- Only do SFW & FLUFF & ANGST . Tiny NSFW tones but no full on smut or nsfw.
- Only do x fem readers (include the race or leave it anonymous) & include what style you want (headcanon/drabble or imagines)
- Only do headcanons & imagines & Drabbles & Oneshots
- English is not my first language, so do please correct me if I made any mistakes and bare with me, I’m using writing fanfics to try to improve my writing ty! :3
* ₊˚⊹♡——————————————————-* ₊˚⊹ * 에노일라 ₊˚✧𓇼♡☾
*✧☁︎ Imagines. *✧☁︎Drabbles *✧☁︎ Headcanons
❦─❀─❦ *✧☁︎Oneshots ❦─❀─❦
@achingletters—all rights reserved. Any form of plagiarism is strictly prohibited. All content featured is entirely fictional and created for entertainment purposes only.
Ladies…….ladies…….i want EVER SINGLE WRITER AND READER of the MJ fanfiction fandom to WATCH THIS…..you guys will LOVE THIS and AY it may give you more insight on how Michael is with women 👀🤌🤌🤌🤌 you will NOT REGRET IT!
I’ve had some people asking me why I don’t write about Jaafar and here why
First of all the obvious one because he’s dating a Zionist that itself should speak volumes.
Also I just wanted to clarify something for people out there because a lot of people got confused. Yall know that Facebook image found around showing Jaafar supporting Palestine? It turned out to be fake because Jaafar has stated he doesn’t have a Facebook account, he may have a Facebook account connected to his music however it’s not completely clear whether he personally runs it or whether it is an official artist managed page or a just a fan page.
Now a lot of people thought he supported Palestine including myself but that information is rumour there is no publicly confirmed evidence that Jaafar Jackson has taken a position on Palestine either openly supporting Palestine or supporting Israel.
I tried but I couldn’t find any verified statement, interview, post, or public action from Jaafar himself expressing a stance on the issue so it is unclear and unconfirmed weather he supports Palestine or Isreal or neither even though he is dating a Zionist. Which is why I haven’t write anything nor read about him , as I have many mixed feelings about him I wish I can support him but right now with the type of person he is dating and whether he supports Palestine or is a Zionist or is neither, I’m dissapointed in him & also don’t know what feel about him at the same time because his views are hidden and unknown, yes ofc it’s his life I have no say in it, it’s just that for me and ofc many other people aswell the situation is just heavy and a bit personal because I myself have lost family members my step grandparents in Gaza who were killed by the IDF and my auntie who was also killed by a Zionist.
So Jaafar is in my suspicions/ no no list because he’s dating a women who supports and funds the people who killed my family members and his views are unknown
And also the whole Jaafar being a Muslim I’m not even sure if he was a Muslim or if he is a Muslim now. Yes he did go to hajj that is confirmed and real but now I’m not sure if he’s still a Muslim or if he ever converted to Islam in the beginning yes He did go to hajj but with what’s happening everything is just a mess and confusing.
Sooo I have no idea if he’s a Muslim or not right now.
If he is it’s wild and confusing how he would be a Muslim while dating a Zionist.
Zionists are racists and Islamophobes sooooo
And A LOT of people ESPECIALLY a lot of women keep on babying him, remember he’s a grown man who’s fully aware of his fiancé’s views and beliefs, and if he’s still with her means he either doesn’t care about her being a Zionist or he accepts her views or even both. But a lot of people keep on pushing that aside and babying him just because they want to fck him.
I’ve stayed quiet for weeks but I’m genuinely tired of watching this fandom destroy itself over fcking fanfiction.
The Michael Jackson fandom on Tumblr has become EXTREMELY toxic, nasty and embarrassing over the last few weeks and it’s ridiculous.
Before this, the fandom was calm. People wrote, people read, people supported each other and everyone just enjoyed being here. Now it’s become a complete mess. The atmosphere has completely died and so many people are losing motivation to write, create or even open this app because every single day it’s another childish argument, another fight, another competition, hate, racism,discrimination and another wave of drama that never should’ve existed in the first place.
The biggest issue is that so many of you have forgotten Michael Jackson was a REAL HUMAN BEING
He’s NOT a fictional character, NOT an anime character and NOT a video game character
Not a doll for you to project your fantasies, parasocial behaviour or personal preferences onto
A REAL PERSON
A man who had a real life, real emotions, real family and who is no longer here to speak for himself.
Yet so many of you in the tumblr community treat him as if he’s nothing more than a fictional character you can toss around however you like. The way the tumblr fandom OVER SEXUALISE him, dehumanise him and write him without any regard for the fact that he was an actual human being has crossed boundaries that never should’ve been crossed
Stop reducing him to just sex and porn. CALM YOUR SEX DRIVE DOWN, he is more than that
Yes he is the most beautiful, gorgeous, sexy black man to exist , it’s fine if you read or write smut about him but don’t overdo it.
There are certain themes and topics that should be SOLY ONLY USED ON FICTIONAL CHARACTERS NOT REAL LIFE HUMANS a lot of people have crossed boundaries and the red line here.
And before anyone twists my words, I’m not saying people can’t write fanfiction
I’m saying remember who you’re writing about
You are writing a fanfiction about a REAL LIFE HUMAN BEING NOT A FICTIONAL CHARACTER
If you want to write dark fiction, then understand there is a massive difference between writing dark fiction about a fictional character and writing it about a real human being
THOSE ARE NOT THE SAME THING
REMEMBER There are themes, scenarios and topics that ONLY belong with fictional characters.
Real people are different
Some of you have completely ignored that line and crossed it without a second thought
Writing about Real life people and fictional characters in fanfiction are COMPLETELY different and should stay different especially words certain themes and topics.
Then we have the constant fighting
Can some of you genuinely explain why you’re ripping each other’s heads off over fanfiction
It’s fanfiction
Why has everything become a competition? Why does every writer have to be compared? And why does every story suddenly need to be criticised
Why is everyone so obsessed with proving they’re the “better” writer or the “bigger” fan
The superior complex and arrogance coming from some writers and readers lately is unbelievable. Some of you have become so self centred and so parasocial that it’s uncomfortable to witness.
No, you do not know Michael better than everyone else
No, you are not above anyone because your stories get more likes or because you’ve been here longer
Humble yourselves
And the DISGUSTING racism needs to END, you racists need to get a LIFE and go outside. And while your being racist you should also note some of the furniture and resources you have bought and use in your life are created by the people you are being racist too sooo you should keep your mouths SHUT. (Shading a very known person who did blackface)
Now
The race discourse needs to end IMMEDIATELY
Watching grown people argue over which race is supposedly “better” for Michael is one of the most embarrassing things I’ve ever seen in this fandom.
You’re arguing over a real man as if he were a fictional love interest that belongs to you
None of us knew him personally
None of us get to decide who would’ve been “best” for him
Projecting your own preferences onto him and attacking other writers because they write a different OC or reader is incredibly unhealthy, incredibly parasocial and incredibly disrespectful behaviour.
Michael LOVED EVERY RACE OF WOMEN.
He just LOVED women not a certain type of race of women just women.
He did NOT have a favourite race, he did NOT nitpick a certain race of women, he did NOT CARE about race, he was attracted to and loved EVERY RACE OF WOMEN, she could be white, black, Indian, Chinese , Korean, African, Arab, Turkish, Greek, Latina, French and so on he DID NOT CARE about race he LOVED WOMEN she could be any nationality/race and he would still fall in love with her if she was the right person for him and felt connection with her.
Every single race of women in here are beautiful, gorgeous and powerful.
It’s already enough how many incel men out there still treat women like shit. Don’t add to that.
Every writer of every race matters
Every writer of every race deserves recognition
Every writer of every race deserves encouragement
There is no hierarchy
There is no race that deserves more support than another
There is no reason to tear someone down because their character doesn’t look the way you wanted them to
Support each other instead of constantly trying to outdo each other
We are ALL WRITERS we should not be against each other nor fighting with each other.
Tumblr is supposed to be somewhere people come to connect, write, read, share ideas and enjoy a community
Instead it’s become a place full of toxic posts, unnecessary discourse, superiority complexes and constant fighting
ENOUGH IS ENOUGH …….Seriously
LOCK IN AND GROW UP
Stop acting like children
Stop making everything a competition
Stop shaming people
Stop criticising every little thing someone writes
Stop encouraging drama
Stop making everything about yourselves
Stop the disgusting racism
Stop choosing which race of people are better writers
And for the love of God START RESPECTING MICHAEL
Respect him as the real human being he was
Respect the fact that he had dignity
Respect the fact that he was more than a fantasy or a fictional character for people to fight over
Because right now a lot of people in this fandom have forgotten that completely
Because you guys are disrespecting him , disrespecting others and disrespecting yourselves
After im done with the last request I got I’m stepping away from Tumblr for a while because this place has become mentally draining , embarrassing and disappointing
I hope by the time I come back people have remembered why this community existed in the first place
To write
To create
To support one another
To celebrate Michael’s legacy
Not to spread hate, discrimination, racism and tear each other apart over fanfiction, race, pointless competition and childish drama
Respect each other , and respect Michael let the man rest.
ENOUGH IS ENOUGH
Because out of all the fanfiction platforms tumblr has become the most TOXIC and unpleasant fanfiction platforms.
One more request to make! Then I’m taking a break and after I post the last request I will make another post about what was happening because the MJ tumblr fandom has become ridiculous and so toxic, it has gone TOO FAR and a lot of yall who are grown adults do not act like grown adults at all and are very parasocial.
Note . Sorry this took so long, anon! I’ve been dealing with some pretty bad writer’s block, and my motivation’s been all over the place lately. Thank you so much for being patient with me. I really hope you enjoy it! ༄˖°.☕.ೃ࿔:･
The afternoon light filtered softly through the curtains of the guest room, though it hadn't truly been a guest room in months. It was Michael's room now, in every way that mattered. His favorite blanket draped across the bed, a few of his books stacked on the nightstand, and that particular stillness that came when someone had claimed a space as their own sanctuary. Your apartment had become his refuge, a place where the weight of the world couldn't quite reach him, where he could simply exist without the constant pressure of being Michael Jackson. Here, he was just Michael, just a man who needed rest, who needed quiet, who needed you.
Michael stirred slowly beneath the covers, his body heavy with exhaustion and illness. Everything ached, his muscles, his bones, even his skin felt tender and oversensitive. But it was his throat that hurt the most, raw and burning, stripped of the voice that was so intrinsically part of who he was. He'd tried to speak that morning, just a whisper, and the pain had been immediate and sharp. Now, even swallowing felt like dragging sandpaper down his esophagus. The cold had settled deep into his chest, into his vocal cords, stealing away the one thing he relied on most. Without his voice, he felt strangely vulnerable, almost childlike in his need for comfort.
