JustAkira

Multi-fandom writer ☾ 18 ♫ Justice for MJ ♫ They don't care about us

[akiraaa1239]

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I only write in English on this page

Have a new obsession every few weeks :p

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Currently working on: What if Luis Serra survived? Requested by @retiredkettle

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MASTERLISTS

(Updated every once in a while)

Resident Evil 🧟‍

Red dead redemption 🦌

Persona 5 Royal ❤️‍🔥

Folk of the Air 🧚🏻‍♀️

Michael Jackson 🎶

[akiraaa1239]

Pairing: Michael Jackson x makeup-artist!reader

Summary: Meeting Michael Jackson, THE Michael Jackson, wasn't really something you had planned. After getting the position to be one of the many makeup artists working on the singer's huge project called 'Thriller' you grow closer to him. Maybe this friendship has its benefits?

Taglist: @appleheadannie @7viiseven @1nth3cl0set @unknwnbrii

(NSFW will be marked by ❤️‍🔥)

1983

Behind the scenes

After getting a position as one of the make-up artists of a project lead by Michael Jackson, you can't help growing closer with the young man.

Twister

After one week of nothing you decide to contact Michael.

[appafanclub]

Chapter 10

Michael Jackson x Fem!Reader

Summary: Yours and Michael’s wedding at Neverland <33

W/C: 6.6K

16th of September 1995

Your eyes begin to slowly open. The sun's golden glow peeks through the edges of the light curtains. A quietness lingers despite the distant hum of air conditioning and faint chirping of birds outside.

Lying beneath the covers, staring at the ceiling, you stay in that position for a while longer, half asleep.

Eventually, you manage to turn your head and check the time displayed on your digital clock. 6:57am. You have three minutes until the alarm plays which is supposed to wake you up.

Your eyes then drift towards the corner of the room to find your dress hanging carefully from the wardrobe. Protected beneath a white garment bag. The day you've been waiting for has finally arrived. After months of planning, appointments, anticipation. It's finally here.

Today, you're getting married. The thought settles quietly inside your chest. A heavy, wonderful sensation. Terrifyingly perfect.

You roll carefully onto your side, one hand instinctively finding the curve of your stomach beneath the blanket. Something shifts slightly. You can feel the baby kick, you laugh softly, "good morning to you too."

The baby kicks again, as if reminding you to involve them throughout the day. Carefully reaching across the mattress, you switch off the alarm in order to prevent the ringing sound from playing. There's absolutely no chance of going back to sleep anyway.

You push the duvet cover away, a hand still clutching onto your stomach as your legs move to the floor. Slightly wincing at the coldness, you slowly stand up.

Crossing the room and towards the drawn curtains, you pull them open as sunlight instantly spills inside. Your eyes close, allowing the warmness to envelope you for a moment before watching the peacefulness of Neverland stretch beyond the windows.

Eventually making your way to the en suite, your familiar routine unfolds. The usual feeling of needing to pee comes over you. Opening the lid and lowering yourself onto the seat, your eyes close as it painfully releases.

Somehow, peeing has become a lot more distressing for you to do. It has been since the beginning of your pregnancy, but has gotten worse in recent weeks.

A few days ago, you consulted a doctor concerning the matter. Her response was that it was nothing to be a cause of worry and a lot of women going through pregnancy experience it due to the growing uterus.

Once finished, you wash the area and flush the toilet. Walking towards the sink and pumping the hand wash, you begin washing your hands. Whilst doing so, you observe yourself in the mirror, imagining the moment you're walking down the aisle and towards Michael.

Immediately smiling, you break out of your train of thought. Turning off the faucet, you shake hands slightly to remove the excess water dripping from them.

Your focus shifts to slipping out of your nightdress. Once it pools around you on the floor, you pick it up to hang it on the door's hook by the thin strap. You twist the shower's faucet, causing it to come on, you hover your hand beneath the water in order to examine its temperature.

You step into the shower once it becomes a comfortable heat, allowing the water to fall over you. The process of massaging shampoo into your hair and scrubbing body wash onto your entire body is a lot more in-depth to how you usually would do it considering it's a special occasion.

A knock sounds from the other side of the bathroom door, you recognise the voice immediately, "miss Y/N?"

