⋆ ⋆ ⋆ PROLOGUE ⋆ ⋆ ⋆

. ⊹₊ introducing. ݁.. ݁ FIRST DAUGHTER!READER

February 1994 The White House, Washington D.C.

11:47 PM

The phone hasn't even rung yet, and you feel like you’re about to crawl out of your skin.

You're sitting on the edge of your bed with your knees pulled to your chest and your eyes locked on the cream colored rotary phone sitting on your nightstand. You've been staring at it for almost twenty minutes now, willing it to ring.

You're wearing a beige silk slip, your legs bare.

Outside your window, night is frozen, seeping through the glass and settling in your bones no matter how high they crank the heat. The lamp on your desk casts everything in amber, but it doesn't make the room feel warmer.

Nothing about the White House ever feels warm.

Your father is three floors down, probably nursing a scotch and on the phone with one of his many mistresses while his wife—your stepmother—is sleeping peacefully in their grand suite.

The Secret Service is stationed outside your door—Davidson tonight, you think, the one you favor the most because he pretends not to notice whenever you come back to your room later than usual. He definitely has a soft spot for you.

The air conditioning continues to hum lowly. You can hear your own breathing.

Five seconds.

Ten seconds.

Fifteen seconds.

Twenty seconds.

The phone finally rings.

Your stomach drops so fast you grimace a little. You lunge for the phone, nearly knocking the whole thing off the nightstand, but you catch it on the second ring. Your hands are shaking as you press the receiver to your ear, and for a second you can't speak, can't do anything but listen to the static on the line, the faint crackle of distance.

"Baby?"

Michael.

His voice pours through the phone like honey, low and smooth and familiar enough to make your chest ache. You close your eyes and take a deep breath.

"I'm here," you whisper.

"You sound scared." There's a smile in his voice. You can hear it, the way his mouth curves, slightly teasing. "You scared of me now?"

"No." You're gripping the phone so tight your knuckles hurt. "I just—I didn't know if you'd call."

"I told you I would."

"I know, but—"

"But you didn't believe me."

You don't answer. You never quite believe him, not fully, because men like Michael Jackson don't call girls like you at midnight unless they want something. He does. He has been wanting, for the last two years. And every time, you're surprised, convinced it'll be the last.

"You still there?" His voice dips, quieter now, intimate.

"Yeah… I'm here."

"Good." A pause. You hear him shift, there’s fabric rustling in the background. You imagine him sprawled across some enormous bed wherever he's calling from. Neverland, maybe, or a hotel. You don't even know where he is right now. You’ve never been able to keep up with his location due to the way he likes to move around so quickly, never staying in one place too long. He’s always so damn busy.

"I've been thinkin’ ‘bout you all day."

Your throat tightens. "Yeah?"

"Mmhm. Couldn't focus on a damn thing. Bill kept asking me what was wrong." He laughs, soft and self-deprecating. "I told him I was just tired but he didn't believe me."

"You do sound tired," you say. You can hear it in his voice, the exhaustion that lives underneath everything else. He works himself to the bone, always has. It’s very concerning at times.

"You should be sleeping Michael."

"Can't sleep without hearing your voice first."

God. Your face goes hot, and you're grateful he can't see you right now, can't see the way you're biting your lip to keep from smiling like an idiot.

"You're full of it," you murmur.

"I'm serious girl." His voice drops lower, there's an edge to it now. "You think I'm playing with you?"

"I don't know what you're doing."

"Yes, you do."

You've known since the first time Michael kissed you until you couldn’t breathe in the back of his limousine, your lipstick smeared and his hands on the back of your neck, the partition rolled up and his driver pretending not to notice. You've known since the first time you woke up in his bed, tangled in sheets and realized you'd do anything—anything—to stay there.

"I miss you," he says, and it sounds like a confession.

Your heart beats a little faster. "I miss you too."

"When you comin’ to see me?"

"I don't know. It's hard to get away right now. Daddy’s got me doing these appearances, and the press is—"

"Fuck the press."

You blink.

"Michael—"

"I'm serious, fuck them. They don't own you baby."

