—Off The Wall and In The Yard
pairing：thejacksons!Michael Jackson╱black!female reader
forewarning：fluff, swearing
a/n: i got this idea from @prettyangeliczz ! i was supposed to been put this out but that's not the point! i was giggling to myself while writing this lmao
You were in Michael’s room at Hayvenhurst, watching a movie while laying in his arms on his bed. His hands ran through your fluffy blowout as you both focused watching the film in front of you. While he was calm, a nervous feeling was swirling around in his gut. Your mom had called you earlier, asking you to come to a cookout your father was throwing.
“Hi Mommy,” you said, putting the phone between your ear and shoulder.
“Hi baby, you’re still coming to the cookout, right?” Your mom asked
“Yes, I am. I’m actually getting ready to start packing for my flight,” you replied.
“Okay, good.” your mom pauses. “And while you’re at it, bring your boyfriend while you’re at it.”
You pause, fighting a smile forming on your face. Michael's been your boyfriend for a while now, and ever since you told your mom you had a boyfriend, she would not let it go. "Mama!"
“What? You told me about this mysterious boyfriend and thats it. I don't know his name or nothin'. ” She replies with a laugh. "How about this. Your daddy's having a cookout next Sunday. How about you bring him and introduce him to the family."
“You sure daddy’s going to be okay with that?” You ask.
“Girl, you know how your daddy is. He loves having cookouts, and he especially loves making sure that people eat, whether he knows them or not. He can make a dish too if he’d like.”
“Okay, I’ll ask him, but please tell him not to do too much when he meets him.” You groan, knowing how protective he is over you, especially when it comes to dating.
“I can’t make no promises, but I’ll let you know.”
That conversation was two days ago. You now laid on your boyfriend’s chest, thinking of many ways to tell him to meet your family. You didn’t want to keep him from your family, but hell, he and his family were global superstars and your schedules didn’t always align with each other. That, and your family was crazy as hell.
The thought of asking him your family started to eat you up more, and you couldn’t take it anymore, you lifted your head and looked your boyfriend in his eyes. “Baby,” you said softly.
“What’s up, mama?” He asked looking down on you. The nickname makes your stomach flutter as you sit up a bit.
“What’s your schedule looking like for you next weekend?”
“I shouldn’t be too busy, why? Is everything alright?” Michael now sits up too, his back touching the headboard.
“No, no! Everything’s fine. I was on the phone with my mom a couple of days ago, and she said my dad’s having a cookout next weekend, and I was wondering if… you wanted to come?”
Michael’s eyes widened in surprise. He was happy that you asked him to meet your family, especially since he never has the time to do anything due to his growing career.
“Of course I’d go with you mama,” he says with a growing smile on his face. “This would be a perfect time to meet your parents especially. They’re the reason why I was able to meet such a beautiful young woman like you.”
You blush hearing your boyfriend compliment you, your lips forming into a smile. “Okay, I’ll let my mom know, looks like you’re meeting my family.”
The smoke coming off the grill was a thick, hickory-scented cloud as your uncle taught your little cousin how to flip burgers. The speakers were blasting Stevie Wonder while kids ran around and your aunts and uncles played an intense game of Spades.
“Aye muthafucka! I saw you try to put that card in your shirt! Cheating ass nigga!” one of your uncles exclaimed, slamming his hand on the table.
“Man, fuck you, walrus lookin’ ass!" Uncle Greg exclaimed.
“Nigga fuck you! Lookin’ like beluga whale!” Uncle Nathan shot back.
You snickered as you watched your uncles bicker through the kitchen window. You helped your mom straightened up the kitchen, fixing the chairs and wiping down the counters,
“So, who’s this mysterious boyfriend you keep talking about, babygirl?” your father asked, pulling you into a hug and kissing your forehead.
“You’ll see when he gets here dad. You really haven’t guessed who he is yet? I told you he was in the industry!”
“Baby, that can be anybody,” your mom said, walking into the kitchen with a stack of paper plates. “But whoever it is, we will love him no matter what.”
“I don’t know about love, honey,” your father teased, a playful edge to his voice as he adjusted his apron. “He’s gotta pass the Spades test first. If he can't hold his own at the table, then I don't know.”