"Yes?" You try speaking louder for her to hear.

"Your breakfast has arrived."

"Oh, thank you," you reply.

"Of course," she pauses, "if you need anything today, just call for me."

Your smile softens, "thank you, Carol." Faint footsteps retreat away from the door and out of the bedroom.

You twist the mechanic which stops the shower. Stepping out, you grab a towel hanging from the rack to wrap yourself around it.

Moving towards the mirror again, you dedicate your focus towards moisturising your skin and applying products to your hair. Ordinary tasks that somehow feel surreal today. Every movement brings you one step closer to becoming someone's wife.

Eventually, you leave the bathroom wearing your silk dressing gown, only your underwear beneath it. The breakfast tray Carol provided you with waits on a foldable table at the end of your bed. Fried egg on toast accompanied by tea is enough food to ensure you and your baby are satisfied for a few hours.

Finding the remote and taking it towards the bed, you decide to watch a few minutes of television whilst eating your breakfast. Channel after channel, you finally settle on The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air.

Smiling at the familiar tune which plays, you begin eating. For a short while, as the episode unfolds with Will and Carlton bickering, your mind wanders away from the wedding. You're left alone with breakfast, good television, and an occasional kick from the baby.

Once finished with your meal, you return to the bathroom in order to clean your teeth. Applying toothpaste to your brush, you watch the motion gently move around your mouth as foam begins forming.

You hear a knock sound at the door again, followed by a "Y/N." You recognise Sydney's voice immediately. Preoccupied by the task, you're unable to clearly answer, "I'll be out in a minute," you sound muffled, laughing around the toothpaste. Spitting it into the sink a moment later, you quickly rinse your mouth before wiping it with a towel.

Outside the door, Huda has completely taken over your bed with makeup. She took the initiative to hastily pull the duvet up and tidy the sheets slightly. Sydney stands in front of the mirror, fixing her hair into a neat, loose bun. Yue sits at the end of the bed, adjusting the straps of one of her heels, "I know I'm going to regret wearing these later."

As the bridesmaids, their dresses are identical. Soft, sage green silk catches the morning sunlight spilling through the windows. The fabric falls elegantly to the floor, flowing with every movement. Thin straps rest against their shoulders as the fitted bodice gradually loosens into a gentle skirt.

The colour somehow suits all three of them despite how different they are. Huda's dark hair makes the green appear richer. Sydney somehow manages to make anything look effortlessly sophisticated. Yue's youthfulness gives the dress a softer, almost ethereal quality.

Paired with simple pearl earrings and matching cream heels, the dresses feel elegant without being overly formal. Exactly what you were hoping for.

"Me too," Sydney agrees with Yue, "they're beautiful though." She looks down at the heels, quickly stomping her feet in place to hear the clicking sound beneath them.

"I had to drive barefoot because I forgot to bring other shoes," Huda reminds them despite taking one car together.

The bathroom door opens to reveal yourself. Gently closing it behind you, you look between the girls, "hi!" They exchange an equally warm greeting.

"This is it,"  Sydney presses her lips together.

"Yep," you nod with a bright smile, repeating her words, "this is it."

"Are you nervous?" Yue stands up from the bed, trying to balance in her heels.

"No," you shake your head slightly, surprised yourself.

"Really?" Huda tilts her head in confusion.

"There's nothing to worry about," you laugh, wondering if you should be nervous.

"That's good," Sydney nods. "I was really nervous on my wedding day," she explains with an embarrassed expression, "but that's because my mother-in-law saw my dress and said it didn't suit me."

"She said that?" Yue immediately looks shocked that her mom would even say something like that.

"Yeah...but we ended up having a good time," Sydney lies, pressing her lips at the distressing memory.

Huda pats the area in front of her on the bed, "let me start on your makeup." Brushing off the brief awkward moment, you move towards the empty place and lower yourself over the sheets.

"Make sure you don't get any makeup on the bed," you warn, narrowing your eyes.

"That's your fault for using white sheets," she glances you up and down jokingly. "Have you put anything on your face?"

"Just moisturiser."