"They kind of do," you speak quietly.

Silence.

You can hear him breathing, slow and deliberate, like he's trying to calm himself from saying anything he shouldn’t.

You never know who’s listening.

"No," he says finally. "they don't and I'm tired of you actin’ like they do."

He’s got some damn nerve, you think to yourself. The last time you two were together he threw a whole tantrum because of some junk a tabloid spouted about him.

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm talkin’ ‘bout us," he pauses. "‘bout stopping this bullshit, us hiding."

Your mouth goes dry.

"I want you here with me. Not just for a weekend or a night or whenever you can sneak away. I want you here."

"Michael… you know I can't—"

"Why not?"

"Because—" You stand up and start pacing. The phone cord stretches taut, and you have to stop, turning back to the nightstand. "Because daddy’ll lose his mind and the tabloids would crucify us."

"You’re scared."

"Of course I'm scared!" Your voice rises but you stop yourself. You press your free hand to your mouth, listening for footsteps in the hall. Nothing. You lower your voice. "Do you have any idea what would happen if people found out about us?"

"Yeah," he says simply. "I do."

"Then why—"

"Because I don't care anymore."

You sink back down onto the bed, your legs suddenly unsteady.

"You don't mean that," you whisper.

"I do." His voice is calm and steady now. "I'm done hiding you. I'm done pretending like you're not the only thing that makes sense in my life right now. I'm done letting them dictate what I can and can't have… marry me.”

The world stops.

You can't breathe. Can't think. The room tilts, and you have to close your eyes, pressing your palm flat against the mattress to ground yourself.

"What?"

"You heard me." His voice is soft now, almost gentle. "Marry me."

"You're—you're not serious."

"I've never been more serious about anything in my life."

Your heart is trying to break through your ribs. You can feel it, violent and desperate, and your hands are shaking so badly you almost drop the phone.

"Michael, we can't—"

"Why not?"

"It’s insane, daddy—"

"Baby, your father doesn't care for you the way he should. He doesn’t deserve your loyalty anymore."

You open your mouth and close it. He's not wrong. Your father loves his career, his legacy, his carefully constructed image. You're merely just a prop in his photo ops and a liability he has to manage. You’re not a daughter to him, you truly don’t think you ever were, though you want to be so bad.

"That's not fair," you spit out weakly.

"Y’know it's true."

You do. God help you, you do.

"This will ruin him," you say. "If we—if I leave, if we get married, it'll destroy everything he's built."

"Good."

The word is cold and final.

You shiver. "You don't mean that."

"Don't I?" He exhales, slow and measured. "Baby, listen to me. I know what I'm askin’ and I know what this costs. But I also know that I can't keep doing this, I can't keep callin’ you in the middle of the night and pretending like it's enough. It's not. I want to wake up next to you, I want to take you out without hiding, I want the whole world to know you're mine."

"They'll tear us apart," you whisper.

"Let them try."

There's a confidence in his voice that terrifies you. He sounds so sure, so certain, like he's already made peace with whatever hell is coming. You wish you had that, wish you could be that brave.

"I don't know if I can do this," you admit.

"Yes, you can."

"How do you know?"

"Because you love me… don't you?"

It's not a fair question because he already knows the answer.

"I do," you breathe.

"Then say yes."

Your throat closes as you think about your father's face when he finds out. You think about the tabloids, the headlines, the way they'll eviscerate you both. Then you think about Michael. The way he holds you in the dark, how he listens when you talk, really listens, like your words matter. He’s the only person that makes you feel like you’re worth something.

You just know you’re going to hell for this.

Forgive me father for I have sinned.

"Okay," you whisper.

"Okay?" He repeats carefully, like he's afraid he misheard.

"Yes." Your eyes are burning. "Yes, I'll marry you."

He exhales, and it sounds like relief, like he's been holding his breath this entire time.

"Say it again."

"Yes." You're crying now, tears streaking down your face. "Yes, Michael. I'll marry you."

"Oh baby." He laughs, and it's shaky, disbelieving. "You mean it?"

You nod as if he’s in the room with you right now. “I mean it.”

