead of himself. Maybe what you were saying was right, considering it made sense once he’d thought about it again.
But your tone had stuck with him.
After all, people only remember how you make them feel, not what you say.
And Michael could strongly remember that you made him feel like a fool—not just that time either.
A few days later, he proposed an idea amongst you and a few key stage workers to add a new ending to “Billie Jean” by changing the lighting to a full blackout.
The lighting director and stage manager seemed to understand quickly despite it being on a whim, and the choreographer had already begun adjusting to his changes—
“No.”
Michael paused, his eyes relocating to your form.
He must’ve heard you wrong.
“Excuse me?” he murmured.
You glanced at your clipboard.
“This is all last minute, Mr. Jackson,” you began. “Doing these changes now is only going to mean overtime before opening night.”
The man swallowed slowly, and you could practically feel the irritation behind his eyes, his jaw muscle flexing slightly.
Once he was in the car after rehearsal, Michael tossed his hands up angrily as he confided his thoughts to the man in the front seat.
“Who does this woman think she is?” he said sharply. “It’s my song!”
Bill looked at him through the rearview mirror.
Michael continued.
“She’s… impossible sometimes. Always saying no, always shutting everything down like nothing matters except her schedule.”
He exhaled sharply.
“I haven’t even seen her smile once… does she always just look at everyone like that?”
“…Maybe she has to get to know you better.”
“Yeah, right,” Michael muttered, sinking back into the seat. “No.. she’s not like that. She just… doesn’t seem to like anyone.”
Michael leaned into the velvet backseat.
“That’s probably just who she is in a professional setting. She might be really nice privately.”
Michael fell silent as Bill’s words sank in, his gaze settling on the passing scenery outside the window.
“…You might be right.”
With a sigh, he turned back toward his friend.
“I spoke too quickly.”
So what did Michael do after his reflection?
He acted on it.
After rehearsal the next day, when everything was wrapping up, he found himself standing beside you as you wrote away on your clipboard.
Bill’s words from yesterday motivated him to start a conversation.
Turning toward you, Michael smiled softly.
“You know… you did a really good job today.”
At the compliment, you didn’t even look up.
“I know.”
He surely wasn’t expecting that response, his smile fading before his lips pressed into a line.
He took a breath before trying again.
“Right… I just mean—it was a lot.” He acknowledged lightly. “You handled it well.”
You flipped a page, again not bothering to look up or show gratitude for his second compliment.
“That’s what I’m here for.”
Michael looked at you for a moment, his teeth unconsciously beginning to grind at your deadpan.
“Yeah. Well… I’m saying thank you.”
You finally looked up from your clipboard, though you didn’t turn toward the man beside you.
“You’re welcome.”
You walked off to yell some information to a crew member.
Michael remained standing there, his hands finding his pockets as his eyes refused to leave your retreating form.
Silently cursing you as you disappeared.
He thought he knew for sure now—
That you were a witch, work or not.
That you weren’t capable of smiling or laughing.
And that you absolutely had no sense of humor.
Michael had spent the passing days memorizing these things about you.
Enough to believe he understood you.
Unfortunately for Michael, he was far from it.
Away from the eye of the stage lights, in a crowded corridor filled with equipment, you stood, and for once, that damn clipboard was nowhere to be seen.
But you weren’t alone.
You were with the man named Matt, a name he came to learn because he worked at the coffee shop down the street and constantly delivered the crew’s excessive orders, leading to a few small conversations here and there.
But something foreign had dawned over your face.
Something that felt entirely unrecognizable to where Michael didn’t have a clue what it was when he first saw it.
You smiled.
And Michael felt his jaw lock.
It wasn’t only because of the smile itself, but the fact that such a thing truly existed on you, of all people.
Then came flooding the memories of the past days.
Your rude, clipped answers.
Your knitted brows.
Your narrowed eyes.
Your frown.
And that damned clipboard always pressed against your chest like a shield.
But yet here you stood, smiling.
So sweetly, as if whatever Matt was saying must’ve been the funniest thing in the world.
Like it cost you nothing.
Michael bit his lip slightly.
Matt said something else, and you looked up at him through your lashes, laughter still caught somewhere behind your teeth, your mouth curving with a softness Michael thought you didn’t possess.
The severity melted from your face entirely.
The constant tension between your brows was nowhere to be seen.
Even your eyes seemed brighter somehow, catching the low hallway lights like scattered glass.
It looked wrong.
And it wasn’t because it didn’t suit you.
God, it suited you.
That look you had never given him.
Not once.
Yet you were giving this version of yourself so easily to Matt, who surely hadn’t tried half as hard as Michael had to get to know you.