"Okay, that's fine," she starts digging through her cosmetics bag. Taking out a large bottle and dropping the serum into her hands, she massages it gently into your skin as your eyes close. "my clients really like this product, it keeps your makeup in place for hours."

"Hm, okay," you relax at the touch, smiling at her mention of clients after she's passed her makeup artist course. "Where do you find clients?"

"I'm working for a company," she explains, maintaining her focus on blending the foundation into your skin. "Basically, someone enquires them and then the company sends me to do their makeup."

"Not too heavy," you quickly warn her.

"I know," she leans back slightly to observe her work.

"Where's Michael?" Yue asks, stepping closer to where you're sitting on the bed,"did he stay here last night?"

"He's spent the last two nights at his mom's," you answer, eyes still closed as Huda blows on the lash glue she applied.

"At Katherine's?" Sydney turns to look you, "you kicked him out?"

"Obviously not," you laugh, "he wanted to stay there."

"Seems like he really wants to follow tradition," Huda chimes, looking through her supplies again for lip products.

Your eyes finally open, glancing down at the engagement ring around your finger which will soon be replaced with a wedding band. "I miss him..." the words softly leave you.

"You'll see him in a few hours," Yue reminds you.

"And you'll be spending the rest of your lives together," Huda smiles, lifting your chin to begin applying a pink lipgloss.

"Yeah," you can't help but smile at the reminder.

"You'll be hopeless once he starts touring," Sydney laughs.

"Don't put that thought into my head." Despite all the teasing, you really do miss him. You don't even know if he's in Neverland right now or still at Hayvenhurst. Regardless, he's probably getting ready and equally restless. Counting down the hours until he sees you again. The thought somehow causes your heart to feel lighter.

Huda finally leans back. A long moment passes as she studies your face. You watch, smiling as she reaches forward to blend one tiny section near your cheek before leaning back again. This time she nods, "done."

You turn your head to look in the mirror, "thank you, this is exactly what I was hoping for." She went for a lighter look, enhancing your natural beauty instead of concealing it.

"You're welcome," Huda carefully begins packing away makeup brushes as Sydney moves behind you. Her hands immediately disappear into your hair, "what are you going to do with this?" She lightly brushes her fingers through it.

Your gaze remains fixed on the mirror. Considering an answer, it comes surprisingly quick, "I don't want anything too complicated."

"Okay," Sydney nods, observing your hair and trying to configure an end result. "I think soft waves," she begins gathering a section of your hair, experimenting a possible option, "maybe pin some away from your face."

Yue watches, agreeing with Sydney's vision, "I like that."

Huda joins in once all of her supplies have been completely packed away. Glancing between the mirror and Sydney's operation, she sits beside you. "The veil will go here," she hovers her hand over the top of your head.

"Exactly," Sydney nods as you leave them to it. Within minutes, she's fully committed. Pins which align with the colour of your hair appear as it's slightly sectioned to highlight your face shape.

Sydney takes a step back. Her eyes narrow slightly as she studies your reflection. Then she nods, "there." You glance at the mirror, turning your head to catch a view of the hairstyle she's given you. Soft waves. Pinned sections. Everything finally begins coming together.

"Very nice," Yue nods, eyes wide and smiling madly.

Huda claps excitedly, "time for the dress." You can't blame her, it's the moment you've been waiting for as well.

Yue walks towards the garment bag hanging in the corner of the room. Suddenly being hit with slight nervousness, you laugh quietly under your breath. She brings it over to you to settle it into your hands.

A folded partition stands in the corner of the room. You disappear behind it to get changed in privacy. Before that, you remember to retrieve breast pads from the top drawer of your bedside table. You position them into your dressing gown loosely.

Yue notices, her brows furrow in confusion as she asks, "what are those?"

"Um...breast pads," you answer vaguely.

"Why?" Huda lowers the brush she's using to touch up her makeup

"It's so my...um...don't leak through the dress..." you laugh awkwardly.

"That happens in pregnancy?" Sydney's eyes widen, "I thought that was just after you give birth."

"Yeah I thought that too," you reply honestly, recalling the moment you first experienced it and felt pure shock at the sudden exposure of milk dampening your shirt. "Nobody tells you half the things pregnancy does."