"You're not gonna change your mind?"

"No."

"Even when it gets bad?"

"Even then."

You can hear him breathing, unsteady now.

"I love you," he says quietly. "You know that, right?"

"I know." You press your empty hand to your forehead.

"I'm gonna take care of you, I promise. Once you're here with me, everything's gonna be different, I swear."

You want to believe him. You really want to believe that love is enough, that you can build something real in the wreckage of what's coming.

Are you stupid for wanting to try at least? Do you know what this means, what you’re walking into?

"When are we doing this Michael?"

"Soon." His voice is firmer now, more certain. "I'll send someone for you and we'll figure out the details, but soon. I don't want to wait."

"Right."

"You trust me baby?"

You really should say no, hang up, and crawl into bed, pretending this conversation never happened. You should protect yourself, protect your father, protect the fragile illusion of control you've spent so long maintaining.

But you don't.

"Yes, I trust you."

"Good." You can hear the smile in his voice again. "Get some sleep, now. I'll call you tomorrow."

“Okay.” Your lips curl into a pitiful grin.

"I love you."

"I love you too."

The line goes dead.

You sit there for a long time, the receiver still pressed to your ear, listening to the dial tone. Your face is wet, your hands are still shaking and your heart is racing so fast you feel lightheaded.

You just agreed to marry Michael Jackson.

And the worst part—the part that makes you want to laugh and scream and sob all at once—is that you don't regret it. Not even a little.

You hang up the phone and stand, walking to the window.

Outside, the city is still asleep, oblivious. The monuments glow white in the distance. You press your forehead against the cold glass and close your eyes.

What’s done is done.

There's no going back now.

2026 © HONEYSBLISS.

bts , 1984 ⋆˚꩜｡🫧🐋

ouuuh him with lashes.. someone hold me the FUCK down

i just wanna stare at his big bambi eyes foreverrr

FIRST DAUGHTER!READER

── THE FIRST DAUGHTER › ﹙ read more ﹚ series !!

⟢ first daughter!reader who grew up knowing her father’s ambitions always came first before anything else. you were the "first draft" of his family. the real sting came when he left your mother for a more wealthy and industry connected woman that fit perfectly into his campaign brochures. the woman would eventually become your stepmother as well as the first lady of the united states. you’re nothing more than a reluctant political prop, always standing just slightly to the left in the official portraits.

⟢ first daughter!reader who spent her early twenties plastered across campaign posters. when your dad won the 1988 election, it broke every rule in american history. but for a black man to win the oval office, he had to play the flawless, unifying moderate. the pressure was suffocating and to help him secure that 1992 reelection, you had to play the perfect, scandal free daughter. there was absolutely zero room for error. though that didn’t stop the tabloids from constantly attacking you, labeling you as a liability to the white house simply because of your skin color.

⟢ first daughter!reader who bites her lip until it bleeds during sunday morning service. your father built his campaign on "traditional american values" and heavy church attendance to appease conservative voters, completely burying the reality of how he abandoned your mother. you sit in the front pew in your baby blue blouse and matching skirt, listening to sermons about purity, obedience, and sin. sometimes the hypocrisy and the weight of the religious guilt gets so heavy you just lock yourself in the church’s bathroom and sob until your chest aches.

⟢ first daughter!reader who constantly has to swallow her pride and her anger. as a black woman in a '90s political arena built by and for older white men, everything you do is aggressively policed. if you speak up, you're deemed "combative." if you stay quiet, you're "sullen." your stepmother constantly offers you backhanded advice, suggesting your skirts be a little longer, your lipstick be a little lighter, your tone a little softer. you aren't made of stone; those microaggressions genuinely hurt you. you just dig your nails into your palms and smile for the cameras. that’s all you can do.

⟢ first daughter!reader who is absolutely capable of playing dirty to survive. you aren't a noble martyr. growing up with a father like yours, taught you how to lie with a terrifyingly straight face. when a nosy junior staffer caught you sneaking back into the west wing after curfew, you didn't hesitate to vaguely threaten his job by mentioning you knew about his habit of skimming campaign funds. you justify it as self-preservation, but sometimes you look in the mirror and wonder if you're becoming just as ruthless as your father.