To understand you.
His teeth ground together, bordering on pain.
Matt said something else, causing your head to tip back slightly as you let out another laugh, the sound carrying down the hallway.
What’s so funny?
The thought came bitterly.
What could he possibly be saying to make your lashes flutter like that?
To make your smile spread across your face?
To create the softness around your eyes?
To make your mouth lose that thin, disapproving line Michael had come to hate?
God.
That mouth of yours.
The days of watching it tell him no.
The days of watching it cut him off.
The days of watching it flatten any joke, any suggestion, any attempt at conversation.
And now watching it curve so sweetly as something ugly and hot twisted uncontrollably inside his chest.
Finally, he managed to force his eyes away, making his way hastily down the opposite side of the hall.
The anger had bubbled throughout him so prominently that it beat in his ears, making him unable to hear his own footsteps.
𑣲⋆ bad era michael jackson x reader ⠀₊⠀ ׁ⠀ word count — 2,603
summary : the two of you being hollywoods most beloved celebrities and couple, michael couldn’t avoid being asked about your sudden disappearance from the media years ago in an interview.
includes : angst, marriage, miscarriage, etc
inspired by the song “lately” by tyrese. i recommend it smmm it’s such a good song
m.list
— present 1989
The reporter clicked their pen once, then twice— their eyes flickering over the pop star seated in the velvet armchair a few feet across from them.
The celebrity wore a vivid red dress shirt, black slacks, his signature loafers, his hair done in a loose Jerry curl mullet with multiple stray pieces falling over his forehead, and Ray-Ban Wayfarer sunglasses he refused to discard.
As the reporter cleared their throat, they cued the cameras to roll with a wave of their hand.
aaandddd action.
“mr. jackson,” they begin, “you’ve just concluded your first solo tour, correct?”
Michael nodded, a heartfelt smile breaking across his face, “That’s right,” he said softly.
“A hundred and twenty-three shows across fifteen countries,” the interviewer emphasized. “You were on the road for nearly two years. That's spectacular dedication, Mr. Jackson.”
The man responded shyly, glancing down. “Thank you.”
The journalist then went on to inquire Michael's thoughts on the many successful things surrounding his album: Bad, such as its five consecutive number one hits, its peaking at number one in twenty-five countries… The list goes on.
But then mentions of you followed.
“You’ve been married to y/n for about four years now,” they smiled, the interviewer's tone turned slightly teasing. “But the two of you have known each other for nearly two decades, haven’t you?”
Michael paused for a few moments, adjusting his clothes slightly before letting out a laugh under his breath.
“I've known her since my days in Gary, Indiana,” Michael clarified.
a series of claps traveled through the live audience seated across the room, their expressions smitten with Hollywood's most beloved couple.
Michael Jackson—a man whose unfathomable fame made him seem almost beyond human, with extraordinary talent and an innate sense of rhythm that set a standard musicians still struggle to reach today.
He had it all, and of course, most notably, that included you.
You, a woman whose fame rivaled the brightest stars, with a beauty adored by cameras and a talent so extraordinary that audiences often forgot they were watching someone perform at all.
With rumors of your relationship surfacing in the tabloids in the early 80’s, the two of you finally tied the knot in 1985, sending the world into a frenzy.
to the world, you were Michael Jackson and y/n l/n, the legendary Hollywood celebrities who controlled the media,
But to the both of you, you were something entirely different.
Just Michael and y/n, two preteens who first met by connecting through La Toya and often met outside the Jackson family home, talking about nothing remotely important yet becoming indescribably dear to each other.
Michael, who had never fully understood what it felt like to be a child and explore friendship,
and you, who often spoke without thinking or restraint, easily bringing smiles to those you were around.
Although he eventually moved away from Gary in late 1969, you reunited years later in California in 1979.
It was like no time had passed between you.
The interviewer glanced at his notebook before clearing his throat.
“It's said the two of you began dating soon after you reunited,” they say. “Also, you asked her on the bench of a playground?”
Michael laughed, the memories of that evening flooding in like waves.
— June of 1979
You were twenty that year, sitting on the park bench of your neighborhood as you held a melting light blue popsicle, your legs unconsciously kicking underneath here and there.
Your hair was pulled back lightly into a low bun, a yellow hair clip pinning stubborn flyaways as you watched a crowd of grade schoolers making a racket around in the playground.
Michael sat beside you silently, also with a popsicle in hand, although his eyes were directed at the moloch below him.
He had just finished recording his fifth solo album earlier that month; the long, restless nights of recording vocals, arguing over creative control, and changing lyrics were over.
And you had just been accepted for a lead role in an upcoming movie expected to begin shooting in the coming fall.