The soft padding of your footsteps in the hallway pulled him further from sleep. He knew those footsteps, would recognize them anywhere gentle, purposeful, always moving with that particular grace you had. The door opened with barely a whisper of sound, and then you were there, silhouetted in the doorway with a glass of water in one hand and a small dish of tablets in the other. When you saw his eyes open, watching you, the most beautiful smile spread across your face. It was soft and sweet, but he could see the concern there too, the worry that creased the corners of your eyes even as you tried to look cheerful for him.
"You're awake," you said gently, your voice like honey, soothing even in its simplicity. You crossed the room, setting the water and tablets on the nightstand before perching on the edge of the bed beside him. The mattress dipped slightly under your weight, and Michael felt himself naturally gravitating toward your warmth. "Come on, sweetheart, let's get you sitting up."
Your hands were cool and soft as they slipped behind his shoulders, helping him ease into a sitting position against the pillows. Michael tried to speak, to thank you, to tell you how grateful he was, but the moment he opened his mouth, you pressed a gentle finger to his lips, shushing him with such tenderness that his chest ached with something that had nothing to do with his illness.
"Don't speak, sweetheart. Your voice is already exhausted," you murmured, reaching for the tablets and pressing them into his palm before wrapping his fingers around the cool glass of water. "Just take these for me, okay?"
As he brought the glass to his lips, you lifted your hand to his forehead, your palm blessedly cool against his fevered skin. Michael's eyes fluttered closed at the contact, a soft sound of contentment escaping him despite the pain it caused his throat. Your fingers moved from his forehead to his hair, gently carding through the damp curls, and he leaned into your touch like a flower turning toward the sun. There was something so profoundly comforting about your hands, the way they moved with such care and affection, the way they seemed to know exactly what he needed before he could even ask.
He swallowed the tablets with careful sips of water, each one a small relief to his parched throat even as it hurt going down. You watched him the entire time, your eyes never leaving his face, monitoring him with that attentive concern that made him feel so utterly cared for. When he'd drained the last of the water, you took the glass from his hands and set it aside, then cupped his face between both your palms, studying him with such open affection that it made his heart squeeze.
"I just made a bath for you," you said softly, already moving toward the dresser where you kept some of his clothes, another sign of how thoroughly he'd woven himself into your life, into your space. You pulled out soft cotton pants and one of his favorite comfortable shirts, the fabric worn and gentle from countless washings. "Go wash up and relax for a bit while I make you dinner. The warm water will help with the aches, and the steam will be good for your throat."
Michael managed a raspy "thank you," the words barely more than a whisper, rough and broken. Even those two syllables hurt, scraping against his damaged vocal cords, but he needed you to know how much this meant to him, how much you meant to him. He pushed himself up from the bed, his movements slow and careful, his body protesting every motion. When you handed him the clothes, he took them with one hand and used the other to pull you close, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead. Your skin was soft and warm beneath his lips, and he breathed in the familiar scent of you, something floral and clean and uniquely you. Then he wrapped his arms around you fully, holding you tight against his chest, burying his face in the curve of your neck where your pulse beat steady and strong.
You giggled at the sudden embrace, the sound light and musical, and your arms came up to circle his waist, holding him just as tightly. A long moment, you stood there, wrapped up in each other, and Michael felt some of the tension in his body begin to ease. This was what he'd been missing during those long weeks away, this connection, this comfort, this sense of being truly HOME….
"Go on, honey, before the water gets too cold," you urged gently, though your hands were still rubbing soothing circles on his back, clearly reluctant to let him go.
Michael groaned softly in protest but forced himself to release you, his fingers trailing along your arms as he stepped back. He made his way to the bathroom on unsteady legs, closing the door behind him with a soft click. The bathroom was already filled with steam, the mirror fogged and the air thick with moisture. You'd added something to the water, he could smell eucalyptus and lavender, scents meant to soothe and heal. The thoughtfulness of it, the care you'd taken, made his eyes sting with emotion that had nothing to do with the steam.
He stripped off his sweat dampened clothes, leaving them in a pile on the floor, and stepped into the bath. The water was perfectly warm, hot enough to ease his aching muscles but not so hot as to be uncomfortable in his fevered state. Michael sank down into it with a deep sigh, letting the water rise up to his shoulders, letting the heat seep into his bones. He closed his eyes and simply existed for a moment, floating in the warmth and the quiet, in the knowledge that he was safe here, that he was cared for.
He had never been more grateful for someone in his entire life. In a world that constantly demanded everything from him…..his time, his energy, his talent, his very soul, you asked for nothing except to be allowed to care for him. You didn't want anything from him except him, the man beneath the fame, the person who got sick and tired and overwhelmed just like anyone else.
You were his home in a way that no physical place had ever been. You were his safe space, his sanctuary, the one person he could trust completely and love without reservation or fear.
The water gradually cooled around him, and Michael reluctantly pulled himself from the bath, his limbs feeling heavy and loose. He dried off slowly, pulled on the comfortable clothes you'd laid out for him, and ran a towel through his damp curls. When he looked at himself in the mirror, he looked exactly like what he was, a man recovering from illness, tired and worn, but more at peace than he'd been in weeks.
He padded out of the bathroom on bare feet, following the sound of gentle movement in the kitchen and the rich, savory smell of something cooking. You were at the stove, stirring a pot, completely absorbed in your task. Michael approached silently, drawn to you like a magnet, and slipped his arms around your waist from behind. He felt you startle slightly, then relax back against him as his warm breath ghosted across your neck.
You looked up and back at him, your face breaking into that smile again, and immediately abandoned the soup to turn in his arms. Your hands came up to frame his face, then slid into his damp hair, fingers combing through the curls with infinite gentleness. "Hey, baby," you cooed softly, your voice full of such warmth and affection that it wrapped around him like another blanket. "Feeling a little better?"
Michael nodded, not trusting his voice, and let himself lean into your touch. You seemed to understand without words, you always did, and held him for a moment, one hand continuing to play with his hair while the other rubbed slow circles on his back. Then you were guiding him toward the living room, toward the big, comfortable couch that had become your favorite spot for quiet evenings together.
"Come on, let's get you settled," you murmured, helping him sink down into the plush cushions. You grabbed the softest blanket from the back of the couch and tucked it around him with meticulous care, making sure he was completely covered, completely comfortable. "I'll be right back with dinner."
Michael watched you disappear back into the kitchen, and a moment later you returned with a large bowl of soup, steam rising from its surface in delicate wisps. The smell alone was comforting chicken broth, vegetables, herbs, everything mild and soothing and perfect for his ravaged throat.
You settled beside him on the couch, close enough that your thighs pressed together, and carefully handed him the bowl. "It's not too hot," you assured him. "I let it cool a bit. And it's very mild, nothing spicy or acidic that might hurt your throat. Just gentle, nourishing things."
Michael took the bowl with both hands, feeling the warmth seep into his palms, and brought a spoonful to his lips. The soup was perfect, rich and flavorful but not overwhelming, the temperature ideal, the texture smooth and easy to swallow. Each spoonful felt like medicine, like love in liquid form, coating his throat and settling warmly in his stomach. He ate slowly, savoring each bite, while you watched him with those attentive eyes, ready to help if he needed anything, ready to take the bowl if he got tired, ready to simply be there in whatever way he required.
"Is it okay?" you asked softly, your hand coming to rest on his knee, thumb rubbing gentle circles through the blanket. "Not too hot? Not hurting your throat?"
He nodded, managing a small smile for you, and continued eating. The simple act of being fed, of being nourished by someone who cared so deeply, was almost overwhelming in its intimacy. You didn't hover or fuss, but your presence was constant and comforting, a steady anchor in the fog of his illness. When he was about halfway through the bowl, you reached over and brushed a curl back from his forehead, your touch feather light and tender.
"You don't have to finish it all if you're full," you said gently. "Just eat what you can. The important thing is getting something warm and nutritious in you."
But Michael did finish it, every last drop, because it was delicious and because you'd made it for him, his body desperately needed the nourishment. When he set the empty bowl aside, you immediately took it from him, pressing a kiss to his temple before rising to take it to the kitchen. You returned moments later with a steaming mug, the scent of honey and lemon and chamomile wafting from it.
"Tea with honey for your throat," you explained, handing him the mug carefully. "It's not too hot, I promise. The honey will coat your throat and help with the pain, and the warmth will feel good."
Michael accepted the mug gratefully, wrapping both hands around it and bringing it to his lips. The first sip was heaven, sweet and soothing, the honey thick and coating, the warmth spreading through his chest. He took another sip, then another, feeling the tension in his shoulders begin to ease, feeling the constant ache in his throat diminish just slightly. He settled back against the couch cushions, the mug cradled in his hands, and simply breathed for a moment, letting the steam rise up to his face, letting the comfort of the moment wash over him.
But then something shifted in his chest, a sudden overwhelming need to be closer to you, to feel you against him, to hold you the way he'd been wanting to for weeks. He set the mug down on the coffee table with careful precision and turned to look at you. You were watching him with a slightly confused expression, clearly wondering what he was doing, why he'd stopped drinking the tea.
Before you could ask, Michael reached for you, one hand sliding around your waist, and gently but insistently pulled you toward him. "Michael?" you questioned, your voice uncertain, but you came willingly, letting him guide you.
He maneuvered you both until he was lying on his side on the couch, and you were pressed against him, your back to the couch cushions. Then he wrapped his arms around you fully and buried his face against your chest, right over your heart where he could hear it beating steady and strong. He pressed a soft, reverent kiss to the swell of your breast, running a hand down your silk nightgown, a gesture of pure affection and gratitude.
"Michael, your tea, you have to—" you started, concerned, and was about making sure he finished the healing drink.
But Michael cut you off, his voice barely more than a raspy whisper, rough and broken and painful to produce. "Later," he managed, then had to pause as a cough wracked his body. When it subsided, he continued, each word an effort but necessary, vital. "Just stay like this for a while." He took a slow, careful breath, his arms tightening around you. "I haven't seen you for weeks, sweet thing."
Another cough tore through him, and immediately your hand came up to his head, fingers sliding into his hair, your voice soft and soothing as you shushed him gently. "Ssshhhhh, don't talk, baby….rest now….I'll be here with you. I'm not going anywhere."
Michael opened his eyes just enough to gaze up at you, to see the love and concern written so clearly across your features, and then let them fall closed again. He burrowed closer, pressing his face more firmly against your chest, breathing in your scent, feeling the rise and fall of your breathing, the steady rhythm of your heartbeat beneath his ear. His body, which had been tense and aching for so long, finally began to truly relax. The knots in his muscles loosened, the constant vigilance he carried with him everywhere started to fade, and he simply melted into your embrace.
Your hand never stopped moving through his hair, fingers combing through the damp curls with infinite patience and tenderness. Your other hand rubbed slow, soothing circles on his back, the pressure perfect, the rhythm hypnotic. You didn't speak and didn't try to fill the silence with unnecessary words. You just held him close, making sure to let him relax after all the pressure and vulnerability he felt these past view weeks of him pushing his health to its limits.
