thriller era! michael jackson x trans fem! model reader
summary. 1984. you did it, you finally made it. you’re a supermodel—the biggest of the decade. this afterparty was supposed to be a celebration, but then you end up only facing hate & humiliation. then suddenly, the biggest star of the era sat next to you…just listening. was he a fool or something? or maybe a friend? or something more…?
CONTENT WARNING. TRANSPHOBIA, MENTIONS OF UNHEALTHY EATING HABITS. BLACKMAIL. MENTIONS OF SEXUAL HARASSMENT. ALCOHOL & SMOKING.
tags. angst—comfort, romance, fluff. michael and you are the same age.
———————
1984.
The music still pounded through the walls of the Beverly Hills estate, muffled now by expensive marble and thick glass, bass vibrating through the night like a distant heartbeat.
Laughter spilled out from balconies alongside cigarette smoke and champagne bubbles, photographers lingering beyond the gates in hopes that someone important would stumble out intoxicated enough to make tomorrow’s front page.
It was supposed to be your night too. Not because you had won anything—models rarely did—but because tonight was proof that you’d finally crossed into a world you had spent years clawing toward with bleeding fingernails and blistered feet.
Milan had wanted you.
Paris had wanted you.
Tokyo adored you.
New York finally learned your name. Designers fought over your schedule. Fashion editors called you “the face of tomorrow.”
You had spent years surviving impossible casting standards, sleeping in tiny apartments overseas, eating whatever you could afford, smiling until your cheeks hurt and pretending every rejection rolled right off your back. Tonight was supposed to be the celebration.
The proof that all of that suffering had amounted to something.
Instead, all anyone would remember was the moment your world split open.
“…Wait, seriously?” one model had laughed far louder than she needed to, drawing heads one by one until conversations stopped around you. “No… no, somebody tell me y’all are joking.”
Another voice.
“Oh my God…”
Then another.
“I knew something was weird.”
Your stomach had dropped before anyone even looked at you.
Someone had found out.
No one ever told you exactly how. Maybe someone from years ago recognized you.
Maybe an old document surfaced.
Maybe somebody had simply decided to ruin your life because yours looked prettier than theirs.
It hardly mattered anymore.
“What the hell are you even doing here?” a designer spat, loud enough for half the ballroom to hear. “You’re a fraud.”
Someone snorted.
Another person laughed.
“You had all these men fooled.”
“I knew she looked off.”
“That’s not a woman.”
“That’s a damn prostitute.”
“He.”
The word struck harder than anything else.
Each one landed like another stone thrown against glass already cracked beyond repair.
Someone actually reached for your arm as if touching you might somehow confirm what they’d heard.
Another recoiled dramatically.
“Eugh.”
“I’ve changed in the same room as—”
“Oh my God…”
People who had hugged you an hour earlier suddenly refused to even meet your eyes.
People who praised your covers.
People who begged for your autograph.
People who had toasted champagne with you.
Now they stared as though you had committed some unforgivable crime simply by existing.
You remembered backing away.
Someone yelling after you.
Someone laughing.
Someone calling you a liar.
Someone yelling “HE’S RUNNING AWAY!”
The laughter followed you through the mansion until it dissolved beneath the music.
Now you sat outside behind the estate near the servants’ entrance where nobody glamorous ever bothered going. Your heels had been kicked off somewhere in the grass.
Mascara streaked your cheeks in dark rivers.
Your expensive evening gown was wrinkled from sitting on cold concrete while one trembling hand held a bottle you’d stolen from inside and the other balanced a cigarette between your fingers.
Smoke escaped with every shaky breath you took, mixing with quiet sobs you kept trying—and failing—to swallow.
“Lord…” you whispered hoarsely to yourself before taking another burning gulp straight from the bottle. “Lord…you know I tried so hard…”
The liquor barely burned in your chest anymore.
Maybe you’d already burned enough tonight.
You didn’t notice the back door opening.
Soft footsteps.
A hesitant voice.
“Um…”
Silence.
“…Are… are you okay?”
You didn’t even look.
“Oh, for God’s sake…” you muttered.
The footsteps stopped.
“I just—I saw you leave and—”
“Leave me alone.”
His voice was gentle.
“I wasn’t trying to bother you.”
You barked out a bitter laugh.
“Then congratulations. You already are.”
Silence settled between you.
You expected him to apologize awkwardly before walking away like everyone else.
Instead…
“…Can I sit?”
You scoffed.
“It’s a free country, ain’t it?”
A few seconds later, someone sat beside you quietly, their shoes tapping on the ground.
Still.
Neither of you spoke.
You drank again.
Smoked again.
The cigarette glowed orange in the darkness.
Finally you glanced sideways.
Michael Jackson.
Fresh off the unimaginable success of Thriller, still wearing one of his sparkling jackets from earlier in the evening, curls framing his face, quietly watching the moon instead of staring at you.
His hands rested together awkwardly between his knees like he genuinely didn’t know what to do but didn’t want to leave.
“…Shouldn’t you be inside?” you muttered, scoffing.
He shrugged.
“I don’t really like parties that much.”
You laughed again, though this time it sounded more exhausted than angry.
“Yeah? Well they love you.”
“I guess.”
“You guess?”
“I… um…”
He scratched the back of his neck. “They’re kinda loud.”
Despite everything, you almost smiled.
Almost.
Then reality returned all at once.
“You should go back.”
“I don’t want to.”
“I don’t care.”
“I know.”
“…Seriously.”
“I know.”
Your jaw tightened.
“Oh my God…”
You turned toward him for the first time.
