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Can’t wait to start writing my own think pieces regarding topics like lmp, how people view his blackness, sexuality, etc because I have a lot to say (but I definitely wanna tackle that dumpster fire marriage first because my God) — also dni if you ship dem because you shooters will always treat him like a misogynist, evil, and demonic husband while ignoring all of those white lady’s faults please 🙏
There has been so many times when I see myself in Michael’s experience as a Black American. It’s a shared responsibility to remember our history and the sacrifices our ancestors made on behalf of their future descendants. The oftentimes overwhelming understanding that we have to work twice as hard to achieve the same level of respect as our white counterparts. A mutual duty to remain proud of our blackness, our culture, and an unyielding desire to persevere despite the obstacles society has forced us to endure. I am so incredibly proud to share a culture and history with Michael. His commitment to his people is unbelievably sexy and inspiring because not only has he proudly represented our culture to the masses but he loudly displayed his affection for Black Beauty. Growing up as a little black girl in the 2000s, he became my very own Prince Charming and of course my first crush. He still remains the man of my dreams and a positive representation of the gentle masculinity that draws me to him so much. I’ve shed so many tears thinking about how such a kind and sweet man could be the victim of the media lynching he endured for so many years. That’s why I feel so protective of him being a Black American woman, it’s almost an instinctual urge to safeguard the dignity and memory of a fellow community member. I love this sweet angel with every fiber of my being 💕💕💕
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some people in the michael jackson fandom only like him when he’s lighter skinned and that don’t sit well with me. like you don’t see the problem with ONLY acknowledging his bad-mature era?? this is why i don’t trust #those fans completely because yall aren’t fooling me. and those eras be the only ones they write for or they make him sound so ooc (yikes).
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 😂
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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⊹₊ ㆍ✿ㆍevery time i see pictures like these of Michael , side by side, i can't help but notice how he still is that little boy he was :(, he always had that sad look (first picture) and it js makes me so heartbroken, considering what he and his brothers went through.. ㆍ✿ㆍ₊⊹
₊‧.°.⋆ even though Michael did change a lot appearance wise (which was NOT his fault) his eyes and smile remained so beautiful and handsome :3 •˚₊‧⋆.
It’s been less than two months and yet the mj fandom is now pledged with those spreading misinformation, lipstick alley rumors, ai photos, fabricated “proof” for the allegations, people objectifying him or genuinely dgaf about him as a person
No disrespect to the newcomers who aren’t weird and doing this stuff, but I can’t help but mourn the fandom’s pre-biopic era 💔
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