With his quiet, you sighed before speaking up, “After this year, things’ll only get harder,” you murmured.
Michael's gaze had lifted from the ground, his deep-set brown eyes turning toward you with somberness, “You're not one to usually talk about that kind of stuff.”
You nodded your head in agreement, “I know. But now that everything’s coming together all at once, I'm a bit nervous,” you admitted, biting the last piece of your ice cream.
“Of what?”
“I don't know,” you huffed, looking down, “I don't know why I'm saying all of this anyway.”
Michael followed your eyes before redirecting him to the plastic convenience store bag that sat between you, reaching in and taking out another popsicle.
He unwrapped it, careful to leave the wrapper around the end of the stick before hanging it to you, who took it without a second thought.
You continued: “We’ll get even busier. We can already barely hang out these days; soon, we won’t be able to do it at all.” You bit into your new popsicle.
His brows knit together at this.
“What?”
You looked at him, a heartfelt smile across your face, “Let's hang out a lot while we still can, okay?”
Michael paused as he registered the meaning of your words along with the approaching and inevitable reality.
His lips folded into a thin line before he reluctantly nodded.
“..okay.”
After that, the two of you sat in momentary silence. You seemed strangely at peace with it.
As though losing time together didn’t frighten you at all.
But Michael couldn’t convince himself to be that way at all; his eyes narrowed over at you, who continued to stare at the floor.
He let out a deep and shaky breath.
“y/n,” he murmured.
Hearing your name, he watched as your eyes flickered over to finally meet him.
“..if I asked you on an actual date.. Would you say yes?”
You blinked, your mouth slightly agape from surprise.
Hues of red grew faintly at the sides of Michael's face, although he remained brave, continuing to meet your gaze headfirst.
You couldn't help but smile at his attempt not to look nervous.
“Yeah, I'd say yes,” you finally answered.
At this, he could physically feel his heartbeat in his ears, as if he could explode right then and there.
“Cool,” he managed to muster, his voice weary as he nodded before looking down at the moloch. “Cool,” he repeated.
laughing softly under your breath, you rose from your seat, Michael's eyes darting over to you as you stretched.
“I should go home now,” you announced, turning to him and his look of slight disappointment.
“Pick me up on Friday, okay?”
Had it been the heat? Michael couldn't even bring himself to breathe properly.
quickly, he gave a series of nods, watching as a sweet smile curled upon your lips before you turned to leave.
Michael would then look down at his open hands, where the sticky melted mess of his popsicle was all over, and he couldn't even feel it.
— present 1989
“That’s right,” Michael confirmed, “we were both reaching busy times of our careers… and the thought of us no longer being in contact frightened me, so I just.. you know, laid it all out,” he admitted sheepishly.
“If I asked you on a date, would you say yes?” The interviewer repeated before barking out a laugh, the live audience joining in.
playful offense took over michael features as he waves his hands. “I was nervous! stop that!”
the laughter subdued shortly after, the interviewer regaining their composure.
“So then Hollywood's most loved couple had begun to see each other in the summer of 1979, that’s a long time. You've kept it nicely under wraps.”
Michael smiled.
“but regarding the question I think everyone in America wants to know..” they begins, their voice dropping into a more serious tone.
“where is y/n?”
Michael's smile didn’t drop dramatically, but the warmth in it had slowly melted.
the interviewer continued. “she was an extraordinary actress, one who enveloped magic into any film she worked on.. but for the past two years, she’s been completely away from the public eye.”
“What’s the reason for this?”
Michael lowered his gaze, his fingers absentmindedly smoothing the crease of his slacks.
— october of 1987
You had turned twenty-eight only weeks before.
The papers called it another golden year. Another award season. Another premiere. Another headline celebrating the woman who seemed to possess the world simply by stepping into it.
And somewhere beyond the cameras, beyond the velvet curtains and flashing bulbs, there had been a secret that belonged only to the two of you.
another life that existed only when nothing else was watching.
Three months.
Three months of whispered names spoken in the dark.
Three months of Michael running around in the middle of night to buy whatever it was you were craving.
three months of speaking of impossible things like tiny shoes, lullabies, and a room painted in soft colors.
Three months of allowing yourself to imagine a future that neither fame nor fortune had ever managed to give you.
And then, without warning, it was gone.
The house had never felt so large.
You sat on the cold hardwood floor with your knees drawn to your chest, fingers pressed against your mouth as though holding yourself together required physical effort.
It seemed wrong that the world continued moving—that telephones still rang, that cars still passed outside, that somewhere people laughed without knowing that yours had ended.
Michael knelt beside you, his arms wrapped around you with such desperation that it almost hurt. As though loosening his hold, even for a moment, would cause you to vanish entirely.