The weeks apart had been harder than he'd wanted to admit, even to himself. The constant travel, the performances, the interviews, the endless demands on his time and energy, it had all worn him down until he was running on empty, until his body had finally said enough, and forced him to stop. And the moment he'd been able to, the moment he'd had even a sliver of freedom, he'd come here. To you….to this apartment that felt more like home than any mansion ever had. To this woman who saw him, truly saw him, and loved him anyway.
"I missed you so much," you whispered above him, your voice thick with emotion. "Every day you were gone, I worried about you. I knew you were pushing yourself too hard, knew you weren't taking care of yourself the way you should. And I was right, wasn't I? You ran yourself into the ground."
Michael made a small sound of acknowledgment, something between agreement and apology. You weren't wrong. He had pushed too hard, had ignored the warning signs his body had been giving him, had kept going long past the point when he should have stopped. But he was here now, and you were taking care of him, and slowly, gradually, he was beginning to heal.
"You don't have to be strong all the time, you know," you continued softly, your fingers never ceasing their gentle movement through his hair. "Not here, because here, you can just be tired. You can be vulnerable and let someone else take care of you for once."
The words settled over him like a benediction, his throat was too raw, his voice too damaged to respond, but he hoped you could feel his gratitude in the way he held you, with the way he pressed closer, his breathing gradually deepened and slowed as sleep began to pull at him.
The afternoon light had shifted, growing softer and more golden as it filtered through the curtains. The apartment was quiet except for the gentle sounds of your breathing, the occasional creak of the building settling, the distant hum of traffic from the street below. It was peaceful….very peaceful and Michael loved every second of it.
"Sleep, baby," you murmured, your lips brushing against the top of his head. "I've got you forgot about everything else, you’re safe here with me."
And Michael did. With your arms around him, your heartbeat steady beneath his ear, your fingers gentle in his hair, he finally let himself surrender to the exhaustion that had been dogging him for weeks. His breathing evened out, his body went completely lax against you, and he drifted into the first truly restful sleep he'd had in far too long.
You continued to hold him as he slept, continued to run your fingers through his hair, continued to be exactly what he needed, his anchor, his home, his safe harbor in the storm. The tea on the coffee table grew cold, forgotten for now. There would be time for that later, time for more medicine and more soup and all the practical things that would help him heal. But right now, this was what he needed most. Not medicine or food or even his voice back.
I genuinely can’t thank you all enough for the support, likes, comments, and every single person who takes the time to interact with my posts. It means so much more than you know 🫶
I started this account just wanting to share my little corner of creativity and comfort, and seeing people enjoy it makes me so happy. Thank you for being here, for following along, and for supporting my work 🤎✨
Here’s to more posts, more memories, and hopefully growing together 🌙
Sooooo any Asians here??? Wanna know cause I feel like the odd one out for some reason (I’m Korean) . Any Asian MJ fans out there??? 😭😭😭😭😭 (im curious to see how big the MJ fandom community is comment your ethnicity im really curious!!!!) ❤️❤️❤️❤️ (also i have two more fic requests that i will finish don’t worry im also done with them!!!! Sorry for the long wait- and after that I’ll be taking a break from writing on tumblr because of how toxic it has gotten, I can’t open up tumblr without seeing for arguments and fights it used to be so fun now I just don’t know what’s happened it just so nasty & toxic now. I’m actually gonna create a tiktok account for my fics from there I’ll be posting my fics on tiktok it’s more chill and calm. I’ll share my account soon when it’s finished and ready, untill things die down and calm down on tumblr. Cause I’ve just lost my motivation to write anything when the atmosphere here is just so nasty and thick. See you all soon (and for the people who made requests don’t worry I’m almost done with them and I’ll post them straight away!!) ❤️❤️❤️
˚₊༉‧❀-Shenanigans with your best friend on SPEED DEMON-❀₊˚༉.
The backstage area of the Speed Demon set was surprisingly quiet compared to the controlled chaos happening just beyond the corridor. You'd grown used to this, the calm pockets of space that existed in Michael's whirlwind world. As his best friend, you'd been invited to more sets, more studios, more private moments than most people could dream of. Today was no different.
You hummed softly to yourself as you sorted through Michael's things, folding a jacket he'd tossed aside earlier, organizing the scattered cassette tapes he'd been listening to between takes. Your fingers traced over the plastic cases fondly. This was your role, unofficial but natural, keeping him grounded, keeping his space organized when everything else spun out of control.
The two of you had always been like this. Hip to hip, as his mother liked to say with that knowing smile. Inseparable. Comfortable in a way that made other people wonder but never quite ask. You'd never labeled it, never needed to. Michael was Michael, and you were you, and somehow that was enough.
Or at least, that's what you told yourself.
The sudden sound of rapid footsteps echoing down the corridor made you look up from the bag you'd been rummaging through. Before you could even process what was happening, you saw him Michael, running full speed toward you, his eyes wide with that mixture of panic and mischief you'd come to recognize.
"Michael, what—"
You didn't get to finish the question.
In one fluid motion, he slowed just enough to reach you, his hand finding your waist with practiced ease as he pulled you aside. Your back hit the wall with a soft thud, and suddenly he was there, pressed against you, his other hand braced against the wall beside your head. A small yelp escaped your lips at the suddenness of it all, your heart immediately kicking into overdrive.
His face buried into the curve of your neck, and you felt the rapid rise and fall of his chest against yours as he tried to catch his breath. The warmth of him, the familiar scent of his cologne mixed with the slight sheen of sweat from running, it all overwhelmed your senses at once.
Then you heard them.
The thundering footsteps grew louder, accompanied by shouts and the rapid clicking of cameras. You turned your head slightly, just enough to see the group of people rushing past fans with wild expressions, photographers with cameras raised, all of them screaming his name in a cacophony that echoed off the walls.
"MICHAEL!"
"MICHAEL, PLEASE!"
"JUST ONE PICTURE!"
His hand tightened slightly on your waist, pulling you closer, making himself smaller against you as if you could hide him completely. You held your breath, hyperaware of every point where your bodies touched, of the way his nose pressed against your neck, of the tickle of his curls against your jaw.
The crowd rushed past without seeing you, their voices fading as they continued their frantic search down another corridor. The sudden silence that followed was almost deafening.
That's when you felt it, his breath, warm and steady now, ghosting across the sensitive skin of your neck. His nose brushed against you as he finally relaxed, and you couldn't help it. A giggle bubbled up from your chest, soft and breathy.
"That tickles," you whispered, your own breathlessness surprising you.
You felt him laugh against your neck, the vibration of it sending a shiver down your spine. Slowly, he pulled back just enough to look at you, and God, he was close. Close enough that you could see the gold flecks in his dark eyes, the slight flush on his cheeks, the way his lips curved into that boyish smile that made your stomach flip.
"You okay?" you asked softly, your voice barely above a whisper.
"Yeah," he breathed out, laughing again, this time with relief. His eyes crinkled at the corners, genuine amusement dancing in them. "Yeah, I'm good."
He glanced around quickly, checking to make sure the coast was clear, then looked back at you. Something shifted in his expression, something softer, more intense. Your heart, which had just started to calm down, picked up speed again.
Michael leaned down, and for one breathless moment, you thought—
His lips pressed against your cheek, warm and gentle, lingering just a second longer than friendly. When he pulled back, his eyes dropped to your lips, just for a moment, just long enough for you to notice. Just long enough for the air between you to feel charged with something unspoken.
"I'll be back, sweet thing," he murmured, his voice low and intimate, meant only for you. His thumb brushed once against your waist before he let go. "Just wait for me."
And then he was gone, pulling away and running off down the corridor with that same energetic grace, leaving you pressed against the wall with your heart pounding and your cheek still tingling from his kiss.
You touched your fingers to the spot where his lips had been, a smile spreading across your face that you couldn't have stopped if you tried.
౨ৎ ⋆｡˚ ♡ ˚｡⋆ ౨ৎ The Statue Hideout, Cookies & Orange Juice ౨ৎ ⋆｡˚ ♡ ˚｡⋆ ౨ৎ
The costume room was calling your name, and you had a job to do.
You adjusted the pile of fabrics in your arms,silks and satins in jewel tones that would look stunning under the stage lights, and hummed softly to yourself as you made your way down the corridor. The set had been buzzing with energy all day, but you'd learned to find your own rhythm in the chaos. Keep your head down, do your work, and occasionally rescue Michael from whatever trouble he'd gotten himself into.
The humming helped. Some melody that had been stuck in your head since this morning, something sweet and simple that made the walk feel less like work and more like—
The sound hit you like a wave.
Screaming. Loud, frantic, getting closer. You stopped mid-step, turning toward the noise just in time to see them,a stampede of people rounding the corner at full speed. Fans with tears streaming down their faces, reporters with cameras and microphones held high, security guards trying and failing to maintain order.
"MICHAEL!"
"WHERE IS HE?"
"MICHAEL JACKSON, PLEASE!"
They rushed past you in a blur of desperation and chaos, none of them even glancing your way. You pressed yourself against the wall, protecting the fabrics, watching with a mixture of shock and light amusement as the mob disappeared down another corridor.
Poor Michael
You shook your head, a small smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. The man couldn't catch a break. Wherever he was hiding right now, you hoped he'd found a good spot. Maybe behind some equipment, or in one of the dressing rooms, or—
You turned right, heading toward the area where the large library statue stood as a prop, still shaking your head at what you'd just witnessed.
You didn't even see him
One second you were walking, the next you were letting out a startled scream as someone popped out from behind the statue, hands immediately finding your waist and pulling you close. The fabrics tumbled from your arms, forgotten, as your heart leapt into your throat.
"Shh, shh, shh!" Michael's voice was urgent but gentle, one hand coming up to cover your mouth softly while the other held you tight against him. "It's me, it's just me!"
Your scream died into a muffled yelp against his palm. He quickly removed his hand, and you gasped, your own hands coming up to smack his shoulder.
"Michael! You scared me half to—"
But you stopped
Because he wasn't laughing. He wasn't wearing that mischievous grin he usually had when he startled you. Instead, he was holding you tighter, pulling you fully into his arms, his face burying into your hair as he let out a long, shaky breath.
"Thank God it's just you, sweet thing," he breathed out, his voice muffled against your hair. "Thank God."
Your irritation melted instantly. You felt him snuggle closer, his nose pressing into your hair, breathing you in like you were the only calm thing in his storm. Your hand, which had been raised to smack him again, softened, coming to rest on his shoulder instead.
"Mikey..." you said softly, but he just held you tighter.
He was trembling slightly. Not much, but enough that you could feel it. The adrenaline, the constant running, the never-ending chase,it was wearing on him. You could feel it in the way he clung to you, in the way his breathing was just a little too fast.