“What is wrong with you? Huh? Didn’t you hear what everybody was saying in there? Aren’t you worried somebody’s gonna see you sittin’ next to me?”
He blinked, confused.
“…Should I be?”
You stared.
“…Boy…”
You laughed bitterly again.
“They’re gonna think somethin’ about you.”
“I don’t really mind.”
“You should.”
“I don’t.”
“Well, I do.”
Silence.
Then suddenly every ounce of restraint you’d been holding onto snapped.
“You don’t get it!” you shouted, standing so abruptly the bottle nearly slipped from your fingers.
“You don’t get it because they ain’t lookin’ at you like some damn monster! You don’t get it because you ain’t gotta wake up every mornin’ wonderin’ if today’s the day somebody figures you out! You don’t get it because every interview, every photoshoot, every damn handshake feels like somebody’s gonna rip the floor out from underneath you!”
He didn’t interrupt.
Didn’t flinch.
Didn’t defend himself.
You kept going.
“I worked my ass off!” Your voice cracked violently. “I worked harder than every single one of ‘em! Milan… Paris… Tokyo… everywhere they told me I wasn’t enough, I kept goin’.” You took a swig of the bottle.
“I smiled when photographers screamed at me. I smiled when designers starved me. I smiled when people touched me without askin’. I smiled through every damn thing because I thought…”
Your eyes shut tightly as fresh tears rolled free. “…I thought if I just worked hard enough… they’d see me.”
Your laugh came out broken.
“But they never saw me.”
The bottle lifted again.
“I wasn’t never gonna be enough.”
Another swallow.
“They don’t care how many covers I got.”
Another.
“They don’t care how hard I worked.”
You looked at him.
“They just see…” Your voice became barely audible. “…they just see what I am.”
Michael frowned softly.
“What do you mean?”
Your hands trembled.
For a long moment, all that existed was the wind.
Then quietly—
“…I’m transgender.”
The words left your mouth so softly they almost disappeared into the night.
“I…I wasn’t born…” You swallowed painfully. “…the way people think I was.”
Silence.
Michael didn’t speak.
Not immediately.
Your chest tightened.
There it was.
You knew that silence.
You had heard it before.
The pause.
The confusion.
The disappointment.
The disgust waiting just beyond it.
You scoffed bitterly.
“There it is.”
He looked up.
“What?”
“You ain’t gotta pretend.”
“I’m not pretending.”
“You got quiet.”
“I was thinking.”
“Oh, don’t think too hard now.” You scoffed.
“I’m not.”
“You don’t gotta tell me it’s sinful or disgusting or that I tricked everybody. Trust me.” Your laugh came out hollow. “Been hearin’ it all damn night.”
His brows knitted together.
“…No.”
You blinked.
“What?”
He shook his head slowly.
“I was… um…” He searched carefully for the words. “I was trying to understand why everyone reacted like that.”
You frowned.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
He looked genuinely confused.
“I don’t understand.”
“You… don’t?”
“You said you’re a woman.”
“…Yeah.”
“So…”
He shrugged.
“You’re a woman.”
You simply stared at him.
“I mean…” he continued carefully, almost embarrassed by how simple it sounded to him. “That’s—that’s what you told me.”
“…Michael.”
“You said you’re a woman.”
“I am.”
“Then…”
He smiled softly.
“…You’re a woman.”
You blinked.
No lecture.
No pity.
No questions about your body.
No accusations.
Just…
“…You’re a woman.”
Your mouth opened. Closed again.
“…You serious?”
He nodded. “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you.”
Your eyes filled again.
Not from pain.
From disbelief.
“I think…” he said quietly, “…people can be very cruel when they don’t understand somebody.”
The bottle slipped lower into your lap.
“I don’t understand everything either,” he admitted honestly. “But… I don’t think I have to understand everything to know when somebody deserves kindness.”
Your shoulders finally collapsed.
Years. Years of carrying fear. Years of rehearsing explanations. Years of preparing yourself to defend your existence.
And somehow…
The biggest star in the world simply accepted your answer like it required nothing more than believing you.
Your lip trembled.
“…Well…”
You sniffled.
“…Industry still sucks.”
That made him laugh.
Soft.
Warm.
You ended up talking for hours after that, words spilling out in uneven waves between drags of your cigarette and swallows from the bottle.
You told him about impossible beauty standards, about photographers who expected silence in exchange for opportunity, about agents who treated women like disposable merchandise, about living with the constant fear that one mistake would erase every achievement you’d earned.
Sometimes you got angry enough to wave the bottle wildly through the air. Sometimes you laughed at stories that really weren’t funny.
Sometimes your voice dissolved into tears halfway through a sentence before picking right back up again. Michael rarely interrupted.
He simply listened with his elbows resting on his knees, asking quiet questions every now and then—“And then what happened?” or “How did that make you feel?”—never once making you feel rushed, judged, or pitied.
Eventually your words began to slur together, your cigarette burned itself out between your fingers, and your head started dipping lower each time you tried to keep talking.
“An’ another thing…” you mumbled sleepily, pointing somewhere toward absolutely nothing.
“Y’know? You smell real nice…” Your eyes fluttered closed.
“Like… um…” A sleepy smile touched your lips. “Saffron…”
“Thank you.” He said with a small smile.
“You nice.” You mumbled. “Real nice, Michael…”
He blushed a little at that, his cheeks warming even more when you leaned closer.
“Your eyes are so—big!” You suddenly said, making him shy.
“U—Uh…thank you.”
“…You got so much soul in ‘em.” You patted his shoulder as you took another swig.
Michael just awkwardly smiled.