Your tears fell silently, frightening him the most.
The woman who the world knew to command entire theaters with a glance, who could bring audiences to tears with a single line, and could stand beneath lights and make thousands believe anything.
But here, beneath the dim glow of your bedroom, you looked impossibly small.
“Baby,” his voice trembled against your hair. “Look at me.”
His hand settled at the back of your neck, keeping you close enough to hear his uneven breathing.
“y/n” His voice softened when he said your name. “I got you.”
He pressed a kiss to your forehead, lingering there as though prayer alone could undo what had happened.
“I’ll take care of you.”
But the words didn’t land like comfort. They hung in the air because neither of you understood yet that grief is not something that leaves when promised enough love.
It would follow you quietly.
In every nursery window you passed.
In every question from reporters asking when you planned to start a family.
In the way your hands would eventually rest against your stomach without thinking, only for your breath to catch when you’d remember.
His arms stayed firm, anchoring you to him.
Michael lowered his head slightly, not fully collapsing into you, but close enough that the space between you no longer felt separate.
And even in his arms, even with him holding you as though he could keep the world from reaching you, something inside you had already gone still in a way you could not yet name.
It settled quietly.
And you stayed there, held, while the silence inside you deepened.
— present 1989
What could Michael have said?
The nights of him returning home late from rehearsals came in flashes although the space now hadn’t felt like a place to call home nor looked to be a space anyone had lived in, at all.
as you isolated yourself in the enclosure of your shared bedroom in the following days, it wouldn’t be weeks until the first time the two of you had dinner together again.
he could remember it vividly, the red stains and dark circles around your eyes that showed just how much you cried and wouldn't let yourself sleep—
these habits that lacked any respect for your body and mind, almost as if you were intentionally punishing yourself.
Michael wore a warm smile on his face that evening as he guided you to your seat at the table and served your food.
He had attempted to also create conversation, but you shut it down quickly and left back up to the bedroom with no more than a few bites of food.
your husband sat there for a few moments, soaking up your absence before he would put away your full plate food.
Then when night rolled around, he’d cautiously enter the bed with you already settled and your back to him appearing as if already asleep.
but you never were.
you’d stay up all night again, thinking— crying.
The hushed whines would also keep the man up, no matter how exhausted he was
and he’d listen, carefully, the tips of his fingers aching to reach for you.
But they wouldn’t.
Not anymore.
Michael adjusted his position in the chair once again, lifting his head to look at the interviewer, though his eyes remained distant.
The question circled through his mind once more.
Where is y/n?
In truth, Michael didn’t know whether he could still say that he knew you.
Your presence felt so far away, even while you lived beneath the same roof.
You, whom he barely exchanged sentences with through the long and dreadful hours of each passing day.
If Michael had been asked this question two years ago, he would have answered in a heartbeat.
But now, he didn’t have one.
His eyes flickered back to the ring on his fourth finger.
It had remained there since the day you exchanged vows.
Even through these years of distance, it had never left its rightful place.
Perhaps it was the only thing that had remained unchanged.
Michael didn’t know whether to feel grateful for that or sorrowful.
How had it become this way?
When had things gone wrong?
The both of you could feel the distance widening with each passing day, a gap that seemed impossible to cross. There were moments when it felt as though nothing would ever return to what it had once been—to the years when love had come so naturally, so openly.
Now, it existed only as a memory.
The sun would never feel quite that warm again, and the flowers would never look quite as beautiful.
Michael pressed his lips into a thin line before finally speaking.
“She worked very hard for a very long time,” he began quietly.
“People see the premieres and the awards and all those things, but they don’t always see how hard somebody works.
He smiled softly.
“I think she’s earned some rest.”
The interviewer nodded. “Do you think she’ll return to acting?”
𑣲⋆ bad! era michael jackson x reader ⠀₊⠀ ׁ⠀ word count — 3,849
summary : after series of misfortunes, your husband decides he’ll do anything in his power to make your day easier.
includes : fluff, kissing, comfort, married life, children, mentions of curly hair, etc
a/n : i’ve never written a story in 2nd person or posted anything on tumblr before so this might be too lengthy or sound weird 😭 i tried my best to make the layout aesthetic too
m. list
1987
The clock had just hit seven, scents of sweet potato, cream, and brown sugar drifting prominently through the air, drowning nearly every corner of the Bel Air, California home in sweetness.
Inside the grand kitchen was just Michael and his daughter, Mia, currently four and coming five in the fall, eager to help her father bake.
The child peered over the counter, standing on a wooden stool as she opened a pint of vanilla ice cream for the final touches to her father's sweet potato pie, a known speciality of his and a personal favorite of yours.