“Oh, relax. My parents were the same way about you, and look where we’re at,” your mom shot back, swatting his arm before turning her sharp eyes to you. “But seriously, babygirl. He’s are going to be here any minute and you still haven't given us a name. Is he a singer? A producer? If he a singer, he better actually know how to sing, some singers are full of shit.”
Before you could answer, you saw a familiar car pull up. You instantly knew it was Michael and Bill. Your heart did a sudden flip in your chest.
“He’s here!” You blurted out, slipping past your parents’ playful banter before your dad could look out the window.
Your hands started to get sweaty as you smoothed down your yellow tank top. You took a deep breath as you unlocked the door and swung it open.
There Michael and Bill the porch, and you eyes instantly locked with Michael’s. He looked incredibly handsome, wearing a blue button up with some of the buttons unbuttoned, and blue bell bottom jeans. In Bill’s hands, he was tightly gripping a massive, foil-covered tray.
“Hi guys!” You excitedly exclaimed as you hugged the siblings. “Come on, I’ll bring you guys to the back.”
You walked off the porch and to your backyard with Michael and Bill following behind, Stevie Wonder still blasting in the air. “Hey, mama,” Michael whispered in your ear, his soft voice barely carrying over the blast of the music. His cheeks were flushed pink with nerves. "Am I... did I dress okay? I brought the peach cobbler I had LaToya and Janet help me make, as you did say I can bring a dish. I didn’t want to come empty handed. I hope it didn't spill in the car.”
“You look good babe, and I’m am very positive my mom will be grateful for you and your siblings’ services,” you replied with a laugh. “Are you ready for this?”
“I think I can manage,” he chuckled, his large hand resting your waist as he pressed a kiss to your forehead. “Though Marlon and Randy wanted to come so bad, I practically had to lock them in the house. I thought it was best if it was just me first."
“Smart move, Mr. Jackson,” you laughed, taking his hand. “Come on let’s introduce you guys to my family.”
You walked up to your parents first, your fingers tightly intertwined with his. Your mom was outside, engaged with your dad in a conversation while sipping on some sweet tea.
“Mom, dad,” you started, your voice catching in your throat out of nerves. “This is my boyfriend.”
Your parents turned simultaneously with smiles on their faces to give their greetings. But the words completely died in their throats.
Your mom froze, a wet glass dripping in her hand as her eyes went from your joined hands, up the sleeve of the shirt, straight to the iconic, wide-eyed smile of the most famous man on the planet.
"How do you do, sir? Ma'am?" Michael said politely, breaking the paralyzing silence. He stepped forward, extending a hand to your father with a respectful nod. "It's an honor to finally meet you. I'm Michael.”
Your father stared at Michael’s extended hands for three seconds, his brain trying to process how the hell the guy on his music vinyls was staring at him and offering a handshake.
Slowly, your dad wiped his palm on his apron and took Michael’s hand, his grip automatically firming up out of pure fatherly instinct.
“Michael,” your dad repeated, his voice dropping an octave as he looked the superstar up and down. “As in… Jackson?”
“Yes, sir,” Michael said softly, giving a polite, nervous little nod. He cleared his throat, his fingers twitching slightly as he pulled his hand back. “Michael Jackson. It’s really nice to be here. Your daughter talks about you both all the time.”
That finally broke your mother out of her trance. She dropped the dish towel onto the counter, her mouth forming a wide ‘O’ before she slapped a hand over it. “Oh my Lord. Michael Jackson. Babygirl, you didn’t say you were dating—oh shit, let me fix my hair!” She immediately patted the sides of her hair, her hospitable Southern roots overriding her shock. She stepped forward, completely bypassing the handshake to pull Michael into a warm, tight hug. “Welcome to our home, sweetheart! Forgive the mess, we’ve been prepping all morning.”
Michael was a little startled by the embrace, but he instantly relaxed as he buried his head into his shoulder and wrapped his arms around her. “Thank you ma’am. It smells amazing here. I hope you don’t mind that I brought my bodyguard, Bill here.”
“No we don’t mind at all! Please enjoy. And call me Ms. Sandra, I don’t do all of that ma’am stuff.” Your mom pulled back to pinch his cheeks. Your parents also greeted Bill, switching between gushing on seeing Michael and giving greetings.