“Don’t…Don’t let Hollywood destroy that soul of yours…” You suddenly grabbed his face, his eyes going wide and his face immediately going hot.
“Promise me that, dammit…” You huffed out.
“I promise…” He said softly.
“Good…you listen well, baby.” You laughed out, making him flustered.
Before Michael could answer back, your sentence dissolved into a quiet exhale, your head falling gently against his shoulder as the bottle slipped harmlessly into the grass.
He stayed perfectly still.
“…Goodnight,” he whispered, more to himself than to you, before carefully slipping off his own jacket and draping it over your shoulders.
He felt his cheeks warm a little when he felt you bury your face into his neck, your breath warm against his skin.
Then, making sure not to wake you, he lifted you into his arms through the quiet side entrance, carrying you away from the echoes of the party that had broken your heart.
———————
The first thing you became aware of was warmth.
Not the suffocating, stale warmth of alcohol still clinging to your skin, nor the sticky heat of too many people packed into one ballroom beneath chandeliers.
This warmth was gentle.
Quiet.
The kind that wrapped around you instead of pressing against you.
It settled over your body in layers—a thick quilt tucked carefully beneath your chin, impossibly soft pillows cradling your aching head, the distant hum of an air conditioner whispering somewhere across the room.
Even before your eyes opened, you knew this wasn’t your apartment.
There was no traffic roaring outside your bedroom window.
No rattling pipes.
No neighbors arguing through paper-thin walls.
Everything here was… peaceful, almost unnervingly so.
A groan escaped your throat as your temples pulsed with the dull, merciless ache of a hangover.
“…Oh… Lord…” you whispered to no one, squeezing your eyes shut tighter.
Your mouth tasted like old whiskey and smoke.
Every muscle in your body felt weighted down, and for one brief, blissful second, you considered simply rolling over and pretending the world didn’t exist.
Then your eyes finally fluttered open.
The ceiling wasn’t yours.
Cream-colored.
Elegant molding.
Sunlight poured through enormous curtains that glowed gold around their edges, throwing soft morning light across polished wooden furniture and fresh flowers sitting in a crystal vase near the window.
The room smelled faintly of expensive laundry soap, fresh linen…
…and saffron.
Your brows knitted together.
“What…”
You pushed yourself upright too quickly.
Instant regret.
The room spun violently.
“Oh—”
You clutched your head, breathing through another wave of dizziness before forcing yourself to look around properly.
A hotel suite.
Large.
Tastefully decorated.
A television rested opposite the bed beside neatly stacked cassette tapes. An open garment bag hung across a chair, glittering fabric peeking out from inside.
On the bedside table sat a glass of water, two aspirin, and a handwritten note folded neatly beneath the glass so it wouldn’t blow away from the air conditioner.
Your stomach dropped.
“No…”
Your breathing quickened.
“No… no…”
Your eyes darted downward.
Your evening gown.
Still on.
Your shoes sat neatly beside the bed.
Your jewelry rested carefully folded inside a velvet napkin.
Nothing had been disturbed.
Nothing had been removed.
Nothing.
Still…
Panic didn’t care about logic.
It came anyway.
You ripped the quilt away, stumbling backward off the mattress until your calves hit the wall behind you. Your heartbeat thundered against your ribs so violently it almost drowned out your own thoughts.
“Where am I…?”
Your voice cracked.
“…Hello?”
Silence.
“Hello?!”
The suite door opened almost immediately.
You flinched so hard your shoulder struck the wall.
Michael stepped inside balancing a tray in both hands, immediately freezing the moment he saw you standing there.
He wasn’t dressed like the world’s biggest pop star anymore.
No sparkling jacket.
No loafers polished to perfection.
Just a loose sweatshirt, dark sweatpants, socks, and curls still slightly damp from what looked like a shower.
In one hand sat a steaming mug, another glass of water, toast, sliced fruit, and something that smelled strongly of ginger.
“…Oh.”
He blinked.
“You’re awake. Good morning.”
Neither of you moved.
“…I’m sorry,” he said first.
You frowned. “What?”
“I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Your chest still rose rapidly. “Where am I?”
“My hotel room.”
Silence.
“I… um…”
He shifted awkwardly. “You passed out.”
“…I did?”
“You don’t remember?”
Fragments.
Concrete beneath you.
Cigarette smoke.
Talking.
Laughing.
Crying.
His shoulder beneath your cheek.
Everything after that vanished into darkness.
“…I…” You rubbed your forehead. “No.”
He nodded slowly. “You fell asleep.”
Another pause.
“I couldn’t really leave you outside.”
Your breathing gradually slowed.
“Did…”
The question barely left your lips.
“…Did we…”
He immediately understood.
His eyes widened.
“No!”
“…No?”
“No.”
He looked almost horrified you’d even have to ask.
“I tucked you into bed.”
He pointed awkwardly toward his jacket draped over your shoulders.
“My jacket covered you…”
“…Oh.”
“I wasn’t sure if you’d get cold.”
Another silence.
“…And…” he scratched the back of his neck nervously. “…you kept trying to sleep on the floor.”
You blinked.
“I—what??”
“You said…” A tiny smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “‘Beds are too fancy.’”
You stared.
“I said that?”
“You said…” he tried not to laugh, “…that floors’ more comfortable…”
You covered your face.
“Oh, Lord…”
“You were very determined.”
“I am so sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize.”
“I absolutely do.”
“No.”
“I embarrassed myself.”
“I don’t think so.”
“I smoked.”
“You did.”
“I drank.”
“Mhm.”
“I cried.”
“Yes.”
“I probably said somethin’ stupid.”
“You mostly complained about fashion editors.”