Your annoyance disappeared completely, replaced by something tender and protective. You sighed, your arms coming around him properly now, one hand rubbing slow circles on his back while the other moved up to thread through his long, soft curls.
"You really don't catch a break, do ya, Mikey?" you murmured, your voice gentle.
He made a small sound against your hair, something between a laugh and a sigh, and snuggled even closer. His arms tightened around your waist, and you felt him relax incrementally, the tension slowly leaving his shoulders under your touch.
You stood there for a moment, just holding him, your fingers working through his curls in the way you knew he loved. The set was still chaotic somewhere in the distance, but here, behind this statue, it was just the two of you. Just like always.
"Come on," you said softly, still running your fingers through his hair. "Come with me to the costume room. You can hide out there for a bit, rest, lay low until those people give up."
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his dark eyes searching your face.
You smiled at him, warm and reassuring. "I'll pour you some nice cold orange juice. And I've got those cookies, you know, the ones I baked for you? Your favorites are in my bag."
The transformation was immediate.
His whole face lit up, that boyish, charming smile breaking across his features like sunrise. The exhaustion was still there, but now it was mixed with genuine joy, with that sweet enthusiasm that made him Michael.
"The chocolate chip ones?" he asked, his voice hopeful, almost childlike. "With the—"
"With the extra chocolate chunks, yes," you finished, laughing softly. "I know how you like them."
"You're an angel," he said, his smile growing wider. "A literal angel. What did I do to deserve you?"
"You didn't do anything," you teased, tapping his nose gently. "I just have terrible taste in best friends."
He laughed, that real, genuine laugh that you didn't hear often enough, and you felt your heart do that stupid fluttering thing it always did when he looked at you like that. Like you were the best thing in his world. Like you were home.
"Come on," you said again, starting to bend down to gather the fallen fabrics. "Let's get you hidden before—"
The sound of engines cut through the air.
Both of you froze, heads turning in unison toward the noise. It was getting closer—a mechanical rumbling that didn't belong on a film set. You straightened up, confused, just as two figures on small motorcycles came around the corner.
Two guys, both heavyset, both wearing matching grins that spelled trouble.
They skidded to a stop, their bikes kicking up dust. The one in front…Biff, you'd later learn pointed directly at Michael.
"Look, Biff, there he is!" the second one shouted, his voice carrying that particular brand of aggressive excitement. Michael's hand found yours instantly, his fingers lacing through yours as he stepped slightly in front of you, protective. Always protective.
"Hey, hey, Michael Jackson!" Biff called out, revving his bike. "We've been looking all over for you, man!"
"Yeah," the other one added, circling slightly. "You're a hard guy to track down!"
Michael's jaw tightened, but he kept his voice level. "Look, guys, I'm just trying to take a break. Maybe we can do this another time—"
"Aw, come on!" Biff protested. "We just want an autograph! And maybe a picture! Is that so much to ask?"
But then their attention shifted.
The second guy's eyes landed on you, and his expression changed from aggressive fan to something else entirely. Something that made your stomach twist uncomfortably.
"Oh, hello, pretty lady!" he called out, his grin widening. "Now who might you be?"
You felt Michael's hand tighten around yours.
"Yeah," Biff added, his eyes raking over you in a way that made your skin crawl. "Michael's been holding out on us! Didn't know he had such a beautiful friend hiding back here."
You laughed awkwardly, the sound forced and uncomfortable. "Oh, I'm just—I work on the set, I'm nobody—"
"Nobody?" the second guy scoffed, leaning forward on his bike. "You're definitely somebody. What's a gorgeous girl like you doing hanging around with this guy?"
"Could be hanging around with us instead," Biff added with a wink that made you want to shower.
You laughed again, that same awkward, uncomfortable sound, trying to defuse the situation. "That's really flattering, but—"
You felt it before you saw it.
Michael moved closer, his chest pressing against your back, solid and warm. His hand,the one that wasn't holding yours,came around your waist, his grip tight, possessive, his fingers splaying across your stomach. You could feel the tension radiating off him, could sense the shift in his energy from playful to something darker.
You glanced back at him, concerned. His face was different now, jaw clenched, eyes cold, that easy smile completely gone. He was staring at the two guys with an expression you'd rarely seen on him. Protective, yes, but also... jealous?
"Mikey?" you asked softly, your free hand coming up to touch his arm. "Are you okay?"
He didn't answer right away. Just kept staring at them, his hand tightening on your waist, pulling you even closer against him. When he finally looked down at you, his eyes softened slightly, but that edge was still there.
He nodded once, short and terse, then pulled you impossibly closer, his chin nearly resting on your shoulder. The two guys exchanged glances, then burst out laughing.
"Ohhh, I see how it is!" Biff said, slapping his knee. "Michael's got himself a girl!"
"And he doesn't want to share!" the other added, revving his engine. "Well, that's too bad, because—"
"Let's get him!" they shouted in unison.
Everything happened at once.
Michael's hand left your waist and grabbed your hand instead, his fingers lacing through yours with desperate urgency.
"Come on, baby, we gotta go!" he said, his voice sharp with adrenaline.
And then he was running, pulling you along with him, your feet stumbling to keep up as the sound of motorcycle engines roared behind you. The fabrics lay forgotten on the ground, the costume room a distant memory, as Michael pulled you through corridors and around corners, his hand never letting go of yours.
Your heart pounded, from the running, from the chase, from the way he'd called you baby like it was the most natural thing in the world. Behind you, the guys whooped and hollered, their bikes echoing through the set.
But all you could focus on was Michael's hand in yours, and the way he'd held you like you were his.
⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ The Costume Fitting, Stop Moving! And Don’t Distract Me! ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖
---
The wardrobe trailer was blessedly quiet after the chaos of the morning.
You'd finally managed to corral Michael inside after the great motorcycle chase had ended with security intervening and the two troublemakers being escorted off set. Now, with the door closed and the air conditioning humming softly, you could actually do your job, which was getting Michael's costume properly adjusted before his next scene.
"Stand still," you instructed, kneeling in front of him to adjust the belt buckle that sat slightly crooked on his hips.
"I am standing still," Michael protested, but you could hear the smile in his voice.
"No, you're not. You're—" You tugged the belt to the right position. "You're fidgeting."
"I don't fidget."
"You absolutely fidget." You stood up, brushing your hands on your sundress, a light, flowing thing in soft yellow that you'd thrown on this morning without much thought. It was comfortable, practical for a long day on set, and kept you cool under the California sun.
Michael's hands found your waist immediately, settling there like they belonged.
"Michael," you warned, trying to sound stern even as your cheeks warmed.
"What?" His voice was pure innocence, but his eyes were dancing with mischief. "I'm just standing still like you asked. You didn't say anything about my hands."
You huffed, reaching up to adjust his collar, which was folded incorrectly on one side. "Your hands are supposed to be at your sides."
"That's boring."
You rolled your eyes and huffed "That's professional Mikey."
"You look really beautiful, girl," he said softly, his thumbs rubbing small circles against your waist through the thin fabric of your dress. Your fingers fumbled with the collar.
“Stop trying to distract me”
"I'm not trying to distract you. I'm stating a fact." His voice dropped lower, more intimate. "That dress... it's perfect on you. The color, the way it moves when you walk, how it fits your figure..."
"Michael." Your face was burning now, and you refused to meet his eyes, focusing intently on fixing his collar even though it was already perfect. "I need to focus."
"I'm helping you focus," he said, and you could hear the grin in his voice. "Focusing on how beautiful you look."
"You're impossible." You said shaking your head
"Impossibly charming?" , he teased, letting out a small giggle.
"Impossibly annoying." But you couldn't help the small smile tugging at your lips.
You moved to adjust the leather straps across his chest, your fingers working to tighten one that had come loose. The costume was intricate, all buckles and belts and zippers that needed to sit just right for the camera. Your hands moved with practiced efficiency, but you were hyperaware of the warmth of him beneath your touch, of the solid muscle of his chest under the leather.
Your palm pressed flat against his chest for just a moment as you adjusted a strap, and you felt his heart beating steady and strong beneath your hand.
Michael went very still.
You didn't notice at first, too focused on your work, your fingers trailing down to fix another buckle near his ribs. Your hand splayed across his chest again, feeling the definition of muscle, the rise and fall of his breathing. It was purely professional, you told yourself. You were just doing your job.
But then you felt his hand come up to cup your cheek, and you looked up, startled. He was staring at you with an expression you couldn't quite read, something soft and wondering and a little bit smug.
"What?" you asked, suddenly self-conscious.
"Nothing," he said, but his smile was knowing. "Just... keep working."
You narrowed your eyes at him suspiciously, but returned your attention to the costume. The sleeve on his right arm needed adjusting, it was bunched up slightly at the shoulder. You reached up to smooth it down, your fingers brushing against his neck as you worked the fabric into place.
You felt him shiver.
"Ticklish?" you asked absently, still focused on the sleeve.
"Something like that," he murmured.
You moved to his other side, adjusting that sleeve as well, your fingers grazing the warm skin of his neck again. This time you noticed the way his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed, the strong column of his throat so close to your face. Your eyes traced the line of it without thinking, following up to the sharp angle of his jaw, the soft curve of his lips—
You blinked, realising you'd stopped working and were just... staring.
"Sorry," you mumbled, quickly returning your attention to the sleeve. "Almost done."
"Take your time," Michael said, his voice slightly rougher than before.
You smoothed down the fabric one final time, then stepped back to assess your work. But his hands on your waist pulled you right back in.
"Michael, I need to see if everything's straight—"
"It's straight," he said, tugging you closer. "You did perfect. You always do."
"I haven't checked the—"
He pressed a kiss to your forehead, soft and lingering.
"Michael!" You swatted at his chest, but he just laughed, that bright, delighted sound that made your stomach flip.
"What? I'm thanking you for your hard work."
"That's not—you can't just—" You were blushing furiously now, trying to step back, but his hands held you in place.
"Can't just what?" He was grinning now, clearly enjoying your flustered state. "Can't show appreciation for my best friend who takes such good care of me?"
"You're being ridiculous."
"I'm being grateful." He pressed another kiss to your cheek, quick and playful. "Very, very grateful."
"Stop it," you said, but you were fighting a smile now.
"Stop what?" Another kiss, this time on your other cheek. "Stop telling you how beautiful you look? Stop appreciating how you always make sure everything's perfect for me? Stop—"
"Yes, stop all of that!" You were laughing now despite yourself, your hands coming up to push weakly at his chest. "I have work to do!"
"You just said you were almost done."
"I lied. I need to check the—the buckles, and the—" You reached up to fuss with his collar again, even though it didn't need it, just to have something to do with your hands.
Michael caught one of your hands in his, bringing it to his lips and pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles.
Your breath caught.
"There," he said softly, his eyes twinkling with mischief and something warmer. "Now I've thanked you properly."