Michael stood about a few feet away, beginning to wash away any trace of the consequences of today's baking session, hands lathered in soap and moving with purpose so that whenever his wife did return home, which would be soon, she wouldn't see it.
A heavy splat from behind had caught his attention, the man turning.
And there Mia was, placing a mountain of ice cream over the pie.
“Bambi!” he exclaimed, his voice still carrying warmth as he quickly switched off the tap and wiped his hands before approaching the scene.
He looked down at the dessert— now a melting grandeur of vanilla bean where one wouldn't be able to tell that the pie had originally been golden-orange with a beautiful crimp along the rim.
With his lips pressed into a thin line, Michael flickered his eyes over his daughter’s face, seeing she had also managed to paint her face with the ice cream too.
The child frowned in confusion, licking off one of her stubby fingers. “What is it?” she said.
Michael could only shake his head, laughing softly under his breath as he reached for a paper towel and began to clean off her face. “You tryna have us bounce off all the walls? That's enough sugar to send you to the hospital.”
“Mommy will like it, it's vanilla. She told me it was her favorite.”
“She'll like anything you make, sweetheart,” he smiled, his voice lowering into a near whisper. “But next time.. Let's go a bit easier on the sugar, okay?”
The child nodded.
Mia, with her fluffy, short halo of dark curls that fell over her forehead and coiled like springs whenever she jumped, and her wide smile that was as welcoming as a sunflower that never failed to reach her eyes— large, warm orbs of swirling caramel and cocoa.
A little angel she was, full of countless pieces that resembled you, his wife.
And it wasn't just physically, the child had seemed to get a few things emotionally, too.
For one, your notorious temper, of all things.
You weren’t one to be set off easily from just one thing and blow up in flames immediately— it was a gradual process, a terrifying one which Michael would describe as like a timer strapped on a nuclear weapon— But he was pretty dramatic, wasn’t he?
And once you were going, it surely wasn't easy to get you to calm down and return to being level-headed.
Thankfully, though, this didn't occur often, usually because Michael would try his hardest to prevent the worst by catching on to subtle signs early on.
Like from this morning.
It was six something— Michael couldn’t tell you, but what he could, however, from the urgent rustling of the comforter beside him was that his wife had woken up late for court.
…which has never happened before, considering you were someone with high respect for time— the perks of working as an associate at a respectable law firm for years.
yelling a frustrated curse out loud first thing, you yanked the sheets off of you and scrambled out of the bed before quickly disappearing into the master bathroom.
Michael sat up with a yawn, pulling off the sheets you unintentionally covered him with before swinging his legs over the mattress.
He could recall you the night before, buried in case files to prepare for the trial the following morning, with a stubborn headache pounding away at you to go along with it.
And to make matters very much worse, you had woken up late and were now racing against time. Michael couldn’t even begin to imagine how irritated you were, nor did he want to see it.
Another sudden, angry outburst from you, along with the noise of falling products in the bathroom, had made him jump.
yikes.
As Michael hopped off the bed and put on his slippers, he left the bedroom with purpose, deciding that he would try his best to make your morning easier, even if only slightly.
descending from the sleek wooden staircase in the comfort of his soft cotton pajamas, he made his way to the kitchen to begin the arguably most important piece of your routine—
coffee.
He wasn’t really a fan of the bitter beverage— never had been. Still, you were, so that explained the luxurious, completely necessary, and large espresso machine sitting on the marble counters.
You deserved the best, anyway.
Thankfully, by your request on multiple slow weekend mornings when you just couldn't bear to leave the bed, this wasn't his first and certainly wouldn't be the last time brewing it for you, which saved time from learning how to work the complicated technology.
It wasn't anything new, but today the stakes were significantly higher with no room for mistakes.
There was only tolerance for Michael being the absolute best husband possible, which shouldn’t be hard, as he’d like to think himself pretty close to that ideal already.
೯⠀⁺ ⠀ 𖥻 —
Upstairs, after you managed to get through brushing your teeth and completing your skincare, you were met with another issue.
The sophisticated and cashmere brown suit laid carefully on your nightstand the night before had a stain on the blazer which you hadn't seen, until now.
Realizing this, you ran in and out of your closet for about a quarter of an hour to find its replacement, every single option of business wear you harbored, appearing unusually boring and disgusting today.
Finally, you settled on wearing a white set of pure linen Ralph Lauren: a knee-length pencil skirt and buttoned blazer at the waist.
As you sat at your vanity rummaging through your makeup, you made a mental note that you would accentuate the clothing with your favorite pair of Yves Saint Laurent heels in a similar color, probably somewhere under the mess you’d made in the closet, along with your light gold Chanel earrings Michael gifted you last year.