“…Oh.”
“You also spent ten minutes explaining how your hips were all natural…” He said sheepishly, smiling.
You groaned louder.
“Please stop.”
“I thought it was interesting.”
“It wasn’t.”
“It kinda was.”
Despite yourself…a tiny laugh escaped.
Just one, small but real.
Michael smiled as though someone had handed him an award. He then perked upz
“I made something.”
He carefully set the tray down on the bedside table.
“It’s… um…”
He pointed toward the steaming mug.
“Ginger tea.”
Next.
“Lemon water.”
Next.
“Toast.”
Then, almost proudly—
“And bananas.”
You looked between the tray and him.
“…What’s all this?”
“My mom always said bananas help after you’re sick.”
“I’m not sick.”
“You’re kinda sick.” He laughed out.
“I’m hungover.”
“That’s… sorta sick.”
Another reluctant laugh slipped free, you reached for the mug carefully.
“…You made all this?”
“Mhm.”
“For me?”
“Yeah.” He nodded happily.
“…Why?”
He looked genuinely puzzled.
“…Because you weren’t feeling good.”
“…That’s it?”
He blinked.
“Should there be another reason?”
Your fingers tightened around the warm ceramic.
“People don’t usually…” your throat became tight. “…Do nice things for me unless…”
The words refused to come.
Michael waited for you patiently.
“Unless they—” You looked away. “—want something.”
The room became quiet.
“So…” You forced a smile that never reached your eyes. “What do you want?”
His expression fell immediately.
“Nothing.” He said with no hesitation.
You looked back at him.
“I don’t want anything.”
“Seriously?”
He nodded.
“I just wanted you to feel better.”
Your eyes searched his face for the catch.
There always was one.
Money.
Sex.
Connections.
Publicity.
Blackmail.
Something.
Anything.
…But there wasn’t.
He simply stood there looking mildly worried you’d reject the tea.
“…Michael…” Your voice shook “Nobody’s ever…”
You laughed softly through tears.
“Nobody’s ever taken care of me before.”
He frowned.
“…Really?”
You shook your head.
“They either wanted my body…”
Another shake. “Or they wanted somethin’ they could hold over my head.”
Your eyes blurred. “Nobody’s ever just—made me breakfast.”
Before you could stop yourself, tears spilled over. Not dramatic sobs.
Just quiet ones.
The kind born from years of never expecting kindness.
You lowered your face into your hands, embarrassed.
“I’m sorry.” You whispered out.
“What for?”
“Cryin’ again.”
“You don’t have to apologize for crying.”
“I keep doin’ it.”
“You’ve had a hard couple of days.”
“…Still.”
He hesitated only a moment before sitting beside you on the edge of the bed—not too close, leaving enough room that you never felt cornered.
“Can I tell you something?”
You nodded.
“I think…”
He looked down at his hands.
“…I think people sometimes spend so much time deciding who deserves kindness…”
He glanced back up.
“…that they forget kindness isn’t something people earn.”
Your lip trembled.
“It isn’t?”
That broke his heart.
He shook his head.
“I think everybody deserves somebody who’ll bring them tea when they don’t feel good.”
You stared at him for several long seconds. Then, before you could overthink it…you leaned sideways.
Very carefully.
Resting your head against his shoulder.
Not because you expected anything.
Not because you wanted anything.
Simply because…
For the first time in years…
Someone felt safe.
Michael went completely still, almost afraid moving would somehow break the fragile trust you’d just placed in him.
After a few moments, he relaxed, smiling so softly it was almost imperceptible.
Neither of you spoke.
You simply sat together while morning sunlight crept farther across the bedspread, the ginger tea warming your hands and his jacket still draped around your shoulders, carrying that faint scent of saffron and cologne that somehow already felt strangely comforting.
Outside, Los Angeles bustled on as though nothing extraordinary had happened.
But inside that quiet hotel room, without either of you realizing it yet, something had begun that would quietly change the course of both your lives.
———————
The next few weeks passed with an unfamiliar kind of quiet—not the lonely quiet you had grown accustomed to after hotel rooms emptied and fashion shows ended, but the peaceful sort that settled into the spaces between your days.
You didn’t expect to hear from Michael again.
Honestly, you had convinced yourself the morning in his hotel suite had simply been an act of kindness from an extraordinarily compassionate man, one that belonged to a single chapter of your life that would quietly close as both of you returned to your impossibly busy schedules.
You had thanked him perhaps a dozen times before leaving, cheeks burning with embarrassment as he insisted you didn’t owe him anything.
You remembered lingering awkwardly outside the elevator, clutching your purse with one hand and smoothing invisible wrinkles from your dress with the other, unsure how people normally ended something like this.
“Well…” you’d mumbled, rocking back on your heels. “…Uh… I guess… this is goodbye.”
Michael had looked almost confused by the sentence. “It doesn’t have to be…”
You blinked. “…What?”
He shrugged with that same shy little smile that always seemed to arrive a second before he looked away. “Maybe we could—um…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “…Be friends?”
Friends.
Such a painfully ordinary word, yet somehow nobody had offered it to you in years without expecting something underneath it.
You had stared for several moments before laughing softly.
“…They’re gonna ask why you’re hangin’ around me.”
He shrugged.
“They’re gonna make up stories.”
“…Probably.”
You smiled despite yourself. “…You don’t care?”
He simply shook his head. “No.” And that had somehow been enough.
Three mornings later, your doorman called upstairs sounding more confused than you had ever heard him.
“Miss?” His voice crackled through the intercom. “…Uh, you’ve got flowers.”