"You're terrible," you whispered, but your voice had lost all its scolding edge.
"You love it."
You huffed, pulling your hand away and returning to adjusting his collar, which really, truly didn't need adjusting, but you needed to do something other than stand there blushing like a teenager. Your fingers worked the fabric gently, smoothing it down, then trailing up to fix a curl that had fallen across his forehead.
Your touch was feather-light, tender, your fingers running through his hair and then, without thinking, tracing down the bridge of his nose with gentle care. It was such a soft gesture, so unconscious, so full of affection that you didn't even realize you were doing it.
But Michael noticed.
His breath hitched slightly, and when you glanced at his face, you saw something shift in his expression. The playful smirk was still there, but underneath it was something else, something vulnerable and shy. A faint flush colored his cheeks, and he looked almost... flustered.
The realization made your own cheeks warm, and you quickly dropped your hand, returning your attention to his costume. "Okay, I think you're all set. Let me just—"
But as you reached to adjust one final belt, you realized he'd gone quiet.
Too quiet.
Michael was never this quiet, especially not when he was in a playful mood. You looked up, concerned, and found him staring at you with an expression that made your heart skip.
He looked... peaceful. Calm. But there was something in his eyes, something deep and thoughtful and so full of adoration that it made your breath catch. He was looking at you like you were the only person in the world, like he was trying to memorize every detail of your face.
"Michael?" you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper.
He didn't respond. Just kept staring, his eyes moving slowly across your face, your eyes, your nose, your cheeks, before dropping to your lips. They lingered there for a long moment, and you felt your pulse quicken, felt the air between you grow thick with something unspoken. His gaze moved back up to your eyes, then down to your lips again, and you saw him swallow hard.
The moment stretched between you, fragile and electric, full of all the things neither of you had ever said out loud.
"Michael, we need you on set in five!"
The director's voice cut through the moment like a knife, and both of you jumped slightly. Michael's head turned toward the door, toward the voice calling him back to work, back to the chaos of the set.
But then he looked back at you.
His expression softened into something tender and sweet, and he lifted one hand to your face, his thumb brushing gently across your cheek. The touch was so soft, so reverent, that you felt your eyes flutter closed for just a second.
When you opened them, he was smiling, not his playful grin, but something quieter, more genuine.
He didn't say anything….Didn't need to.
He just held your gaze for one more heartbeat, his thumb tracing one final path across your cheekbone, and then he stepped back.
"See you after the shoot, sweet thing," he murmured, his voice low and warm.
And then he was gone, walking toward the door with that easy grace, leaving you standing in the middle of the wardrobe trailer with your heart racing and your cheek still tingling from his touch.
You pressed your fingers to the spot where his thumb had been, a smile spreading across your face that you couldn't have stopped if you tried.
❦༉‧₊˚Rest now applehead, take some time off …I’ll be here with you ❦༉‧₊˚
The corner of the set had become your sanctuary.
Tucked away behind a wall of equipment cases and lighting rigs, there was a small couch. Worn leather, probably older than you, but comfortable in that broken-in way that made it perfect for long days. You'd claimed it hours ago, settling into the corner with your book and a bottle of water, content to let the chaos of the shoot happen around you while you disappeared into another world.
The book was good. Really good. One of those novels that pulled you in so completely that the rest of the world faded away, the shouting directors, the camera operators calling out positions, the constant hum of activity that defined a film set. All of it became white noise as you turned page after page, your eyes moving across the words with hungry focus.
You were so absorbed that you didn't hear the approaching footsteps…..Didn't hear the soft jingle of belt buckles and the whisper of leather moving with each step. Didn't notice anything at all until the couch shifted beneath you, the cushions dipping with sudden weight.
You looked up from your book, startled, and your breath caught.
Michael had collapsed onto the couch beside you, or rather, onto you. His head found your lap with the kind of precision that spoke of muscle memory, of having done this a hundred times before. He let out a long, deep sigh of relief as he settled, his whole body seeming to melt into the position.
He looked exhausted.
The bone-deep tired that came from hours under hot lights, performing the same moves over and over, giving everything to the camera until there was nothing left. His eyes were closed, his face peaceful but drawn, and you could see the faint sheen of sweat still clinging to his temples despite someone having clearly tried to wipe him down between takes.
One of his hands rested on his stomach, rising and falling with his breathing. The other lay at his side, fingers curled loosely. He'd positioned himself on his back, his head heavy and warm in your lap, and he didn't say a word.
Just breathed.
You stared down at him, your book forgotten in your hands, taking in every detail. The way his long lashes cast shadows on his cheeks. The slight part of his lips. The vulnerable curve of his throat. He looked younger like this, softer, all the performance and persona stripped away to reveal just... Michael.
Your Michael.
His eyes fluttered open slowly, just barely, and found yours. A small, tired smile curved his lips.
"Hi, angel," he murmured, his voice rough and sleepy.
And then his eyes closed again, his breathing evening out into something steady and deep. You felt your heart squeeze in your chest.
Without thinking, your hand moved to his hair, fingers threading through the soft curls with gentle care. The moment your fingertips touched his scalp, Michael let out a soft groan, a sound of pure relief and contentment that made warmth bloom in your chest.
He leaned into your touch, his head pressing more firmly into your lap, chasing the feeling of your fingers in his hair.
You smiled softly, continuing the gentle motion, your fingers combing through his curls in slow, soothing strokes. After a moment, you lifted your book again with your free hand, finding your place on the page and settling back into the story.
Silence wrapped around you both like a blanket.
The set continued its organized chaos around you, but here in your little corner, there was only peace. Only the warmth of Michael's head in your lap, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the soft texture of his hair beneath your fingers, and the words on the page in front of you.
You read for several minutes, so absorbed that you didn't realize your hand had stilled in his hair until his voice broke the quiet.
"Don't stop doing that, pretty," he mumbled, his words slightly slurred with exhaustion. "Keep going….It's nice."
Your lips curved into a smile, and you immediately resumed the gentle stroking, your fingers moving through his curls with renewed attention. "Sorry," you whispered.
"S'okay," he breathed out, already relaxing again under your touch.
You set your book down on the arm of the couch, giving him your full attention now. Your fingers moved from his hair to his face, tracing the lines of his features with feather-light touches. Your thumb brushed across his cheekbone, feeling the warmth of his skin. You traced the curve of his closed eyelids, so gentle you barely made contact. Down the bridge of his nose, following the elegant line of it. Back up to his temple, then into his hair again.
He made another soft sound, something between a sigh and a hum, his whole body going even more relaxed under your ministrations.
"Can you read to me?" His voice was barely above a whisper, thick with sleep.
You looked down at him, taking in the peaceful expression on his face, his eyes still closed, his breathing slow and even. A soft giggle escaped you, affectionate and tender.
"Of course," you murmured.
You reached for your book again, settling it in one hand while the other returned to his hair. Finding your place, you began to read aloud, your voice soft and melodic in the quiet space.
The words flowed from your lips, painting pictures in the air between you. You read about distant lands and brave heroes, about love and loss and triumph, your voice rising and falling with the emotion of the story. All the while, your fingers never stopped their gentle movement through Michael's hair, stroking and soothing, a constant reassurance of your presence.
Time passed in that suspended way it does in perfect moments, both endless and far too brief. You read page after page, your voice growing softer as you sensed Michael sinking deeper into rest. His breathing had changed, becoming slower, heavier, the rise and fall of his chest taking on the unmistakable rhythm of sleep.
You paused mid-sentence, glancing down to confirm what you already knew.
He was asleep.
Truly, deeply asleep. His face had gone completely slack, all tension melted away. His chest rose and fell in steady, peaceful breaths. His hand on his stomach had relaxed completely, fingers uncurled. He looked so young like this, so vulnerable, so utterly at peace.
Something in your chest tightened and expanded all at once, a feeling so big and warm and overwhelming that you couldn't name it, could only feel it washing through you in waves.
You loved him.
God, you loved him so much it hurt.
Carefully, so as not to wake him, you leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. Your lips lingered there for a moment, feeling the warmth of his skin, breathing in the familiar scent of him, cologne and sweat and something uniquely Michael.
When you pulled back, he didn't stir. Just kept breathing, kept sleeping, kept trusting you to hold him while he rested.
You picked up your book again, settling back into the corner of the couch, your hand returning to his hair in gentle, absent strokes. You found your place on the page and continued reading silently now, content to let him sleep, to be his safe place, his quiet harbor in the storm of his life.
Several minutes later, Michael shifted in his sleep. You stilled, worried you'd disturbed him, but he was just adjusting his position. He turned onto his side, facing you now, his cheek pressing against your thigh. One arm came up to wrap loosely around your leg, holding onto you even in sleep.
He let out a soft, contented sigh and went still again, his breathing evening back out into that deep, peaceful rhythm.
You looked down at him, at this man who trusted you enough to be this vulnerable, this unguarded, and felt that overwhelming warmth flood through you again.
Your fingers traced through his hair one more time, gentle and loving, before you returned to your book.
⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ The Costume Fitting, Stop Moving! And Don’t Distract Me! ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖
---
The wardrobe trailer was blessedly quiet after the chaos of the morning.
You'd finally managed to corral Michael inside after the great motorcycle chase had ended with security intervening and the two troublemakers being escorted off set. Now, with the door closed and the air conditioning humming softly, you could actually do your job, which was getting Michael's costume properly adjusted before his next scene.
"Stand still," you instructed, kneeling in front of him to adjust the belt buckle that sat slightly crooked on his hips.
"I am standing still," Michael protested, but you could hear the smile in his voice.
"No, you're not. You're—" You tugged the belt to the right position. "You're fidgeting."
"I don't fidget."
"You absolutely fidget." You stood up, brushing your hands on your sundress, a light, flowing thing in soft yellow that you'd thrown on this morning without much thought. It was comfortable, practical for a long day on set, and kept you cool under the California sun.
Michael's hands found your waist immediately, settling there like they belonged.
"Michael," you warned, trying to sound stern even as your cheeks warmed.
"What?" His voice was pure innocence, but his eyes were dancing with mischief. "I'm just standing still like you asked. You didn't say anything about my hands."
You huffed, reaching up to adjust his collar, which was folded incorrectly on one side. "Your hands are supposed to be at your sides."
"That's boring."
You rolled your eyes and huffed "That's professional Mikey."
"You look really beautiful, girl," he said softly, his thumbs rubbing small circles against your waist through the thin fabric of your dress. Your fingers fumbled with the collar.
“Stop trying to distract me”
"I'm not trying to distract you. I'm stating a fact." His voice dropped lower, more intimate. "That dress... it's perfect on you. The color, the way it moves when you walk, how it fits your figure..."
"Michael." Your face was burning now, and you refused to meet his eyes, focusing intently on fixing his collar even though it was already perfect. "I need to focus."