Maybe it was because all of your blood was probably rushing to your head from anger that you just simply couldn’t seem to locate your concealer, or anything you were looking for in that matter.
and it didn’t help knowing that you still had to work on your hair afterward, reminding you of just how little time you had to make things work.
You let out an exasperated groan, mumbling yet another curse under your breath— the tenth one today.
A soft knock against the bedroom door made your head perk up, your eyes finding the man who stood at the frame with a mug in hand through the mirror.
“Good morning,” he smiled, walking into the room, his slippers scratching against the wooden floors.
You returned your attention to your makeup, letting out a curt mumble in return, “morning.”
Michael approached from behind you slowly, placing the cup in his hands— a neutral-toned glass with the phrase “#1 MOM” painted across it— onto your vanity carefully with a soft thump.
“I made your coffee,” he voiced, his hands placed stiffly at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them.
You glanced at the beverage— six ounces of a light beige color.
From looks alone, you could tell your husband had done something differently; his past attempts usually bordering between a dark chestnut or medium roast, whereas today looked like the color of a sugar cookie.
Raising your head, you turned to finally meet your husband's expectant eyes that silently urged you to take a sip and probably congratulate him on how well he did afterward.
You gave a closed smile, reaching out to wrap your hands around the handle before bringing it up to your mouth, taking a sip as your husband watched you closely.
It tasted like how it looked— milk and sugar with a splash of coffee.
forcing yourself to swallow, you placed the cup back down on the vanity. “Michael, this is mostly just cream,” you muttered.
He didn’t register that fact as something bad; his smile only brightened as he gestured toward the cup. “I wanted it to taste happy.”
Although you were still greatly upset from your horrible start to the morning, you didn’t have the heart to criticize his efforts.
You met his glimmering eyes with a small smile. “Thank you. That was really nice of you,” you said softly.
It was nice that you finally smiled for the first time since you’d awakened, but it wasn’t genuine, and Michael was no fool. He knew he’d have to try harder.
He gave a smile of his own, boyish and slightly sheepish as he stepped closer, looking at your reflection through the lit vanity mirror.
“Are you doing your makeup?” he asked, finally acknowledging the disorganized mess of cosmetics in front of you.
You sighed, coming face to face with your reality once more as you resumed rummaging through your belongings.
“I'm trying to,” you muster, “I'm just afraid I won't have enough time for my hair.”
Michael let out a consoling hum as he listened to your thoughts, softly threading his slender hands through your hair.
“Can I do it?” he asks.
You look up once more, his hands still toying with your voluminous, tousled waves.
“What?”
“Your hair,” he clarifies. “Can I do it for you?”
“Absolutely not.”
He frowned. “Why not?”
“Because you’ve never done my hair,” you explain, looking back at yourself through the mirror.
His voice sharpened, offense taking over his features. “I've had curly hair all my life, I can do it,” he defended, “how hard can it be?”
Again, his deep-set brown eyes glittered with endless determination to the point you swore you could practically hear them beg you personally.
With a reluctant sigh, you nodded.
“Alright then, I'll leave it to you.”
Michael smiled brightly, leaning down to press a kiss to the crown of your head.
“You focus on your makeup, I’ll have things covered over here.”
೯⠀⁺ ⠀ 𖥻 —
Mia awoke slowly, partially from the light leaking through the windows, but also from the noise in the bedroom across the hall.
sitting up, she rubbed her eyes with the edge of her Cinderella night gown.
Although only four, she managed to neatly transition to independent sleeping earlier that year.
Michael— the papa-princess he is, protested against it at first, saying it was far too early,
But you were adamant against his thoughts, taking a more autonomy supportive approach.
In the end, he couldn’t win against your word, leading to now, where the child rests happily in her Disney-themed bedroom.
Her heels ( not the shoes ) tapped against the wooden floors softly as she made her way to the source of noise, the door to the room already wide open.
Inside, she could see her father standing beside you as you sat in your velvet vanity chair, all dressed and proper.
Her father had his hands wrapped around your hair, combing it as slowly and gently as he could.
When he seemed to comb through a tangled bit, he immediately paused and looked over your face with worry.
“..Was that too hard?”
Mia could read her mother very well— almost as if she were a children’s book from the way she wore her emotions all over.
You gave a deep sigh as you silently gave him a look in the mirror.
Michael resumed his work quickly, muttering an apology under his breath.
The child stepped into the room, the sound of her footsteps alerting both adults, as they didn’t hesitate to greet her.
“Good morning, angel.” Michael smiled warmly, his hands still working to finish your hair.