You frowned, balancing the telephone between your shoulder and ear while trying to zip up the back of your dress. “Flowers?”
“A whole lot of ‘em.”
“From who?”
“Don’t know, madam. They just got delivered.”
Curiosity won almost immediately.
You hurried downstairs expecting perhaps a designer celebrating a successful campaign or some executive hoping to buy your attention.
Instead, sitting atop the front desk was the largest arrangement of white lilies, roses, and baby’s breath you had ever seen in your life.
They looked almost absurdly elegant against the worn marble countertop of your apartment lobby, their sweet fragrance filling the entire entrance. Nestled between the stems was a cream-colored envelope with your name written in surprisingly recognizable handwriting.
Your heart skipped. Carefully, almost afraid touching it might somehow make it disappear, you opened the envelope.
“I hope you’re feeling better.
Congratulations on your magazine cover this month. I bought three copies.
Don’t forget to eat breakfast.
— Michael.”
You read it once.
Twice.
Three times.
Then suddenly—
“…Oh my God…”
Your hand flew over your mouth as an involuntary squeal escaped you, startling both the doorman and an elderly woman checking her mailbox.
Heat rushed into your cheeks so quickly you thought your face might actually catch fire.
“…No…” you whispered to yourself, grinning so hard your jaw hurt.
“…He did not…” You hugged the enormous bouquet against your chest with an excited little laugh that sounded embarrassingly like you were a teen girl squealing for a boy band, unable to stop smiling even as flower petals brushed against your chin.
By the time you reached your apartment, you had already reread the letter another four times, carefully smoothing the folds afterward as though it were made of glass.
Nobody had ever just sent you flowers before.
Not because they wanted publicity.
Not because they wanted a favor.
Not because they wanted your body. Just…because they hoped you were having a good morning.
The realization hit you so unexpectedly that you ended up sitting on your kitchen floor, smiling at a bouquet of lilies while tears quietly gathered in your eyes all over again.
It became something of a tradition after that.
Sometimes flowers appeared at your doorstep after particularly difficult weeks.
Other times they arrived for no reason at all except a tiny note tucked between the stems.
“Saw this flower and thought you’d like it.” Or, “Hope Milan isn’t making you skip meals.”
Once, after you’d casually mentioned during a phone call that you loved sunflowers because they always looked like they were smiling, your apartment became so filled with them that your neighbors joked you were secretly opening a flower shop.
His letters were never dramatic.
Never flirtatious.
They rambled about music, movies he’d watched, books he thought you’d enjoy, little jokes he’d remembered from your conversations.
One note consisted almost entirely of him complaining that he had accidentally burned toast trying to make breakfast.
Another apologized because one of the roses had arrived bent during delivery and he hoped it wasn’t “too sad-looking.”
Every single envelope made your heart leap the same way.
Every single one ended up tucked carefully inside a wooden box beneath your bed where you reread them whenever the world became particularly cruel to you on that day.
Your friendship slipped into place so naturally that months seemed to disappear without either of you noticing.
Long-distance phone calls stretched well past midnight despite assistants begging both of you to get some sleep.
If you were in Tokyo while he was recording in Los Angeles, he’d somehow manage to figure out what time it was where you were before calling.
If he toured somewhere near one of your shoots, he’d quietly rearrange his schedule just enough to steal an hour together over coffee or dinner.
The conversations never felt forced. Sometimes you spent two hours discussing nothing more important than your favorite breakfast foods.
Other nights you confessed fears you’d never admitted aloud to anyone else. Michael told you how terrifying fame could feel, how lonely hotel rooms became after thousands of screaming fans disappeared, how often he wondered whether people liked Michael or simply liked the idea of him.
You listened without interrupting, recognizing a loneliness that looked strangely similar to your own.
In return, you told him stories about backstage politics in fashion, impossible beauty standards, photographers who acted as though kindness cost extra, and the exhausting pressure of constantly proving yourself worthy of the space you occupied. Neither of you tried to fix the other’s problems.
You simply listened.
Somehow that was enough.
One rainy Thursday afternoon, while you were absentmindedly flipping through magazines in your apartment wearing one of Michael’s oversized sweatshirts he’d forgotten months earlier, your telephone rang. You answered lazily, expecting your agent.
“Hello?”
Instead—
“You got it!”
You frowned.
“What?”
“You got it!”
“…Michael?”
“I told you!”
“Told me what?”
“The campaign!”
You blinked.
“What campaign?”
“The perfume one!”
Your stomach dropped.
“No.”
“Yes!”
“…Quit playin’ with me right now.”
“I’m serious!”
“I ain’t heard nothin’.”
“I have.”
“How?”
A tiny pause.
“Uhh…”
“…Michael.”
“…I…called somebody.”
“You called somebody?”
“Maybe.”
“Michael Joseph Jackson.”
“I just asked.”
“You asked?”
“I thought they were making a mistake.”
You burst into laughter.
“You called these people?”
“Maybe.”
“You did not.”
“I kinda did.”
“Oh, Lord…” You laughed so hard you had to sit down. “…Boy, you done lost your mind.”
Before either of you could say another word, the call waiting signal interrupted.
“Hold on—I’m getting someone.”
“It’s them! Hurry, pick it up!”
“What—“
“Just do it girl!”
Beep.
Your agent.
You switched over.
“…Hello, Kennedy?”
The voice on the other end sounded breathless.
“Pack your bags.”
“Why?”
“You booked it.”
Silence.
“What?”
“The campaign.”
“…You’re kidding.”
“I’m not.”
You couldn’t speak.
“They specifically requested you.”
Your vision blurred.
“Oh…”
“You leave for the UK next week.”