Your mom noticed the foil-covered tray in Bill’s hands. “Oh, what’s this?”
“Oh! Peach cobbler,” Bill started. “Michael and his sisters made it fresh this morning. He wanted to make a good impression by not showing up empty-handed.”
Your dad’s eyebrows shot up ad Michael’s face flushes in embarrassment. “Peach cobbler, huh? Well, that’s a point in your favor.” He crossed his arms. He was trying hard to maintain his tough-dad persona, but the sheer absurdity of the situation was cracking his exterior. “So, Michael. You and your siblings are in the industry, as my daughter says. You guys do a little singing?”
“Dad, stop,” you groaned, shifting your weight.
Michael just laughed—that high, genuine chuckle that you loved so much. “A little bit, sir. Trying to keep food on the table.”
“Mmhmm. Well, you brought cobbler, so you can stay,” your dad joked, finally breaking into a grin and shaking his head. “I’m just playing with you, son. Welcome. Come on out back, let me get you something to drink.”
Your heart swelled as you watched your dad clap Michael on the shoulder. Michael flinched just a fraction at the sudden force but kept that brilliant smile on his face as your dad led the way deeper into the backyard.
You led Michael deeper into the chaos of the cookout, hands banging against the table as your uncles were playing spades, the sounds of the younger girls singing while playing double dutch.
Your cousin Ryan was playing spades with your two older uncles. He’d put his cards down to pour some soda in a styrofoam cup when his eyes locked on you and Michael. He’d do a double take, before tapping his uncle’s shoulders.
“Dad!” your cousin exclaimed, tapping on Uncle Greg.
“What nigga? Now shit, you getting ready to fuck up my train of thought.” Your uncle replied, frustrated.
“Your niece is here with her new boyfriend.”
“Man don’t nobody give a fuck about-“ He started but his words caught in his throat as he looked at you and Michael. He couldn’t believe his eyes, he’d had to stop the spades game to rub his eyes to make sure he wasn’t going crazy.
“Nigga, is that Michael Jackson?!”
The backyard went dead silent. The song that was playing started to finish and fade, your aunts stopped gossiping at the lounge chairs, the kids stopped running, and your uncles stopped moving completely, your uncle Nathan's hands in mid-air, a king of spades gripped tightly in his fingers.
Everyone started to rush towards Michael, his lips twitching into a shy smile as she instinctively shifted closer to you. He raised his hand, giving everyone a small, polite wave.
“Hi, everybody,” Michael said, his soft voice cutting through the stunned silence.
For a second, nobody moved. Then, Uncle Nathan slowly lowered his card to the table, stood up from his chair, and stared across the yard.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” your uncle muttered, a slow, disbelief-filled grin spreading across his face. “Man, forget the cards. Michael, son! Tell me you know how to play Spades!”
Michael looked over at you, his eyes wide with a mix of terror and amusement, before looking back at your uncle.
“I… well, I know the rules, sir,” Michael offered, his soft voice barely carrying over the yard. “But my brothers usually say I’m too nice to win.”
“Oh, ain’t no being nice at this table, Mike!” Uncle Greg shouted back, throwing his head back with a loud laugh. “Come on over here, let me see if you can talk trash as good as you sing!”
Within ten seconds, the stunned silence evaporated, replaced by absolute pandemonium. Your little cousins abandoned their game of tag and swarmed the porch, their eyes practically popping out of their heads.
“Are you really Michael Jackson?” one of the little girl cousins asked, tugging gently on the hem of his button-up shirt. “Can you do the dance?”
“Hey, leave him alone!” your mom scolded, walking past to put the peach cobbler up. “Give the boy some breathing room! He just got here!”
Michael just laughed, kneeling down to be at eye level with the kids. He didn't look like a global superstar right then. He just looked like a sweet, patient guy who loved children. “Hi there,” he said softly, shaking her little hand. “I can do a little dance, but maybe after I eat some of your uncle’s burgers, okay?”
The kids cheered, and Michael stood back up, looking at you with a bright, triumphant smile. The initial panic in his eyes was totally gone, replaced by the warmth of being accepted.
Your dad walked over, handing Michael a cold cup of lemonade. “Don’t let them overwhelm you, son. Come on over to the grill, get away from these vultures.”