"I'm helping you focus," he said, and you could hear the grin in his voice. "Focusing on how beautiful you look."
"You're impossible." You said shaking your head
"Impossibly charming?" , he teased, letting out a small giggle.
"Impossibly annoying." But you couldn't help the small smile tugging at your lips.
You moved to adjust the leather straps across his chest, your fingers working to tighten one that had come loose. The costume was intricate, all buckles and belts and zippers that needed to sit just right for the camera. Your hands moved with practiced efficiency, but you were hyperaware of the warmth of him beneath your touch, of the solid muscle of his chest under the leather.
Your palm pressed flat against his chest for just a moment as you adjusted a strap, and you felt his heart beating steady and strong beneath your hand.
Michael went very still.
You didn't notice at first, too focused on your work, your fingers trailing down to fix another buckle near his ribs. Your hand splayed across his chest again, feeling the definition of muscle, the rise and fall of his breathing. It was purely professional, you told yourself. You were just doing your job.
But then you felt his hand come up to cup your cheek, and you looked up, startled. He was staring at you with an expression you couldn't quite read, something soft and wondering and a little bit smug.
"What?" you asked, suddenly self-conscious.
"Nothing," he said, but his smile was knowing. "Just... keep working."
You narrowed your eyes at him suspiciously, but returned your attention to the costume. The sleeve on his right arm needed adjusting, it was bunched up slightly at the shoulder. You reached up to smooth it down, your fingers brushing against his neck as you worked the fabric into place.
You felt him shiver.
"Ticklish?" you asked absently, still focused on the sleeve.
"Something like that," he murmured.
You moved to his other side, adjusting that sleeve as well, your fingers grazing the warm skin of his neck again. This time you noticed the way his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed, the strong column of his throat so close to your face. Your eyes traced the line of it without thinking, following up to the sharp angle of his jaw, the soft curve of his lips—
You blinked, realising you'd stopped working and were just... staring.
"Sorry," you mumbled, quickly returning your attention to the sleeve. "Almost done."
"Take your time," Michael said, his voice slightly rougher than before.
You smoothed down the fabric one final time, then stepped back to assess your work. But his hands on your waist pulled you right back in.
"Michael, I need to see if everything's straight—"
"It's straight," he said, tugging you closer. "You did perfect. You always do."
"I haven't checked the—"
He pressed a kiss to your forehead, soft and lingering.
"Michael!" You swatted at his chest, but he just laughed, that bright, delighted sound that made your stomach flip.
"What? I'm thanking you for your hard work."
"That's not—you can't just—" You were blushing furiously now, trying to step back, but his hands held you in place.
"Can't just what?" He was grinning now, clearly enjoying your flustered state. "Can't show appreciation for my best friend who takes such good care of me?"
"You're being ridiculous."
"I'm being grateful." He pressed another kiss to your cheek, quick and playful. "Very, very grateful."
"Stop it," you said, but you were fighting a smile now.
"Stop what?" Another kiss, this time on your other cheek. "Stop telling you how beautiful you look? Stop appreciating how you always make sure everything's perfect for me? Stop—"
"Yes, stop all of that!" You were laughing now despite yourself, your hands coming up to push weakly at his chest. "I have work to do!"
"You just said you were almost done."
"I lied. I need to check the—the buckles, and the—" You reached up to fuss with his collar again, even though it didn't need it, just to have something to do with your hands.
Michael caught one of your hands in his, bringing it to his lips and pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles.
Your breath caught.
"There," he said softly, his eyes twinkling with mischief and something warmer. "Now I've thanked you properly."
"You're terrible," you whispered, but your voice had lost all its scolding edge.
"You love it."
You huffed, pulling your hand away and returning to adjusting his collar, which really, truly didn't need adjusting, but you needed to do something other than stand there blushing like a teenager. Your fingers worked the fabric gently, smoothing it down, then trailing up to fix a curl that had fallen across his forehead.
Your touch was feather-light, tender, your fingers running through his hair and then, without thinking, tracing down the bridge of his nose with gentle care. It was such a soft gesture, so unconscious, so full of affection that you didn't even realize you were doing it.
But Michael noticed.
His breath hitched slightly, and when you glanced at his face, you saw something shift in his expression. The playful smirk was still there, but underneath it was something else, something vulnerable and shy. A faint flush colored his cheeks, and he looked almost... flustered.
The realization made your own cheeks warm, and you quickly dropped your hand, returning your attention to his costume. "Okay, I think you're all set. Let me just—"
But as you reached to adjust one final belt, you realized he'd gone quiet.
Too quiet.
Michael was never this quiet, especially not when he was in a playful mood. You looked up, concerned, and found him staring at you with an expression that made your heart skip.
He looked... peaceful. Calm. But there was something in his eyes, something deep and thoughtful and so full of adoration that it made your breath catch. He was looking at you like you were the only person in the world, like he was trying to memorize every detail of your face.
"Michael?" you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper.
He didn't respond. Just kept staring, his eyes moving slowly across your face, your eyes, your nose, your cheeks, before dropping to your lips. They lingered there for a long moment, and you felt your pulse quicken, felt the air between you grow thick with something unspoken. His gaze moved back up to your eyes, then down to your lips again, and you saw him swallow hard.
The moment stretched between you, fragile and electric, full of all the things neither of you had ever said out loud.
"Michael, we need you on set in five!"
The director's voice cut through the moment like a knife, and both of you jumped slightly. Michael's head turned toward the door, toward the voice calling him back to work, back to the chaos of the set.
But then he looked back at you.
His expression softened into something tender and sweet, and he lifted one hand to your face, his thumb brushing gently across your cheek. The touch was so soft, so reverent, that you felt your eyes flutter closed for just a second.
When you opened them, he was smiling, not his playful grin, but something quieter, more genuine.
He didn't say anything….Didn't need to.
He just held your gaze for one more heartbeat, his thumb tracing one final path across your cheekbone, and then he stepped back.
"See you after the shoot, sweet thing," he murmured, his voice low and warm.
And then he was gone, walking toward the door with that easy grace, leaving you standing in the middle of the wardrobe trailer with your heart racing and your cheek still tingling from his touch.
You pressed your fingers to the spot where his thumb had been, a smile spreading across your face that you couldn't have stopped if you tried.
❦༉‧₊˚Rest now applehead, take some time off …I’ll be here with you ❦༉‧₊˚
The corner of the set had become your sanctuary.
Tucked away behind a wall of equipment cases and lighting rigs, there was a small couch. Worn leather, probably older than you, but comfortable in that broken-in way that made it perfect for long days. You'd claimed it hours ago, settling into the corner with your book and a bottle of water, content to let the chaos of the shoot happen around you while you disappeared into another world.
The book was good. Really good. One of those novels that pulled you in so completely that the rest of the world faded away, the shouting directors, the camera operators calling out positions, the constant hum of activity that defined a film set. All of it became white noise as you turned page after page, your eyes moving across the words with hungry focus.
You were so absorbed that you didn't hear the approaching footsteps…..Didn't hear the soft jingle of belt buckles and the whisper of leather moving with each step. Didn't notice anything at all until the couch shifted beneath you, the cushions dipping with sudden weight.
You looked up from your book, startled, and your breath caught.
Michael had collapsed onto the couch beside you, or rather, onto you. His head found your lap with the kind of precision that spoke of muscle memory, of having done this a hundred times before. He let out a long, deep sigh of relief as he settled, his whole body seeming to melt into the position.
He looked exhausted.
The bone-deep tired that came from hours under hot lights, performing the same moves over and over, giving everything to the camera until there was nothing left. His eyes were closed, his face peaceful but drawn, and you could see the faint sheen of sweat still clinging to his temples despite someone having clearly tried to wipe him down between takes.
One of his hands rested on his stomach, rising and falling with his breathing. The other lay at his side, fingers curled loosely. He'd positioned himself on his back, his head heavy and warm in your lap, and he didn't say a word.
Just breathed.
You stared down at him, your book forgotten in your hands, taking in every detail. The way his long lashes cast shadows on his cheeks. The slight part of his lips. The vulnerable curve of his throat. He looked younger like this, softer, all the performance and persona stripped away to reveal just... Michael.
Your Michael.
His eyes fluttered open slowly, just barely, and found yours. A small, tired smile curved his lips.
"Hi, angel," he murmured, his voice rough and sleepy.
And then his eyes closed again, his breathing evening out into something steady and deep. You felt your heart squeeze in your chest.
Without thinking, your hand moved to his hair, fingers threading through the soft curls with gentle care. The moment your fingertips touched his scalp, Michael let out a soft groan, a sound of pure relief and contentment that made warmth bloom in your chest.
He leaned into your touch, his head pressing more firmly into your lap, chasing the feeling of your fingers in his hair.
You smiled softly, continuing the gentle motion, your fingers combing through his curls in slow, soothing strokes. After a moment, you lifted your book again with your free hand, finding your place on the page and settling back into the story.
Silence wrapped around you both like a blanket.
The set continued its organized chaos around you, but here in your little corner, there was only peace. Only the warmth of Michael's head in your lap, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the soft texture of his hair beneath your fingers, and the words on the page in front of you.
You read for several minutes, so absorbed that you didn't realize your hand had stilled in his hair until his voice broke the quiet.
"Don't stop doing that, pretty," he mumbled, his words slightly slurred with exhaustion. "Keep going….It's nice."
Your lips curved into a smile, and you immediately resumed the gentle stroking, your fingers moving through his curls with renewed attention. "Sorry," you whispered.
"S'okay," he breathed out, already relaxing again under your touch.
You set your book down on the arm of the couch, giving him your full attention now. Your fingers moved from his hair to his face, tracing the lines of his features with feather-light touches. Your thumb brushed across his cheekbone, feeling the warmth of his skin. You traced the curve of his closed eyelids, so gentle you barely made contact. Down the bridge of his nose, following the elegant line of it. Back up to his temple, then into his hair again.
He made another soft sound, something between a sigh and a hum, his whole body going even more relaxed under your ministrations.
"Can you read to me?" His voice was barely above a whisper, thick with sleep.
You looked down at him, taking in the peaceful expression on his face, his eyes still closed, his breathing slow and even. A soft giggle escaped you, affectionate and tender.
"Of course," you murmured.
You reached for your book again, settling it in one hand while the other returned to his hair. Finding your place, you began to read aloud, your voice soft and melodic in the quiet space.
The words flowed from your lips, painting pictures in the air between you. You read about distant lands and brave heroes, about love and loss and triumph, your voice rising and falling with the emotion of the story. All the while, your fingers never stopped their gentle movement through Michael's hair, stroking and soothing, a constant reassurance of your presence.
Time passed in that suspended way it does in perfect moments, both endless and far too brief. You read page after page, your voice growing softer as you sensed Michael sinking deeper into rest. His breathing had changed, becoming slower, heavier, the rise and fall of his chest taking on the unmistakable rhythm of sleep.