Mia waved, trotting over to you, seated in the chair, wrapping her tiny arms around you tightly to hug you.
You give a quick peck to the side of her face, “morning, baby, did we wake you?” you murmur.
It was then that your child finally looked up to see your face and frowned once she did.
“You look funny,” Mia said.
Michael's hands paused, turning to his daughter.
“No, she doesn’t,”
“She does.”
You turn to meet your reflection in the mirror, as well as your uneven middle part with one half of it flatter than the other, your desired slick back to radiate utmost professionalism, nowhere to be found.
As you assessed your appearance, Michael could see your displeasure,
Also, that you were only about a few seconds away from kicking him out of the room.
He returned the hairbrush to the vanity counter slowly with a nervous smile.
“Don’t touch my head again,” you snapped.
Michael grabbed ahold of his daughter carefully to leave the room, muttering under his breath as he did so.
“.. I thought I did very well.”
೯⠀⁺ ⠀ 𖥻 —
You sat at the marble kitchen aisle with your purse packed beside you, the clock reading about a half an hour before nine.
You managed to survive and were no longer late for the trial, surprisingly, but you wouldn’t question it.
After you kicked Michael and his miserable doe-eyed pout out of the room, you quickly fixed up your hair, rearranging the part and thoroughly brushing your hair down in a sleek, low bun.
You snatched what you needed from your bedroom and descended the staircase, the smell of burnt breakfast filling your senses as you found your husband and daughter in the kitchen.
You learned that after you angrily asked him to leave, the two of them retreated to the kitchen in hopes of making you breakfast as you fixed Michael's disaster.
That failed, too, although your husband tried to pretend it hadn’t.
He waved a cloth around the air, attempting to disperse the smoke.
“It’s not burnt,” he corrected. “That just happens, sometimes. It's a thorough dish, you see,” he laughed under his breath.
He turned off the stove, ignoring his daughter's look of disagreement.
“I don’t think it’ll be ready in time—“
“Can you get me some aspirin?” you cut in.
He gave a nod, which you assumed meant he’d do so, but instead, you see him pour a glass of water and hand it to you.
“Is your head still hurting?” he asked.
“Michael.”
You gave him that look again, the man pressing his lips together as he finally approached the cupboard with medicine, taking out a bottle.
But then, instead of handing it over, he turned it around and began to read it.
“It says not to exceed—“
“Give me the aspirin.” You hold your hand out.
“but it says—“
“Daddy, just give mommy the medicine.” Mia quietly says, still waving her little arms around to get rid of the lingering smoke.
Michael hesitated for a moment, his disagreeing eyes flickering between you and Mia before he finally put the bottle into your open hand.
“Thank you.” You gave a controlled smile as you pried the medicine open and took them, sipping the glass of water afterwards.
Your husband retrieved the bottle from your hands, looking over at you cautiously. “You should eat something with it, shouldn’t you?”
You swallowed, looking at the disaster behind him.
He followed your gaze, his expression turning doleful. “I’ll make something else!”
“I have a trial in an hour,” you say, rising from your seat and grabbing your handbag.
“fruit?”
You shook your head. “I’ll just get something on the way.”
Michael followed you quickly as you headed toward the hallway, like he was unsure you should be going in the first place.
Mia ran ahead of him first, small steps, quick against the hardwood floor.
At the front door, you paused to slip your heels on properly.
Mia hugged your leg tightly. “Bye, mommy.”
You softened immediately, resting a hand on her head.
“Bye, Bambi. Be good for me,” you said quietly.
“I will.”
Michael watched the two of you, his disagreement visible along with probably a thousand other suggestions he wanted to make on the tip of his tongue.
He leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to your cheek, another to your lips.
“Good luck.”
You gave a small nod. “Don’t burn anything else.”
He let out a small breath through his nose like it was slightly unfair, his hands resting in the pockets of his pajamas.
“…I’ll behave.”
You gave a half smile before you turned toward the door.
“Lock up after I leave.”
“I will.”
Mia waved at you again as you stepped out into the warm morning and closed the door firmly behind you.
The house went quiet in that immediate, slightly awkward way it always did when you left in a rush.
Michael didn't move for a few seconds, just continuing to stare at where you previously stood.
Mia looked up at him. “Is mommy mad?”
“.. She’s not mad,” he corrected automatically, then paused. “She’s… just busy”
Mia didn’t look too convinced. “She looks mad.”
Michael rubbed the back of his neck, letting out a sigh. “Maybe just a little.”
He looked around the hallway slowly, then toward the kitchen.
The burnt smell from earlier still faintly existed in the air, like evidence.
“…we should clean,” he said.