You walked alongside them, your hand slipping naturally into Michael’s back pocket as you cut across the grass. Every single aunt you passed gave you the look—the wide-eyed, raised-eyebrow nod of pure approval. Your auntie Brenda even mouthed, “Girl, you won,” making you bite your lip to hide your laugh.
When you got to the grill, your other uncle Terry was wiping his hands on a dishtowel. He looked Michael up and down, completely unfazed by the celebrity status.
“So, you’re the one taking my niece out, huh?” your uncle Terry asked, poking a spatula toward Michael’s chest. “You look a little skinny, Mike. We gotta put some meat on those bones. You eat pork?”
“Oh, no, sir. I mostly stick to chicken and fish,” Michael said politely, holding his lemonade tight.
“Hmph. Well, I got some chicken on the back here that’ll make you want to slap your mama—uh, no offense to Miss Katherine,” Uncle Terry corrected himself quickly, making Michael burst into that high-pitched, clapping laugh of his.
“None taken, sir. It smells incredible.”
For the next hour, you watched the most famous man on earth completely dissolve into your family. He sat on a lawn chair, eating chicken and a massive slice of potato salad, listening intensely as your dad and uncles argued about whether Stevie Wonder or Marvin Gaye had the better catalog. Michael was in his element, talking about music with people who just loved the soul of it, not the business.
“Ain’t nobody touching Marvin Gaye, and I stand that,” Your Uncle Greg said, slamming his cup on the table. “The man made What’s Going On. That’s more than an album, that’s an out of body experience!”
“Nigga what?! Stevie Wonder blinder than a motherfucker and can cook up some good good music better than a man with full vision! Have you lost your mind? Songs in the Key of Life? That man played damn near every instrument on the track!”
“Marvin got the vocals, though,” Uncle Terry chimed in, leaning back and picking his teeth with a toothpick. “Marvin make a woman want to throw her whole life away. Stevie make you want to go to church and roller-skate at the same time.”
The whole porch laughed, and your dad immediately turned his attention to the superstar sitting quietly between them. “Hold on, hold on. We got an expert right here. Mike! Settle this. You’re a Motown boy. Who’s taking the crown, Stevie or Marvin?”
Michael almost choked on his potato salad, his eyes widening as all the older men leaned in, waiting for his verdict. He swallowed quickly, wiping his mouth with a napkin, that high-pitched, nervous chuckle slipping out.
“Oh, man, you guys are trying to get me in trouble,” Michael laughed, covering his face for a second before looking up with a brilliant smile. “See, Marvin... Marvin is pure emotion. The way he structures his harmonies, it’s genius. But Stevie...” Michael’s eyes lit up, his hands gesturing as he spoke about the craft he loved. “Stevie is a musical architect. The things he does with chord progressions on the clavinet? Nobody else is doing that. He writes chords that shouldn't work on paper, but they sound like heaven.”
Your dad pointed a finger at Uncle Greg triumphantly. “See! What did I tell you? The boy knows! An architect!”
“Man, whatever,” Uncle Greg grumbled, though he was grinning from ear to ear, clearly loving every second of it. “Mike just biased because Stevie let him play harmonica on a track once or something.”
“I wish!” Michael clapped his hands together, his laugh echoing across the yard, completely stripped of his superstar armor and just enjoying being one of the guys.
Eventually, the Spades table called his name again. “Alright, Mike! Food’s gone, no more excuses,” Uncle Nathan called out, slamming a fresh deck of cards onto the plastic table. “We need a fourth. Your girl says she don't play, so you gotta represent for her.”
Michael looked back at you, a playful glint in his eye. “Should I do it, mama?”
“Go ahead,” you laughed, nudging him forward. “Just watch out for Uncle Greg. He likes to slide cards under his thigh when he’s losing.”
“Hey! I heard that!” Uncle Greg yelled.
Michael chuckled, tossing his paper plate in the trash and walking over to the table. He pulled up a folding chair, smoothing down his pants as he sat across from your uncle. The aunts and older cousins gathered around in a tight circle, eager to see how the the global superstar handled a classic backyard battle.
Your uncle dealt the cards with lightning speed, flipping them across the table. Michael picked his up one by one, sorting through them. He kept his face completely blank, a perfect poker face, though you could see the slight twitch of a smile at the corner of his lips.