“Oh my God…”
The tears came before you even realized they were forming.
“Congratulations…I knew you could do it!”
“Oh my God…”
You switched back to Michael’s line.
“Michael?”
“…Yeah?”
“…I got it.”
“I know!”
“I actually got it.”
“I told you!”
You laughed through tears.
“…I got it!”
He sounded even happier than you did.
“I knew they were gonna call!”
“I can’t believe this!”
“I can!”
“I worked so hard!”
“I know you did!”
You laughed so hard your stomach hurt.
“…Michael?”
“…Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
His voice softened immediately, his face heating up.
“You don’t have to thank me.”
“Yes, I do.”
“No.”
“You believed in me before I did.”
A quiet pause settled between the two of you.
Then, almost shyly, he admitted,
“I just… wanted everybody else to see what I already saw.”
Your hand tightened around the receiver.
For reasons you couldn’t quite explain…
Your heart skipped and so did his.
———————
The UK came and went in a blur of camera flashes, garment racks, rehearsals that stretched until sunrise, and hurried phone calls squeezed between fittings.
The perfume campaign became one of the biggest successes of your career.
Your face covered department store windows from France to Japan, magazines praised your effortless elegance, and for the first time since that awful night at the afterparty, you found yourself smiling without having to remind yourself to do it.
Every time another accomplishment found its way onto your résumé, Michael celebrated as though it were his own.
If you landed a campaign, flowers appeared.
If you booked another runway, a handwritten letter arrived before the newspapers even announced it.
If a magazine called you one of the most sought-after models in the industry, Michael somehow managed to buy enough copies that his brothers started teasing him for turning Hayvenhurst into a bookstore.
You used to think success would finally make you feel whole.
Instead, you slowly realized that success only felt meaningful because there was finally someone waiting on the other end of the telephone to celebrate it with you.
Eventually, your schedules lined up long enough that neither of you had to rush away after dinner or wave goodbye through the tinted windows of waiting cars.
One warm evening after another successful campaign wrapped in Los Angeles, Michael surprised you with a simple question while the two of you sat in the backseat of one of his security vehicles weaving through the city.
“You wanna go watch a movie?”
You blinked.
“…A movie?”
“Mhm.”
“Like…”
You laughed.
“In a theater?”
“Well…” He smiled sheepishly. “Private theater.”
“Oh.”
“’Cause… um…”
He scratched behind his ear.
“I don’t think we’d get to watch much if we went to a regular one.”
“You know…”
You nudged his shoulder lightly.
“That’s probably the smartest thing you done said all week.”
He gasped dramatically.
“I say smart things!”
“You absolutely do not.”
“I do!”
“When?”
“This morning!”
“What’d you say?”
He opened his mouth.
Then stopped.
“I forgot.”
You burst into laughter.
“Mm-hmm.”
“I had somethin’.”
“You sure did.”
“I really did.”
“You lost it.”
“I did.”
The two of you laughed all the way to the small private screening room tucked inside an old theater that occasionally rented its rooms to celebrities wanting a quiet night away from cameras.
The employees respectfully pretended not to notice who you were, leaving popcorn, drinks, and candy before disappearing entirely.
It felt strangely normal sitting beside him in the dim room, your shoes kicked beneath the seats while you shared a giant bucket of buttery popcorn between the two of you.
The movie itself hardly mattered.
Every few minutes one of you whispered some ridiculous observation that made the other fight laughter.
Halfway through a dramatic scene, Michael reached into the popcorn bucket.
His hand brushed yours.
Both of you froze.
“Oh.”
He quickly pulled away.
“Sorry.” He said, sheepish.
“You good.”
“You sure?”
“Mhm.”
“…‘Cause I wasn’t…”
“I know.”
“…Tryin’ to…”
“I know, Michael.” You said, your ears warming too.
“…Okay.”
Three seconds passed.
Then your hand reached for another handful.
Again.
Your fingers bumped.
This time you looked at one another.
Neither of you moved.
“Now you’re doin’ it on purpose,” you whispered.
“I am not.”
“You absolutely are.”
“I needed popcorn too.”
“The whole bucket and you somehow found my hand.”
“Coincidence.”
“You lyin’, boy.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I just…”
He looked at the popcorn.
“…Missed.”
“…Boy.”
“You have very…hand-shaped hands.”
You stared at him for nearly five whole seconds before laughing so hard your stomach hurt.
“Michael…”
“Yeah?”
“That might be the dumbest thing anybody ever said to me.”
He hid behind the popcorn bucket.
“I know.”
When the movie finally ended sometime after midnight, neither of you wanted to go home just yet.
Los Angeles had settled into that rare peaceful hour where traffic became sparse and the city seemed to exhale.
Rather than returning to either of your homes immediately, the driver discreetly dropped the two of you a few blocks away from the theater after security confirmed the streets were nearly empty.
Both of you had changed into simple clothes and baseball caps, blending into the quiet night well enough that anyone passing by merely glanced before continuing on their way.
You wandered aimlessly together until you found yourselves sitting on the curb outside a closed corner store, the giant popcorn bucket balanced between you.
The pavement still held a little warmth from the afternoon sun, and somewhere farther down the block, sprinklers clicked rhythmically across someone’s front lawn.
“You know,” you said between bites of popcorn, “that ending ain’t make no sense.”
Michael looked at you, offended.
“It did!”
“No, it didn’t.”
“He loved her.”
“Yeah, after knowin’ her for three days.”
“So?”
“So?”
You threw one piece of popcorn at him, making him blink.
“That ain’t love.”
He laughed, catching another piece before it hit him.
“It could be.”