⟢ first daughter!reader who finds absolute peace in the chaotic world of michael jackson. the irony isn't lost on you—falling for the most famous man on the planet to somehow escape the spotlight of being the first daughter. but with michael, it’s different for some reason. you ground him just as much as he frees you. michael is fascinated by how incredibly unimpressed you are by wealth, luxury, and status, mainly because you've seen the ugly, cutthroat side of power.

⟢ first daughter!reader who completely misreads michael half the time. you don't magically know what he’s thinking or how to perfectly soothe his anxieties. because of your own trauma, your first instinct is to assume the worst. when he goes quiet or gets lost in his own head, you immediately panic, assuming he's finally sick of you or judging your lifestyle. you sometimes pick fights out of sheer insecurity, threatening to break things off before he can leave you first. it takes him gently catching your hands and telling you to just breathe for you to realize he was just overwhelmed by his own world, not pulling away from yours.

⟢ first daughter!reader who doesn't always know how to comfort michael, either. when the vicious allegations against him hit, you don't have the words to fix it. of course you don’t believe any of it. there are nights where he cries over the agonizing press painting him as a monster, and you just hold his head against your chest in the dark, feeling entirely helpless. you can’t wave a magic wand and make the world kind to him. all you can offer is your presence.

⟢ first daughter!reader who struggles with the guilt of using michael’s world as an escape. you love him, deeply, but you also selfishly crave the way his orbit makes you forget your own doomed reality. when you're tangled in his bedsheets, your gloss smeared and your arms wrapped around his own, you aren't a campaign prop or a diversity token. but you aren't his savior, either. you're flawed and exhausted, clinging to the one person whose life is just as terrifyingly out of control as yours.

⟢ first daughter!reader who knows the nature of her relationship with michael is an absolute nightmare. slipping past your bodyguards to climb into the back of his limousine feels like a dangerous heist. fueled by adrenaline and the very real, heavy terror that if anybody catches you two together, it could cost your father his already controversial reputation and give the press exactly what they need to tear michael apart even more than what they’ve already done. every touch is stolen, every kiss is a risk, but neither of you can bring yourselves to stop. and once michael asks you to marry him, he’s letting you know that his proposal means he’s done hiding your relationship from the public, regardless of what happens next.

2026 © HONEYSBLISS.

𓏲﹕ jacksons!michael x reader ﹕⸝⸝ — req !

features : teenage!reader, sickeningly sweet fluff, secret relationship, sneaking around, getting wet ( not like that, perv.. ), kids being kids, kissing, light troublemaking, confession iss. 013 night on the town — pt. 1

p.s. new theme + user (it was taking me too long to format my stuff 4 posts lol..also, i was growing tired of all the pink) — formerly daddysporsche !! if you can’t tell, i’m trying to clear out my inbox so i can focus on my rebrand..expect one more fic tonight.

🕷️ — more spidey! michael art by me 🕸️🖤

also @mvsticmoony @m1-ya i figured y’all would like this

JAAFAR JACKSON behind the scenes of MICHAEL

Get In The Booth, Baby

Michael Jackson x Black!Reader

"The sound lured Michael closer, like a siren calling to a sailor. He was mesmerized. The soulful melody led him to right outside the master bathroom. A soft gasp escaped his throat when he realized where the sound was coming from...

“My girl can sing” Michael said to himself quietly, his hand drifted to his chest over his palpitating heart"

SYNOPSIS: Michael catches reader singing in the shower now he's obsessed with writing the perfect song just for her.

CONTENT: SUPER SWEET FLUFF, slightly suggestive, era 1995, history era!Michael,

Author's note: Found out I'm a mezzo soprano and started thinking what it would be like to have mike write a song for you that compliments your voice 🥺 I know the pic is from bad era but let's pretend it's history era mmk 🤫 love you 🫶🏾

Btw: The song I imagined Mike writing for her is Love on the Brain by Rih Rih

MICHAEL JACKSON        as a  . . .             HUFFLEPUFF !