JANAE 𝜗𝜚

“what’s on your mind, tink?”

tink. michael started calling you that a few years back because he said you reminded him of tinker bell. you didn’t see it, yet he insisted you had a fairy-like demeanor that justified the nickname.

“everything looks so small from up here. ‘s pretty.”

you’re looking at the ground beneath you, but michael is looking at you. he thinks you’re the prettiest thing here—no neon lights or luminous fair rides could hold a candle to your glamor.

“you’re pretty.”

“you’re such a sap, mike.”

you avert your gaze from the ground to michael, to see he’s already looking at you. his stare doesn’t waver, regardless of how many times your eyes drift away from his.

“but i mean it. you look so pretty.”

he seems content just being in your presence—like he always is. he’s euphoric to just be around you, no matter what the two of you are doing.

you look away from him, but only to rest your head on his shoulder. he stills, like moving would completely disrupt your moment of serenity.

“thanks,” you whisper.

“y’don’t gotta thank me for anything.”

you stay in the same position, stock-still for a few long moments before the ferris wheel momentarily stops and it’s your turn to depart. you groan out loud because your calm was ruined, but michael doesn’t seem to mind much.

“c’mon, tink,” he grasps your hand and starts tugging you behind him.

“slow down, mike!” you struggle to keep up with his pace, given how lanky his legs are compared to yours. but, you manage to follow behind him while speed-walking.

he continues to lead you through the hefty crowds of bodies until you’re in front of the ring toss stand. luckily, there weren't any people in front of you, so the game was all yours.

“gonna win big?”

“the biggest,” his voice is unfaltering, like he’s already convinced that he’ll win.

“be my guest,” you challenge him.

you take a step back and let him assume control of the rings. initially, you assume that his attempts would be abysmal. however, you’re gravely mistaken.

nearly every ring he throws makes it onto a glass bottle. toss after toss ends in triumph, quickly securing victory.

by the end of the game, michael’s delighted with himself and you’re shocked by his achievement. “told you i was gonna win big,” he turns around to face you.

“now which plushie you want?”

you tap your chin with your pointer finger in consideration. “the elephant,” you point to an oversized blue elephant plushie.

michael turns around once more to tell the worker which stuffed animal you wanted. once it’s in his hold, he faces you, holding it out glory.

“‘s all for you, tink.”

“mike, it’s so cute!”

you take the plush elephant in one of your hands before throwing your arms around his neck, embracing him in a hug. you struggle to keep the plushie in your hand and not drop it, but you manage to maintain your grip on it. his arms wrap around your lower back, pressing your body into his.

when you pull away from him, he’s just as cheery as you. he has a dopey smile on your face, and you know you’re adorning a similar one.

still keeping the elephant in your hand, you stand on your tippy toes to press three chaste kisses to michael’s lips. you feel his smile widen against your lips midway through the second kiss.

before you’re able to completely pull back from him, his hand is on the back of your neck, and he’s pulling you towards him once again. the kiss isn’t fleeting. his tongue is swirling against yours as he pulls you impossibly closer.

one of your hands comes up to rest on his nape while the other lies flat on his chest. you pull away first, and when you do, he’s already chasing your lips once again.

he’s seeking to devour you amidst the pandemonium of the fair, and you don’t put up much of a fight. his arms tighten around your waist as if he’s trying to pull you even closer, despite the proximity already present between you two.

after the second time you pull away, michael doesn’t aim to capture your lips with his once more. he’s smiling down at you, elated and pleased.

“y’so pretty, tink.”

“mike, i think you already told me that.”

“‘n i mean it every time.”

“okay, let’s go,” michael takes hold of your hand once again, leading you to yet another portion of the carnival.

“where are we going now?”

you open your front door to see jackie’s hands are indeed full. he’s juggling a bouquet of camellia’s, a gift basket, and a tory burch quilt purse.

“aww, bae!” you lurch forward to wrap your arms around his neck in a hug.

he nearly drops the bouquet, but he manages to balance everything and still wrap an arm around your lower back. “hey, ma.”

you pull away to look him in his eyes, and it’s nearly enough to make you forget about the tour he’s going on in a few days. keyword: nearly.

“ugh, you’re still leaving,” you complain, turning away from him and walking further into your house.

he follows behind you, setting everything onto your coffee table in your living room. the gift basket is beautiful, and you can tell so much thought was put into it. it’s filled with a lululemon and alo matching set, a swarovski necklace, a new pair of uggs, and a multitude of your favorite snacks.

“i come and see you ‘n you still worried about me leaving?”

“i can’t help it,” you whine, pulling him down to sit beside you on the couch. he goes down with little to no resistance at all. once he’s sat, you rest your legs over his.

“y’know you could always come with me.”