You paused mid-sentence, glancing down to confirm what you already knew.
He was asleep.
Truly, deeply asleep. His face had gone completely slack, all tension melted away. His chest rose and fell in steady, peaceful breaths. His hand on his stomach had relaxed completely, fingers uncurled. He looked so young like this, so vulnerable, so utterly at peace.
Something in your chest tightened and expanded all at once, a feeling so big and warm and overwhelming that you couldn't name it, could only feel it washing through you in waves.
You loved him.
God, you loved him so much it hurt.
Carefully, so as not to wake him, you leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. Your lips lingered there for a moment, feeling the warmth of his skin, breathing in the familiar scent of him, cologne and sweat and something uniquely Michael.
When you pulled back, he didn't stir. Just kept breathing, kept sleeping, kept trusting you to hold him while he rested.
You picked up your book again, settling back into the corner of the couch, your hand returning to his hair in gentle, absent strokes. You found your place on the page and continued reading silently now, content to let him sleep, to be his safe place, his quiet harbor in the storm of his life.
Several minutes later, Michael shifted in his sleep. You stilled, worried you'd disturbed him, but he was just adjusting his position. He turned onto his side, facing you now, his cheek pressing against your thigh. One arm came up to wrap loosely around your leg, holding onto you even in sleep.
He let out a soft, contented sigh and went still again, his breathing evening back out into that deep, peaceful rhythm.
You looked down at him, at this man who trusted you enough to be this vulnerable, this unguarded, and felt that overwhelming warmth flood through you again.
Your fingers traced through his hair one more time, gentle and loving, before you returned to your book.
Pairing: BOTDF Michael Jackson x Fem Dentist Assistant reader
⋆｡°✩ Headcanons- Fluff/SWF/Domestic fluff
Summary: After a chance meeting at a dentist’s office in Europe, Michael finds himself unable to forget you. What begins as a quiet fascination slowly grows into something deeper as the two of you grow closer, share parts of your lives, and build a bond rooted in trust, normalcy, and genuine affection.
Context: slow burn, reader insert, disguised Michael, secret identity, strangers to friends to lovers, retired Michael, european reader, dentist assistant reader, mutual pining, soft Michael, domestic undertones, developing relationship, emotional intimacy, trust, protective Michael, Michael’s wish for a family, family dynamics, secret meetings, private life, gentle romance, fluff, yearning, companionship, getting to know each other, ex-celebrity x civilian, subtle jealousy, touch starved michael, comfort, wholesome.
Note . Hello dear! ♡ I really hope this lived up to your expectations and captured the picture you had in mind when you sent this request in. I tried to follow the vibe you were going for as closely as possible. I absolutely loved the idea of Michael finding someone who knew who he was but still chose to see him simply as himself. ⋆｡°✩
Michael doesn’t expect anything going to the dentist other than the usual routine, the quiet appointment where everything is handled quickly, professionally and he can leave again without being recognised. He’s careful, the mask, the glasses, the hat, the slightly altered posture when he walks in, all of it is just habit at this point, the clinic is in Europe, tucked away enough that it feels private, and the waiting room is calm and peaceful, not loud nor not chaotic, just soft conversations and the occasional page turning. He chose this place after seeing how calm and professional everyone treated him, people recognised him yet they didn’t scream or faint not ask for autographs. They just greeted him politely like they do with any other guest or patient and went on their way. He sits there for a while with his head slightly lowered, hands folded, letting himself disappear into the anonymity of it, until the door opens and someone calls his name.
“Mr Jackson?, we’re ready for you”
You’re the one who calls.
He looks up, and sees you, you’re standing there in uniform, assistant badge clipped neatly, hair falling in loose waves that you keep tucking back without thinking. There’s nothing theatrical about the way you look, nothing exaggerated, but something about the way you carry yourself makes him pause longer than he should. You guide him through , like he’s just another patient, nobody really treats him like that anymore but he appreciates it, it’s refreshing to be treated normally.
Inside the room, everything is clinical and quiet. He answers questions when you ask them, keeps his voice low, lets the dentist do what he need to do, but his attention keeps drifting back to you in these small, almost accidental ways. The way you pass equipment without hesitation, the way you double check things before setting them down and the way you speak softly to the dentist like it’s a rhythm……it reminded him of his old days when he used to sit alone with his own thoughts working on rhythms and songs. There’s a kind of ease in you that he doesn’t see often, not around him anyway. People either freeze up or overcompensate when they realise who he is, even when they pretend not to but you don’t do either, you…..just work.
Afterwards, when it’s over and he’s sitting up again, you’re the one who hands him the small mirror and gives him instructions in that same calm voice. He nods, thanks you, keeps it brief like always, but when he stands to leave something makes him hesitate for half a second too long, you’re already moving on to the next thing, checking files, turning back to your work, completely unaware of the fact that he’s still there looking at you just a little longer than necessary. He leaves after that, but something keeps on nagging him about you, you seem familiar or rather you seem like someone he has met before but he tells himself it just must be him imagining things because after he retired, he seemed to be constantly deep in thought.
Michael tried to carry on in his normal routine but he couldn’t keep you out of his mind.
He thinks about the way you said “please” without making it feel too formal or the way you smiled once in amusement , just briefly, at him when he dropped his glasses, the way you weren’t impressed, or nervous, or overly careful around him. He starts replaying it when he’s alone, in dressing rooms sometimes in hotel corridors or in his cars rides when he wants to get one fresh air. It’s not loud or overwhelming at first, just a thoughts that returns more often than it should.
But that nagging feelings keeps on coming back to him.
Your voice when you called his name and your hands when you were adjusting something on the tray. The faint scent of whatever you were wearing that lingered just slightly when you leaned closer for a moment. He doesn’t say anything about it to anyone in fact he doesn’t even fully admit it to himself in the beginning, but he notices that he starts hoping for appointments take him back there and hoping he sees you again in the same quiet way as before.
And when he does see you again, it’s the same.
You don’t react differently and you don’t change how you treat him. If anything, that makes it worse because it means nothing about you was an act…..you’re just like that, steady, composed and present. Afterwards, when he’s alone again, the disguise still half on, sunglasses still in place even in the car, he sits back for a long time without speaking. This…..longing he’s been feeling lately after he retired, sure he has his family but he’s never felt more alone than ever.
Michael starts finding reasons to end up in the same places again without ever admitting that’s what he’s doing, because even to himself it doesn’t feel like chasing anything, just coincidence he doesn’t question too deeply. Another appointment gets scheduled, then a follow up, then something small that could have been handled anywhere but somehow still ends up bringing him back into that same clinic, that same corridor, that same quiet rhythm where nothing feels staged or performed. Each time he walks in a little differently, each time with the same disguise.
You’re always the same when he sees you.
You greet him like a patient and he starts looking forward to it. The dentist and the routine continues, but his attention keeps drifting in these small pauses between instructions, catching things he didn’t notice the first time, the way you push hair behind your ear or the way you double check everything before you leave the room. When you stand slightly angled toward the light when you’re listening. He was aware it was your job of course but he noticed the slight playfulness in your eyes and smiles when he sneaks glances at you.
Michael ends up waiting a little longer taking small glances at you, wanting to say something but doesn’t know what. You don’t notice at first, too focused on your work, moving between files and trays and the next patient’s notes, but eventually you glance up and he’s still there. Just standing in a careful way he always does when he’s trying not to take up too much space. There’s a pause and neither of you say anything but you speak.
“Mr Jackson?…..is everything alright?” Your voice soft and polite.
Michael shakes his head quickly before letting out a few awkward chuckles.
“ Yes yes everything is fine…um just lost in thought is all” he takes a deep breath before speaking again.
“It’s just that. You remind me of someone…” he said before quickly picking up his sunglasses and nods politely before walking away. You blink a few times before laughing softly at his antics. Who knew THE Michael Jackson could be this awkward and cute……
You never expect for it to lead up to you befriending the retired artist, or how both of you got closer to each other. It could be due to the fact that he found out you lived a few blocks away from his new home.
The friendship settles into his life so naturally and occasional conversations slowly turns into entire afternoons spent together. Sometimes the two of you wander through little streets tucked away from crowds where nobody pays either of you much attention. Other times you’ll sit in a quiet café for hours with drinks that have long gone cold because the conversation never really stopped. The strange thing is that most of the time you aren’t even discussing anything particularly important. You’re talking about books you’ve read, places you’ve travelled, embarrassing childhood stories, ridiculous things you’ve seen that day the conversations people rarely remember word for word afterwards. Yet those end up becoming his favorite moments. Michael spends so much of his life surrounded by noise, by schedules, by people wanting pieces of him, that being around someone who simply enjoys his company without asking for anything in return feels almost unreal. There are days where he catches himself smiling before he even sees you because he knows he’s going to spend the afternoon with you.
The more time passes, the more he finds himself noticing things about you and how beautiful you are. He notices how patient you are with strangers, how you always thank workers by name when they’re wearing name tags. The way you listen when people speak instead of waiting for your turn to talk. Those aren’t things most people pay attention to, but Michael does. He’s spent enough of his life around people who perform kindness when cameras are nearby to recognize genuine warmth when he sees it.
One afternoon the two of you are walking through a small square crowded with families and tourists (with his usual disguise ofc) when a little boy falls while chasing after his older sister. It isn’t serious, the child isn’t badly hurt.m and before Michael even has time to react, you’re already kneeling beside him. You brush the dust from his sleeve, ask if he’s alright, and wait until his tears stop before helping him back to his feet. The entire thing lasts less than two minutes before his parents arrive and thank you. You smile, tell them he’s okay, and continue walking as if nothing happened. You don’t realize Michael has gone unusually quiet beside you as you keep on rambling about feeling hungry and craving for something salty,too caught up on your rumbling stomach to notice how deep in thought he got about what happened fifteen minutes ago.
The reason it stays with him isn’t because helping a child is unusual but because of how natural it looked, there wasn’t any hesitation, no checking to see who was watching. Neither any expectation of praise afterward. You simply saw someone upset and moved toward them without thinking. And after that day he starts noticing similar things everywhere. Children seem to gravitate toward you almost instinctively. When families are around, you’re always the person ending up in conversations with them. Little girls show you drawings & Small boys tell you stories about dinosaurs or football or whatever currently occupies their minds. You always listen like it’s the most important thing you’ve heard all day. Michael watches these interactions more than he should. Sometimes from across a room. Sometimes while pretending to focus on something else entirely. Every single time he sees it, that same feeling settles somewhere deep in his chest.
Warm. Comforting.
And Dangerous.
Because those thoughts start changing.