“Alright, Mike,” your uncle said, leaning over the table, his eyes narrowed playfully. “What’s the bid? Don’t over-book yourself now.”
Michael looked at his hand, then looked up, his large brown eyes locking onto your uncle with sudden, unexpected confidence.
“I’m bidding six, Uncle Greg,” Michael said, his voice dropping into a smooth, calm register. He leaned back in his folding chair, tossing a card right into the center of the table. “And you might want to watch your shirt. I’m watching you.”
The entire yard erupted into shouts and laughter. Your dad clapped his hands together, yelling, “Oh, he’s ready! He’s ready!”
Standing by the edge of the porch, watching Michael laugh and trade jokes with the people who raised you, you felt a warmth that had nothing to do with the summer heat. He was exactly where he belonged.
Michael turned out to be a silent assassin. Every time Uncle Greg tried to pull a slick move or talking smack, Michael would just offer that quiet, polite smile, wait for his turn, and slam down a winning book with a triumphant chuckle.
“Man, look at this nigga right here!” Uncle Greg groaned, throwing his hands up as Michael collected another hand. “You out here dancing on the table, Mike! Who taught you how to cut cards like this?”
“La Toya and Janet,” Michael admitted, laughing as he neatly stacked the cards. “They’re even more ruthless than me and my brothers, Uncle Greg. If they were here, you wouldn't have any money left in your pockets.”
“Oh, so the whole family is dangerous!” your dad shouted from the grill, cracking up as he flipped the last batch of burgers.
By the time the sun started dipping below the tree line, painting the sky in warm shades of orange and purple, the chaotic energy of the afternoon softened into something sweet and mellow. The kids had finally worn themselves out, sitting on the grass or in the laps of various aunties, sticky-faced from the punch and the peach cobbler, which had been completely cleaned out.
Michael eventually excused himself from the table, walking over to the porch steps where you were sitting. His Afro was a little musced from one of your younger cousins trying to touch it earlier, his sleeves were rolled up, and he looked happier than you had seen him in months.
“You survived,” you teased, leaning back on your elbows as he sat down on the step right below you.
“I did,” he said, looking up at you with soft, brilliant eyes. He reached up, taking your hand and resting it on his knee. “They’re amazing, mama. Really. They remind me of back home before… well, just like Gary. It feels nice to just be Michael for a few hours.”
“They love you,” you whispered, running your thumb over the back of his hand. “Even Uncle Greg, and he hates everybody.”
“He told me I have a standing invitation to the Sunday dinner rotation,” Michael chuckled, leaning his head back against your shin. “But only if I bring more cobbler and don't try to go blind on my bids next time.”
Before you could answer, your mom stepped out onto the porch, holding two leftover foil plates tightly wrapped up.
“Now, Michael, I packed you some chicken, some mac and cheese, and a little bit of potato salad for the road,” she said, handing them over with a warm smile. “Don’t let those brothers of yours eat it all either. This is for you.”
Michael stood up, carefully taking the plates like they were made of gold. “Thank you, Miss Sandra. Truly. For everything.”
“You’re family now, baby. You don’t have to thank me,” she said, giving him another tight hug and a kiss on the cheek. She gave you a knowing wink over his shoulder before heading back inside to start washing dishes.
As the rest of the family started packing up lawn chairs and rounding up sleepy kids, your dad walked over to the edge of the driveway where Michael’s car was parked. He didn't have his tough-guy face on anymore, he just looked like a proud father.
“You take care of my girl out there in that industry, Michael,” your dad said, extending his hand one last time. “It’s a lot of sharks out there. But you look like a good kid. Keep your head on straight.”
“I will, sir,” Michael said, his voice ringing with absolute sincerity as he shook your father's hand. “She’s incredibly special to me. I'll make sure she's always safe.”
Your dad nodded, satisfied, and gave you one last forehead kiss before walking back toward the house.
Standing by the car in the cooling evening air, Michael tucked the leftovers into the passenger’s seat and turned to face you. He wrapped his arms fully around your waist, pulling you flush against him. The faint scent of hickory smoke and sweet cologne clung to his shirt.