“i would not like six months on tour, away from home.”

jackie laughs, not because he found humor in what you said, but because he knows how much you loathe the tour life. traveling from city to city without much time to settle down was exhausting—as you put it.

“i’ll be thinking about you the whole time, ma.”

“i’ll be thinking about you too, jackie. i don’t want you to leave,” you pout.

his hand grips your lower leg and he uses it to pull you impossibly closer to him. you’re practically pressed into his side with your legs strewn over his.

“i don’t wanna leave either. but i’ll buy you whatever you want when i come back, okay?”

you perk up at that. suddenly having your boyfriend be away for half a year didn’t seem so bad after all.

“it don’t sound so bad when you put it like that…”

baby, you got to be mine

if you’ve been looking for love, then i’ve been looking for you

it ain’t right if i can’t give sweet love to you (smut)

something ‘bout

drabbles

jean skirt (smut)

cybergirl

state fair with michael

blurbs

mature!michael who gives you access to all of his cards.

jafaar jackson

oneshots

it’s a blacked out blur but i’m pretty sure it ruled, damn

jermajesty jackson

oneshots

the photo of you and michael was taken during your most recent date. you were sitting deep in a public park, having a picnic. you didn’t even realize photos were being taken of you until they were published.

you’ve been pacing michael’s room since you laid your eyes on the newspaper. you were unbelievably stressed! even thought your name wasn’t mentioned, it still felt like your life was ruined.

the paparazzi—and the rest of the world, apparently—spotted you, and now you weren’t sure they’d ever leave you alone.

you might’ve been moderately overreacting. but you were an average person who wasn’t familiar with the ramifications that came with being well-known.

“michael, what am i gonna do?”

the use of his first name indicates that you were entirely solemn. you always referred to him as mikey, mike, or baby.

your boyfriend is sitting on his bed, leaning back against his palms. he’s been watching you roam around his room since you’ve gotten here, offering you meaningful consolation here and there.

as soon as the newspaper landed on the mat outside your front door, you were on the way to michael’s house before you could fully comprehend the headline. you wouldn’t be able to exist unattended with something so arduous.

“it’ll be fine, bambi. they barely got your face ‘n they don’t know your name,” he attempts to reassure you.

his words don’t do much to quell your worries about the invasion of privacy. they don’t know much about you, but you still feel like your life is over.

“it’s not fine! we were on a date, and they took photos of us, and now they’re in the paper!”

your pacing has yet to cease, only continuing as you talk about the situation. to say you were distressed would’ve been an understatement.

“they don’t got nothin’ ‘bout you in the paper. just that you’re my lady and that’s it.”

“the problem is that i’m in the paper at all!” you exclaim.

michael truly didn’t see why you were so stressed. he was a person used to being in the spotlight—something that came with his amount of fame. but you weren’t. and even the smallest bit of recognition scared you.

“bambi, come here,” he beckons you closer to him.

almost instantly, you stop pacing. you walk over to where he’s sitting and situate yourself between his open legs. his hands find purchase on your waist the moment you’re standing in front of him.

his hands are warm, and they’re so big in comparison to your waist. his touch grounds you, yet it’s not nearly enough to draw your attention away from your situation at hand.

“you’re fine.”

“but i’m not—“

“you’re fine,” he interrupts you. “they don’t know anything ‘bout you. not your face, not your name, nothing. and i’m not gone let them if you don’t want me to.”

“you promise they won’t find out everything about me?”

“pinky,” michael holds his pinky up to you. it’s a juvenile thing, but you still indulged in pinky promises no matter how old you got.

you interlink your pinky with his and then press both of your thumbs together. you knew it was almost impossible for michael to completely shield you from the public’s eye, but the fact that he’d go so as far to pinky promise your protection meant everything to you.

a few days later, michael’s being interviewed about the release of thriller.

“your most recent album thriller has various songs about romance, from baby be mine to the lady in my life. so the question is, do you have a muse inspiring all of these songs?”

“i think you already know the answer to that,” michael laughs. the photos of you and him together had been released less than a week prior. that was an answer to the question by itself.

“but the fans want to hear it from you.”

by the fans, the interview likely meant himself. however, michael would answer regardless of who the response was meant to appease.

“i do have a muse.”

before michael can continue, the crowd erupts into ear-splitting cheers. it’s so deafening that he can hardly hear himself think. this is the exact confirmation the interviewer was looking for when he initially posed the question.

“tell us more about this muse of yours. how long have you known her? what is she like?”

“me and my lady met a while ago. she’s the sweetest person i’ve ever met, truly an angel,” michael boasts.

he tries to keep it short because he knows you’re at home watching and you’d be utterly embarrassed about him even speaking about you in front of a crowd. he wanted to proclaim his love for you on every news channel, but he’d settle for saying a few sentences about you during an interview for now.