At first they’re innocent enough, he wonders what you were like as a child, wonders what kind of home you grew up in. One evening he’s sitting alone in a hotel suite after a long day of a small gathering with his brothers. The television is on but he’s barely paying attention to it, his mind keeps drifting elsewhere but slowly he starts imagining you in ways he has fantasised for a while. At a home in a house….HIS house, laughing from another room, the image arrives so suddenly it catches him off guard, he shakes his head at himself, yet the thought doesn’t disappear, it grows clearer. He imagines hearing your voice somewhere down a hallway, seeing you sitting at a kitchen table with children running through a house while you call after them. The pictures he forms in his mind comes so naturally that they start to frighten him a little because he never consciously chose to create them. His mind simply placed you there as if you belonged there.
Michael’s fantasies start to increase the more he’s around you.
Every time he sees you with children, every time he hears you laugh, every time you casually mention wanting a quieter life one day, something inside him melts. He begins imagining futures he has no business imagining. A little girl with your eyes, a little boy sitting on the floor surrounded by toys while you try unsuccessfully to tidy up around him, big family dinners, School runs and holidays. Tiny ordinary moments for others yet for Michael those images hold more meaning than sold out stadiums ever could. Fame has given him many things throughout his life, but normality has always remained frustratingly out of reach. And now, every time he thinks about what that normality might look like, you’re standing in the middle of it.
His feelings settles slowly over weeks and months until one day he’s sitting across from you while you’re laughing at something completely ridiculous and suddenly understands why being around you feels different from being around everyone else.
Micheal was in love with you
Throughout every relationship he has had his feelings has never felt this real before with anyone , nor has any women treated him with such kindness and shared many hobbies and interests with him unlike you. The way you fit into his arms when you hugged or the way you tenderly kissed his cheeks while he buried his nose into your hair. And when you relaxed whenever his hand would automatically place itself on your waist or press on your back when he’s guiding you around.
His overprotectiveness over you and when he had this ugly feeling in his chest whenever a man was too close to you or made you laugh. He would find himself sliding behind you, wrapping an arm around your waist to press you on his chest before nodding politely to the man and walking away with you glued to his him.
You never question him, but give him a knowing smile before kissing his cheek & let him keep a hold on you while you start to ramble on the most randoms things you know he enjoys hearing.
No more pressure, no more tabloids, no more press or cameras shoved in his face and personal life. They all finally left him alone after a few years of his retirement. Just a quiet life he dreamed of finally in his hands , a true friend who has so much in common with him , blends naturally with him and maybe even something more. Maybe he finally doesn’t have to think about a surrogate for children….looking at you he feels a wave of hope and joy he never felt before.
Michael snapped out of his thoughts to see you still rambling. He chuckled softly before leaning down to kiss your forehead, making you giggle and reach up to boop his nose.
Summary: Growing up beside Michael meant loving him long before the world ever got the chance to. As both of your careers begin taking off, the line between lifelong friendship and something far deeper starts becoming impossible to ignore.
Context: childhood friends to lovers, black singer reader, slow burn, mutual pining, soft michael, emotional intimacy, off the wall era, famous singer reader, shy reader, protective michael, celebrity life, longing, comfort, subtle jealousy, tension, fluff, music industry romance, emotional vulnerability, yearning, affectionate michael, friends to lovers, nostalgia, tender moments
Warnings: mentions of fame related stress and loneliness, mild jealousy/possessiveness, emotional dependency themes, subtle suggestive tension, overwhelming media attention, industry pressure/anxiety
Note . hello anon! sorry this took a little while. I got a bit carried away with it once I started writing. I tried to keep it in that softer, slow burn flow. hope you enjoy it 🤍🫶 ˚₊‧꒰ა ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
There’s a certain kind of loneliness that comes with growing up famous, and Michael learned that far too young.
People always talk about the screaming crowds and the awards and the success like those things somehow cancel out the isolation that comes with it, but they don’t. If anything, they make it worse, because the bigger Michael became, the more people started treating him like something delicate and unreachable instead of human. Conversations became careful around him, friendships became complicated; everybody either wanted something from him or seemed too intimidated to simply exist around him naturally.
…………Except YOU never did.
That’s probably why he’s held onto you so tightly all these years without even realizing it himself, because you knew him before the world did, before magazines started printing his face everywhere, before interviews became rehearsed and exhausting, before every move he made became something people analyzed and picked apart like they owned pieces of him. You knew him when he still had grass stains on his jeans from running around outside with his brothers in gary. When his voice still cracked sometimes while laughing too hard, when he used to sit beside you on stoops late at night humming melodies under his breath because there was always music trapped inside him somewhere trying to escape.
You were there before the loneliness settled into him. That’s why Michael feels safest around you now.
You, never treated Michael differently after fame starts swallowing up his life. Even when the rest of the world starts becoming careful and overly polite around him, you stay exactly the same. Still rolling your eyes when he gets dramatic over small things, still stealing sips from his drinks without asking first, still laughing whenever he starts rambling too passionately about movies or music because once michael starts talking about things he loves, he genuinely forgets to stop.
It grounds him in ways you probably don’t even realise.
Sometimes Michael feels like everybody around him is responding to who they think Michael Jackson is supposed to be instead of who he actually is underneath all of it, but with you, there’s never any performance involved. You still look at him the exact same way you did when you were kids, which made him want to cherish you more; he’d probably destroy himself trying to keep that softness in your eyes forever. You’re his first ever friend….his best friend & someone who really loves HIM, just him no way will he ever lose you.
Your singing always completely catches Michael off guard the older the two of you get. When you were younger, he already loved hearing you sing around him, usually while music played through somebody’s radio during long summer evenings, but hearing your grown voice for the first time genuinely stuns him quiet. Because your voice doesn’t sound manufactured or overly polished like so many singers becoming popular around that time. It’s smooth, warm, emotional in this effortless way that crawls under people’s skin and stays there.
He still remembers the first time he saw you recording professionally in a studio. You were nervous that day too. He could tell from the way your fingers kept fidgeting with the sleeves of your sweater while producers adjusted equipment around you, but then the music started and suddenly your entire demeanor shifted. Your eyes closed softly, your shoulders relaxed, and your voice filled the room so beautifully that michael genuinely forgot to breathe for a second.
While everybody else in the studio started complimenting you and redirecting you on which notes & tones to change, Michael just sat there staring at you in complete silence, completely gone already and he didn’t even realize it yet. Face warm, heart beating and an unfamiliar feeling creeping up.
Despite the elegance and dominance of your voice your demeanour remains painfully shy despite becoming successful yourself. Interviews make you nervous no matter how many you do, cameras overwhelm you after too long, and industry parties become the kind of thing you tolerate rather than enjoy. Michael notices all of it instinctively because he’s spent his whole life exactly in the same situations. He notices the way you start shrinking into yourself whenever too many strangers approach you at once, the way your smile gets smaller when reporters become invasive, the way you unconsciously search crowded rooms for familiar faces whenever anxiety starts creeping up your spine. The way you search for him….
And every single time, his attention immediately shifts toward you without thinking. Sometimes he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it until one of his brothers points it out afterward.
“Hey Michael……Michael hey can you hear me?jesus dude you stare at her like she hung the moon or somethin’,” Jermaine muttered once during a party after catching Michael watching you from across the room for nearly ten straight minutes. Michael got so embarrassed he nearly knocked over his own drink trying to deny it.
Which only made his brothers laugh harder.
It’s no secret the way his brothers have seen him look at you, or when he’s deep in thought whenever someone mentions your name everybody notices it, his brothers don’t blame him though, you are a pretty little thing but also one who shared a lot in common with Michael. They weren’t surprised their little brother has fallen over heels for you.
The way Michael changes around you.
How much softer he becomes whenever you’re nearby. How his entire posture relaxes the second your voice reaches him in crowded spaces. How he listens to you with this intense focus like every word leaving your mouth matters more than whatever conversation he was having beforehand.
He becomes slightly clingy, more touchy, always wanting to be near you. Always needing to have his hand on you at least to feel your skin or have an arm around you.
Even his mother notices.
katherine absolutely adores you, partly because you’ve been around so long that she already sees you as family, but mostly because she hasn’t seen Michael this emotionally open around anybody else in years. There’s a certain lightness in him whenever you’re around that disappears almost everywhere else now, and she never been more happy to see the light in her son’s eyes return slowly.
You never really thought you’d becomes Michael’s emotional safe place, there are nights during the piles of work where the pressure surrounding him becomes almost unbearable. The expectations, the rehearsals, the interviews, the desperate need to prove himself outside the jacksons. It exhausts him so badly that he ends up showing up at your place late at night just to escape the noise for a little while.
You let him in without question. Every single time , no hesitation. There are times the two of you barely even talk; there’s others where he just stretches out across your couch while you quietly flip through records nearby, the room dim except for warm lamplight spilling softly across the walls. other nights he talks himself into exhaustion, voice low and tired while admitting things he’d never say publicly. How scared he is of failing how frustrating it feels constantly being compared to his brothers, how lonely fame actually becomes once the excitement fades away.
And you always listen.
That’s the thing michael loves most about you, you listen to him like he’s still just Mikey. Not Michael Jackson, not a celebrity, not a phenomenon,just him your mikey.
His favourite moments is when you never question his affection towards you and instead you return them, a hug here and there, a hand cubbing his face, a small kiss on his cheek or jaw, your hand running through his curls. And he LOVES it.
The more you both grow the more it makes michael quietly possessive in ways he doesn’t fully understand himself. He’s not loud about jealousy no no he’s not the type to cause a scene. But god, he notices whenever other men look at you too long, especially once your own career starts growing and people in the industry become more interested in you publicly.
It bothers him in this awful silent way.
His jaw tightens slightly whenever producers flirt with you too openly during conversations. He suddenly starts hovering closer beside you during parties whenever somebody’s attention lingers too heavily on your body instead of your words. If it gets too much he interrupts conversations, appearing beside you with a soft “c’mere for a second”
Just because he couldn’t stand watching another man lean too close to you any longer. His hand on your waist, his breath brushes slightly against your ear, him pulling you closer to his chest a protective grip and a warning that’s as clear as day….BACK OFF
As oblivious as you were would tilt your head in confusion for a second but let him take you with him anyways. Which secretly feeds his ego more than it should. For the rest of the night he would not let you go, nor remove his hand from your waist, occasionally nuzzle his nose in your hair and inhale softly, or clean his cheek closer to you asking for a kiss.
You slowly starts realizing Michael’s feelings through tiny details. The way he remembers every small thing you mention in passing, when he instinctively reaches for your hand in crowded places, the way his entire mood changes depending on whether you’re near him or not. There are moments where you catch him looking at you with this unbearably soft expression that makes your stomach tighten unexpectedly because suddenly you start wondering if maybe this thing between you stopped being simple friendship a long time ago.
It was clear the moment Michael dragged you backstage after one of your concerts, just to have his big hands on your waist pulled up against him and his lips pressed onto yours. Startled from his sudden reaction you melted into his arms as you wrapped your arms around his neck , your hand running through his hair.
Michael sure did NOT LIKE the moment a band member placed his hand on you.