“Nuh-uh.”
“Why not?”
“’Cause real love takes time.”
“Who says?”
“My mama.”
“Oh.”
You smiled softly.
“She always said fairy tales got one thing wrong.”
Michael tilted his head.
“What was that?”
“They always stop at the wedding.”
He smiled.
“Yeah?”
“…She used to uh…” You looked down at the popcorn resting in your lap. “She’d read me Cinderella over and over when I was little.”
“You liked Cinderella?”
“I loved Cinderella.”
“What was your favorite part?”
You thought for a moment.
“Not the prince.”
“No?”
You shook your head.
“The hope.”
He stayed quiet.
“…My mama used to close the book every time and tell me…” A fond smile slowly found your face. “‘Baby, dreams come true if you stay true to yourself. One day you’ll find your prince charming.’”
Your laugh came softly.
“I believed her.”
Michael watched you carefully, a smile gracing slowly on his face as he watched you happily talk.
“Still do!”
“You do?”
You nodded enthusiastically, eating popcorn.
“People think ‘cause I’m in fashion I dream about mansions and diamonds and all that.”
You waved your hand dismissively.
“I don’t.”
“What do you dream about?”
You leaned back slightly, looking up at the quiet sky, sighing.
“…Honestly?”
“Mhm.”
“I just wanna be loved.”
His chest tightened.
“Really loved.”
“…You are.”
You smiled sadly.
“Nah.”
You set down the bucket between you and rested your arms on your knees.
“…I mean by somebody who don’t want nothin’ from me.”
The breeze stirred a loose napkin across the sidewalk.
“I wanna wake up beside somebody every mornin’.”
You laughed quietly at yourself.
“Make pancakes, while arguing over what color to paint the kitchen.”
You put your hands in your pockets whilst grinning.
“Sit out on the porch when we’re old. Wave at the neighbors. Maybe have a dog that barks too much.”
Michael couldn’t take his eyes off you.
“…And…”
Your smile faltered just a little.
“…I know it ain’t biologically possible.”
Silence.
“…But…”
You swallowed.
“…I’d wanna have kids.”
Your voice became almost embarrassed.
“With whoever the man marry.”
You giggled.
“…I’d wanna read my kids Cinderella. Tell ’em the same thing my mama told me.”
You looked off distantly into the night.
“…That dreams come true.”
The city seemed to disappear around him.
He wasn’t hearing traffic anymore.
Wasn’t hearing the distant sirens.
Wasn’t hearing the rustle of trees.
He was only hearing you.
The woman the world had insisted was fake, dreaming of something so heartbreakingly ordinary.
A porch.
Pancakes.
Children.
Growing old beside someone.
Nothing about fame.
Nothing about wealth.
Nothing about status.
Just love.
Real love.
Without realizing it, he smiled.
Not because what you said was funny.
But because…
Somewhere deep inside him…
He wanted every single one of those dreams to come true for you.
“What?” you asked, catching him staring.
He blinked rapidly.
“…Huh?”
“You smilin’.” You teased.
“Am I?”
“You are.”
He quickly looked away.
“It’s nothin’.”
“Michael.”
“…Yeah?”
“Why you lookin’ at me like that?”
He laughed nervously.
“Like what?”
“…Like you know somethin’ I don’t.”
“…I don’t.”
“…Mm-hmm.”
“I don’t.”
“You lyinnn’.”
“I am not.”
“You absolutely are.”
“I’m just…”
He struggled for an explanation.
“Happy.”
“For what?”
“…That you’re happy.”
You stared at him for a long moment.
Then your smile softened. “Thank you.”
Neither of you noticed how long the silence lasted afterward.
It wasn’t uncomfortable.
Quite the opposite.
The kind that only exists between two people who no longer feel any pressure to fill every second with conversation.
You leaned your shoulder lightly against his.
He didn’t move away.
Instead…
Almost instinctively…
He leaned back.
And somewhere inside Michael Jackson’s heart, a feeling he’d been quietly refusing to acknowledge for months began growing into something impossible to ignore.
He didn’t have a name for it yet.
He only knew one thing.
Every dream you described…
He had wanted to be standing beside you in every single one.
.
.
.
Note: Protect the dolls ❤️🏳️⚧️ Soo much love to you all! Thank you so much to the wonderful girl who requested this, you are the sweetest!
In which Jareth finds redemption and love on the hands of a lonely man, whose kindness and care shines in contrast with the darkness that surrounds his mansion— a home full of joyfull memories and reminiscing, contrary to Jareth's desolated castle and empty heart. Post Labyrinth (1986). Includes some spoilers for the short film Ghosts and Labyrinth.
After Sarah Williams took his heir to his throne, Jareth spends his days in a bad mood around his castle. All his subjects, the perfectly idiotic goblins fooling and messing up everything around— do not evouk enough distraction to his sorrows. So he travels through the human world, turned into this white barn-owl form, hoping he finds a new poor soul to torment.
In Normal Valley, Jareth encounters a huge dark, ruined mansion. Almost as enourmous as his own castle. But the owner of this place does not own subjects, instead the companion are ghosts. Spirits of people floating in every room, playing pranks and games within each other with a warmth that makes Jareth curse and almost throw up at the sight. Sentiment, that's disgusting. Devotion and love got him nothing but a sneaky little girl breaking his ultimate plan to escape the goblin kingdom and it still boils his blood thinking about that.
Back to Normal Valley, Jareth observes no one seems to get bored, except the only person who looks very much alive within the deadness of the mansion: the Maestro.