“now that is real love, isn’t it?” the interviewer asks the crowd.

once again, there’s a chorus of blaring shouts and cheers. all the negative aftermath you were worried about was yet to be seen. even without your face being shown, people were already loving you.

back in michael’s bedroom, you’re squealing and hiding your face in a pillow. he’s speaking so highly of you on national television, flustering you to no end. he didn’t care what anybody had to say about either of you, as long as you were unbothered.

you’d have to berate him and show him affection all in the same moment when he got home. you loved how he bragged about you in such a public manner, but you hated how meek it made you.

“why not?”

you turn around from your spot in front of your dresser to face michael, who is sitting on his bed. you debated whether you should even take his question seriously. it was an unspoken rule that he didn’t go to after-parties unless you were there with him.

it was an unruly, chaotic scene—people were often far too inebriated, or were completely sober and aware of their actions. either way, poor decisions were made.

“mike, don’t nothin’ good happen at those parties. it’s gon’ be drunk people fuckin’ all around you.”

“stop cussin’,” he mutters because, of course, he cares about your use of profanity in a situation such as this.

“okay, baby, i won’t go. or you could always go with me…”

“you tried it. but i will be in bed, sleeping peacefully tonight.”

michael pouts, and it nearly cracks your resolve. but you stand firm on your decision. you weren’t exactly preventing him from attending—merely suggesting that he skip it. but if he happened to disregard your suggestion and go to the after-party regardless, he’d have to deal with the fallout for days on end.

the last time he did something rash and went against your word, he had to endure the silent treatment from you for three whole days. while it doesn’t seem like a long amount of time in retrospect, complete silence from his girlfriend for more than a few hours was unbearable.

if he knew what was good for him—and trust he did—he’d return home to you directly after the award show ended. you knew you could always go with him so you’d both attend the after-party, a compromise, if you will. however, you were far too worn out from the week you had to even step foot out of your shared bedroom.

“you’ll be waiting for me when i get home?” he asks, promisingly.

“of course, mike. where else am i gonna go?”

“to the after-party without me.”

you sigh aloud, rolling your eyes. “mention that damn after party-one more time…”

“‘m just joking. i won’t go if my princess doesn’t want me to.”

you huff, but you can’t help the smile that finds purchase on your face. michael referred to you as his princess whenever you were particularly bossy or annoyed with you. it was never something you found yourself complaining about.

“and i’m serious. stop mentionin’ it.”

michael stands from where he’s sat on the edge of his bed, taking longish steps until he’s right in front of you. you feel like he’s caging you against the dresser even though his hands are kept to himself. he doesn’t have to physically press you against the oak wood for his presence to be overwhelming to you—in a good way, of course.

“you’re so bossy, ma,” he brings one of his hands up to cup the side of your face. you instinctively lean into his touch. warm and comforting.

“you think i’m jokin’, but i’m serious, mike. leave me alone about that damn after-party.”

“i knew i wasn’t going the moment you were gonna be there with me. i jus’ like seeing you all mean.”

you feebly push his arm away, but he doesn’t budge. instead, he rubs his thumb back and forth against your cheek. he knew exactly what to do to make any irritation you felt towards him dissipate.

“finish getting ready before you’re late.”

“you’re the boss, ma.”

the award show flies by. without you by his side, the event is quite lackluster and boring.

before michael knows it, the show is over, and he’s weaving through crowds to make it to the exit. it’s a mix of rushed goodbyes and promises to meet one another soon—though michael doubts he’ll have enough time. before he’s actually able to leave, he’s being stopped once again.

biting back a sigh of indignation, he turns around and is slightly astounded to be met with the sight of his siblings. he knew they were here; they attended almost every award show or event adjacent to it. he just wasn’t sure why they were stopping him before he could fully make it to the exit.

“where you goin’?” jackie asks him.

“home?” michael responds like it’s a question because it should be abundantly clear where he’s headed.

“what about the after-party?”

“what about the after-party?”

“you know what i’m talkin’ about. you always at the after-parties and you ain’t goin’ to this one?”

all michael can imagine is the image of you on his bed, patiently waiting for him. you were dressed in a baby pink silk robe before he left. maybe you still had that on—maybe it was opened, and you had nothing underneath. or maybe you had on a matching set that he’d rip in seconds. whatever it was, he wanted nothing more than to get home to you right now.

“‘m not going. my lady waitin’ for me back home.”

the laughter between his siblings is plentiful and copious, hard to mistake it for anything other than amusement.

“damn, she got you like that?” tito asks in disbelief.

“man, she don’t got me like nothin’,” michael defends, but he knows it’s a lie. you effortlessly have michael wrapped around your finger, and you know it. all you have to do is utter one word, and he’d promptly drop everything.