“Thank you for inviting me,” he murmured, pressing his lips gently against yours in a slow, lingering kiss that made your toes curl inside your sneakers.
“Thank you for coming,” you smiled against his lips, wrapping your arms tightly around his neck. “Next time, we’re bringing the rest of the Jacksons. I want to see Marlon try to play Spades with Uncle Greg.”
Michael threw his head back, his high-pitched laugh echoing in the quiet street. “Oh, that would be a disaster. I can't wait.”
He unlocked the driver’s side door of his car but didn’t climb in just yet. Instead, he lingered in the open space between the door and the frame, his fingers lightly tapping a rhythm against the warm metal.
“You’re coming back out to Encino tomorrow, right?” he asked, leaning his forearm on the top of the door so he could look down at you. The porch light caught the soft curve of his jaw and the relaxed, easy crinkles around his eyes.
“Tomorrow afternoon,” you promised, stepping closer until your sneakers touched the toes of his shoes. “I just want to spend the morning helping my mom clean up the yard and freeze the rest of the meat. Then I'm all yours.”
“Good,” Michael murmured, reaching out to tuck a loose strand of your fluffy blowout behind your ear. His fingers lingered on your cheek for a split second, warm and reassuring. “Because I’m going to miss you tonight. Even if I do have a mountain of your mom's macaroni and cheese to keep me company.”
You giggled, leaning into his touch. “Don't eat it all in the car.”
“I make no promises, mama,” he joked, giving you one last, quick kiss on the lips—a sweet, lingering punctuation mark to the best day you’d had in months.
You watched him slip into the passenger’s seat next to Bill, the engine humming to life with a quiet, smooth purr. He rolled the window down all the way, resting his elbow on the ledge as Bill backed down the driveway. From the porch, your dad walked out with a trash bag in hand, catching sight of Michael leaving. Your dad raised a hand, waving a silent, respectful goodbye, and Bill tapped the horn twice in return—a polite little beep-beep that echoed down the street.
You stood under the amber glow of the driveway light until the taillights of his car disappeared around the corner.
Turning back toward the house, you walked up the porch steps and through the screen door. The kitchen was still a bustling hub of activity, the sink overflowing with soapy water while your mother scrubbed down the massive potato salad bowl. Your dad was right beside her, drying off the plates with a dish towel, humming along to the music.
“Well,” your mom said, not even looking up from the sink, a massive grin tugging at her lips. “He certainly knows how to make an impression.”
“I told you he was sweet, Mom,” you said, leaning against the counter and picking up a stray dish towel to help out.
“Sweet? Girl, that boy is a gentleman,” she corrected, shaking her head in disbelief. “And he didn’t complain once about the heat, or the kids, or your uncle’s loud mouth. Your father was worried he’d be too Hollywood for us, but look at him.”
Your dad chuckled, folding his dish towel neatly over his shoulder. “Hey, I admit when I’m wrong. The boy can hold his own at the Spades table, and he respects his elders. That’s all I need to know.” He walked over, wrapping a heavy arm around your shoulders and squeezing you tight. “You picked a good one, babygirl. Just make sure you keep him well-fed. He’s a little light on his feet.”
“I will, Dad,” you laughed, resting your head against his chest.
For the rest of the night, the house was filled with the cozy, exhausted warmth that only comes after a successful family gathering.
Later that evening, you finally climbed into your childhood bed, the faint scent of hickory smoke still clinging to your skin.
As you reached over to turn off the bedside lamp, your eyes caught a tiny piece of paper sitting on your nightstand. It was folded up into a neat, tight square, tucked right beside your jewelry dish.
Your heart did a little flutter. You picked it up, unfolding it carefully. Michael must have slipped it into your bedroom when he went to use the restroom earlier in the afternoon.
Written in his distinct, neat handwriting was a quick note, complete with a tiny hand-drawn smiley face at the bottom:
I’m writing this while your uncles are shouting about cards downstairs! Thank you so much for today, mama. Your family made me feel like I finally belonged somewhere just as Michael, not the singer. I love you. See you tomorrow afternoon.
You stared at the ink on the paper, a massive, helpless smile taking over your face. You hugged the note tightly to your chest, rolling over onto your back. You were just two young people in love, and he had passed the family test with flying colors.