Mia nodded immediately, her curls falling over her face. “Yeah.”
Michael turned and walked back into the kitchen, picking up the cloth he’d unknowingly left on the stool.
“Just a little cleaning,” he added, more to himself than her.
Mia followed him. “Like everything?”
“…not everything.”
Michael hesitated, looking at the counter—
Then the floor,
Then the living room beyond.
“…okay, maybe everything.”
Mia accepted this without question, her eyes glittering with determination. “Okay.”
೯⠀⁺ ⠀ 𖥻 —
The clock read a quarter after seven, and Michael was still at the sink, although now there was nothing left to wash.
The kitchen had already been cleaned twice—maybe three times—but his brain didn’t seem convinced it was enough.
Mia was perched on the stool again, swinging her legs quietly, watching the pie like it might change if she stared long enough.
The sweet potato pie, messy, softened, and drowned in half-melted ice cream, sat on the counter between them.
Then came the sound of the front door clicking, slowly creaking open afterward.
At this, Michael's back straightened up instantly, and Mia’s head snapped up.
Not too many seconds later, you appeared, standing at the doorway.
Your blazer was no longer sharp at the edges, your hair was slightly loosened from the way it had been in the morning, and your makeup was slightly faded from a full day that had clearly not gone gently.
Mia jumped down from the counter immediately.
“Mommy!” she exclaimed, wrapping her arms around you.
You bent down automatically, pressing a kiss to her head. “Hi, baby.”
“Did you win?” she asked.
You let out a tired exhale, "I did.”
Michael watched the exchange, not speaking right away as he walked around the counter.
Your eyes flickered over to him, noticing he hadn’t changed out of his pajamas from this morning, along with the bit of flour on his sleeve.
He stopped in front of the two of you.
“How was court?” he asked carefully.
You paused for a moment, standing back up.
“It was… something. The judge interrupted me for most of the morning, and the prosecutor kept objecting to things that didn’t matter,” you explained, taking your bag off your shoulder.
Mia frowned immediately. “That’s rude.”
“It was unnecessary,” you corrected, patting her head.
“I’m just happy it’s over,” you said with finality, beginning to unbutton your blazer.
Mia watched you, the fatigue all over your features and body language.
She grabbed hold of your hand. “Mommy, we cleaned for you.”
You looked at her, then at Michael.
“We tried to fix the house a bit,” Michael added almost immediately, his tone a little quieter.
Finally, you took a proper glance at the area around you.
From where you stood, the open living room had its couch cushions straightened and its coffee table cleared.
On the kitchen island, the pile of mail you’d left untouched that morning is now neatly stacked in one place.
Even the entryway, as you could recall, walking through no more than a minute ago, felt and looked less chaotic than it usually did on a weekday.
These changes were not perfect,
They were simply cared for.
Mia then grabbed your hand softly and led you toward the marble counters, pointing toward the dessert sitting on it. “And we made sweet potato pie. your favorite.”
You couldn’t tell what it was at first, or what it used to be.
a large lagoon of melted ice cream, you’d never seen that before.
Michael spoke more carefully now. “Bambi and I were going to make dinner, too, but we figured you’d eat out tonight.”
Mia added immediately, “It was because he was scared of burning it. like breakfast today.”
“I didn’t burn it,” Michael corrected under his breath. “Sweetheart, I thought we were a team over here.”
You looked at your husband, the house, then at the pie again.
All of it told the same story.
Michael had been here all day, trying.
Cleaning, Recleaning, Cooking, Re-cooking, fixing things that didn’t really need fixing just so something in the house would feel ready for you when you came back.
You could see it in the details more than anything else.
You exhaled slowly, discarding your handbag onto the island surface.
“You didn’t have to clean the whole house.”
Michael hesitated.
“I know.”
You stepped closer to the counter, the pie sitting there between all of you like the final piece of evidence.
“I’m sorry,” you said finally, your daughter and husband's eyes widening a fraction with confusion.
“You two have been busy all day trying to make me feel better,” you smiled warmly. “I really appreciate it, but I am sorry for worrying you both.”
Michael gave a small shrug, his expression softening as he placed a hand on your back, “There’s nothing to be sorry for.”
“It's because we love you, mommy!” Mia chimed in.
You looked at them both for a moment longer, the events of today seeming to catch up to you all in this moment, your chest growing tight, and your throat starting to ache.
Michael smiled wider at this, bringing you into a hug, his hand resting on the back of your head as he murmured into your neck, “Welcome home.”
Mia pushed her stool back with sudden excitement. “Can we eat it now?”
You let out a laugh under your breath, breaking apart from Michael's arms as you rubbed your eyes.
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