“so she not the one who told you not to go to the after-party tonight?” jackie inquires.

“stay out of my business. it don’t matter why i’m not going.”

“man, she got you whipped.”

michael doesn’t hear the rest of the comments from his brothers because he’s headed towards the exit. the only thing on his mind was you, all dolled up and awaiting his arrival without complaints.

the ride back to your shared home is quiet, but there isn’t much to be said. especially when you’re not in the backseat next to him. bill doesn’t offer much commentary, but it’s only because he’s known michael long enough to know when his mind is preoccupied with one thing—you.

the house is silent when he walks in. you might be asleep. or you might be silently biding time, awaiting his arrival.

he walks up the stairs with tentative steps, trying to stay silent in an attempt not to wake your potential slumber. when he reaches your shared bedroom, he sees his effort was in vain.

you’re not asleep, far from it actually. you’re lying on your stomach, feet hanging off the comforter as you’re flipping through a vogue magazine.

“hey, mama.”

“hey, mikey. how was the show?”

“it was nice. it would’ve been better with you there with me, though.”

you scoff at his suaveness, turning your head to focus on your magazine once more. at the lack of your attention to him, michael walks to the edge of the bed where part of your foreleg isn’t resting on it.

his hand latches onto your ankle with a vice grip. he pulls you until almost your entire leg is hanging off the bed.

“mike!”

you turn around so you’re lying on your back and facing him. he’s vainglorious, like he’s proud to have interrupted your recreation time so he could have your attention back to him.

“you stopped focusin’ on me,” he grumbles.

“‘cause i’m tryna read. i already said hi to you.”

“but you’re not actin’ like you miss me. i missed the after- party to be treated like this?”

“didn’t i tell you to stop talkin’ ‘bout that damn after-party?” you try to kick him, but he catches your knee pit before your leg can get far.

“‘m here now, aren’t i?”

“that won’t matter if you don’t let me go,” you make a feeble attempt to free yourself from his grasp.

“so mean. i come home to you and you still not happy to see me?”

“i’m so happy you’re home, mike,” you say condescendingly, “i’ve never been happier. now can you let me go?”

michael’s silent for a moment, pretending to be considering your question. instead of responding, he drops your ankle, and you have a brief second of relief before you feel the weight of his body nearly crushing you.

his body is pressed against yours, his hands gripping your waist. his face is resting right above your collarbone, warm breath fanning on your skin.

“ugh, get off me!” you whine.

“he’s in his natural habitat,” you whisper, zooming into his face.

he hasn’t noticed you recording him. he’s writing down lyrics frantically. you assume this is another one of his god will give it to prince if i don’t write it moments, so you don’t question it.

“my boo has yet to notice me.”

as you finish your sentence, michael’s head snaps up to where you’re standing. you weren’t as stealthy as you thought you were.

his hand halts in his writing. for what feels like the first time today, you finally have his full attention on you.

“you recordin’ me?”

“duh, mike.”

you walk closer to where he’s sitting, zooming out on the camera so the shot isn’t all up in his face. all he does is watch you as you approach him.

“why?”

“for your documentary in ten years when you’re, like, the most famous person in the world.”

a sheepish look crosses michael’s face, as if he’s embarrassed by the implication that he’d be something bigger than he already is. your voice is doubtless like you believe every word you’re saying. like you certainly believe that he’ll be the most famous in the world.

“don’t say things like that, baby.”

“what?”

if your hands were shaking when you were recording before, you almost dropped the camera. while what you and michael had going on wasn’t definite, he’s never gone as far as to call you pet names.

“i said don’t say things like that.”

“i’m your baby, mike? that’s how you see me?”

“no—i didn’t mean for it to come out like that.”

“you didn’t mean to call me your baby? i literally call you bae all the time.”

michael groans. this is a conversation he knows that he wouldn’t be escaping anytime soon. a slip of the tongue was enough to have you grilling him.

“no ‘cause this feels like a conversation i’d be having with my lady.”

“i’m your baby and your lady now?”

“baby, no—“

“oou, i’m your baby, mike!”

at this point, you’re obnoxiously close to his face with your camera. you weren’t even focused on properly capturing the moment anymore, more worried about the names michael was using to refer to you.

no matter how long you’ve been in this predicament, he was still incredibly shy. him calling you baby and his lady in the same conversation was an extreme milestone meant to be celebrated.

you’re squealing so loud, you know the camera won’t coherently capture it. however, you can’t bring yourself to care.

“leave me alone,” he mutters, feebly pushing you away from where you stood, just a few feet away from him.

“okay, imma leave you alone now,” you turn the camera to face you.

“but next time i record, we gone be fucking!”

you end the recording there, likely catching the onset of his groans. “you can’t just say things like that…”