Jareth sits down every night on the branch, pressed against the window of the man's chambers, until one night, Maestro sits down by the worned-out windowsill. As an animal lover and caretaker, Maestro speaks to Jareth as if the little owl were an old time friend, unbeknowst that Jareth is, in fact, a magical king and that he understands every word that comes from Maestro's mouth pretty much.
Maestro is kind, easygoing and full of optimism, contrary to Jareth's arrogance and short temper. Maestro speaks so gently of his family — the spirits haunting the mansion that create a beautiful chaos and mystical noise. But he also feels lonely sometimes. Maestro thinks he doesn’t belong there anymore, as time has passed by so fast people no longer see him as a respectable spirit. The city major and a lot of adults in town wanted to get rid of him and his family as of late. Maestro tells him he fights every day against the unfair treatment he has been receiving because love and joyful memories are everything he has. Oh, and kids love him a lot— they come very often to play pranks, watch magic tricks and get scared. Jareth despises kids because he couldn’t keep the last little boy he had been given for his realm.
Jareth, hipnotized by Maestro's soothing voice and whimsical annecdotes, comes down to the human world to hear him talk almost every night. And when he stays in the goblin kingdom, he uses his crystals to watch Maestro. Sometimes he sings, dances, plays the old piano on the music room and orchestates a ball with his spirits to cheer up everyone. Jareth loves music too, he is a great singer but he is not a good dancer as Maestro. He is everything Jareth would wish to become, maybe centuries ago. Now, he is an embittered man with no friends, no family nor a heir that can conduct the goblin kingdom and its messy labyrinth. No one to give the gift of the crystals and his great powers. No one for companion or to love. Much to his dismay, Jareth has knocked off the idea of loving somebody — worse, finding someone whose devotedness could overshadow his flaws to love him exactly as he is.
As time goes by, Jareth finally decides to introduce himself as the goblin king with a pretty much exaggerated theatrical presentation. Maestro does not flinch. He is not scared of Jareth, but he is careful as he has been betrayed so many times before. He feels deceived. Maestro trusted the little white owl on his window with secrets he has been carrying for a while, so he asks Jareth to tell his own story. That moment they find out they have much more in common.
—
hi i've been suffering a horrible writers block and my hand is still healing, but i was able to write this and omg u have no idea of how many drafts i have. labyrinth is one of my favorite movies and books ever, also am a huge david bowie fan, i love his music and artistry very much, and he has a really special place in my heart along with michael, both of them have helped me to get through some difficult times in my life. i did this because someone posted they ship maestro and jareth, tbh have no idea how i didn’t think of it sooner. they are perfect for each other. golden retriever and black cat energy lol. thanks if you read this. if anyone is writing for these two also pls tag me, i'd love to read more too!!! or if you want to use my headcanons you are free to do so, just lmk because we def need some more yaoi over here. 🩶
honestly, I get really mad about the backlash Michael got as a marginalized adult having any proximity to children. If anything, Michael understood that children can have multiple trusted adults outside of their own family. Secondary family units aren’t a new thing… he himself had many close circles he integrated into as a way to form connection. It’s a common practice in black culture for us to have unrelated people we call our “cousins,” “aunties/uncles,” godparents, etc. that act us extended family. Michael often called himself Uncle Michael when it came to his own family and other children in general. He didn’t reserve his nurturing side just for blood relatives, and that is not an admission of guilt.
The philosophy of communal child rearing from trusted friends, elders, or authority figures in black communities is a form of extra stability and protection, NOT a gateway for abuse. For historical context, this network of “fictive kin” has been key in African American society for centuries, as a survival tool for the effects of racial and economic oppression. This idea emphasizes unity and support, not pedophilia. Michael being a black man, with a skin condition, simply added to the social stigma that the media created around him and his relation to children.
He was very vocal about the importance of being nurturing towards kids who may lack the emotional or environmental support they needed. That man was always expressing his belief in family bonds and how the collapse of a nuclear family (mom and dad) will have negative effects on a child’s development. He saw teens who misbehaved or participated in crimes as a “cry for attention” and love. He believed that the core of a healthy psyche was to be loved unconditionally, especially as a child. He felt that a part of his mission in life was to extend that love to all humans, regardless of age to help heal our world.
There is a social discomfort with how adults interact with children and Michael was a victim of this on an extreme scale. Additionally, there is a bio-essentialist belief that being nurturing or “maternal” is only inherent to women. Michael being close with children in such ways added to tabloid fuel of him being a “predator.” But the general public completely ignores the nuance of these situations and choose to believe that any boundaries were crossed. Adults can form community and bonds with children, regardless of relation, without it being something criminal. I remember Michael was expressing this sentiment at a fan event when he said the fans’ children were his children and vice versa.
I feel like Michael knew firsthand what it was like to be isolated from others growing up, as well as not having safe adults around him (for example Joe). I can understand why he wanted to be that safe space for people of all ages and encourage positive adult interactions with children, as a way to support them. Given his own childhood, he would know the importance of children being an oppressed group that deserve autonomy and boundaries. Any interactions he had with children had the parents involved as well and nothing was ever forced onto them. That is a baseless accusation based on gossip and assumption.
Western society pushes the ideals of a nuclear family being the only part of a child’s development and that is not an objective truth. Michael understood this, like when he asked Bashir, “You wouldn’t give love to a child who didn’t have it?” He was talking about helping to heal and being a paternal figure to a terminally ill child, nothing more. Bashir’s biased reaction to that, intentionally twisting Michael’s words into something criminal, reflects the social panic that followed Michael throughout his life. Such reactions will continue to discourage healthy adult-children relationships and solidarity, especially in marginalized groups where our actions are easily demonized.