Sydney nods, fiddling with her fingers, she opens up, "Mako keeps talking about having kids." She sits at the edge of the bed as you begin stripping down the dressing gown behind the partition, still listening to what she has to say.

"He keeps saying we'd make cute babies," Sydney continues in a jokingly frightened tone, making Huda immediately laugh.

Yue nods with a knowing smile, "he does."

"I'm just not ready," Sydney sighs, "and he already knows that but we're going into our thirties and I think he's done waiting."

Huda peeks behind the partition, "are you getting on well?"

You nod, "yeah, nearly on." You struggle with getting the dress over your bump.

Sydney redirects her attention to you. Smiling, she asks, "how's everything been lately?" She refers to your pregnancy.

You take a brief moment to pause and consider the question, "mostly good." You pull the dress a little higher, carefully adjusting it, "she's healthy. Michael's happy. Everything's going well.

Sydney notices the change in your voice immediately, "what about the rest of the time?"

You hesitate, "some days are hard." You answer honestly as the room falls silent, "I'll wake up and everything hurts." You begin listing, "my back. My hips. My legs. Sometimes I can't even get out of bed." You rarely speak about these moments. Mostly because you don't want anyone worrying.

"Really?" Huda's brows knit together in concern.

"Yeah," you nod despite them not being able to see you behind the partition, "sometimes Michael has to look after me all day." You smile at the memory of him bringing you food, making you tea, telling you not to move.

"He'd probably carry you if you'd let him," Yue laughs, brushing a strand of hair away from her face.

"He does carry me," you quietly admit which makes everyone laugh. Of course he does.

The laughter slowly fades as you glance down at the dress one final time. Carefully smoothing the fabric over your stomach, your heart beats a little faster. "Okay," you take a breath, "I think I'm ready."

Unaware of what they're about to see, the rest of the girls stand on the other side of the partition. You step forward, one hand instinctively finding the edge of the screen as you slowly emerge.

Silence. Complete silence. The kind that only happens when nobody knows what to say.

"Y/N..." Huda's lip quivers, suddenly overwhelmed with emotion, "you're growing up."

"I'm almost thirty," your brows furrow in amusement, "I've been grown for a long time."

"I'm still looking at the same girl I met in high school," she covers her mouth in awe, looking over your dress again, "and now you're a bride."

"She's right," Sydney chimes, brows knitted together and nodding in agreement, "you look so beautiful."

"Perfect," Yue summaries in one word.

"Almost," Huda opens a box which holds a loosely folded piece. She effortlessly pulls it out, as if it's floating, she walks to your side as you stand in front of the mirror and settles it over your head.

A single layer of delicate ivory tulle. Tiny pearls scatter throughout the material. Not enough to distract, but enough to catch the light whenever you move. It's a cathedral length fabric pools gently behind you like mist.

"Now you're complete," she smiles, wiping some of the stray tears that have started to fall down her cheek.

"Please don't cry," you laugh quietly. Her fingers work gently through your curls that have been pinned into place. Slowly, she steps back to watch you in the reflection.

You press your lips together, stifling a laugh as everyone's eyes are on you. And suddenly, you understand the emotion as your eyes begin to sting. "Oh no, I'm crying."

"Don't," Huda warns, "I just finished your makeup."

"Okay," you laugh, tilting your head to prevent the tears from falling.

A knock sounds at the door as Sydney quickly goes over to answer it. She opens the door slightly to avoid anyone being exposed to you, the bride, before going down the aisle.

She finds her husband, Mako, was the one knocking as he asks, "is she ready?"

"Yes," Sydney beams, "we'll be coming down now, honey." His eyes slightly widen at her words as it means the ceremony is about to start. He nods, leaning down to kiss her briefly before speeding down the corridor and stairs with a sense of urgency.

Downstairs, the grand living room of Neverland barely looks recognisable anymore. Ivory roses spill from elegant arrangements. White orchids and cream peonies line every surface. Hundreds of candles flicker softly throughout the room. Tiny fairy lights wove through greenery surrounding the window. The entire room glows beneath the afternoon sunlight.

Rows of chairs line beside the aisle. Guests fills the seats. Friends and family have been invited. This includes, on one side, Huda's boyfriend who looks slightly lost, Sydney's mother who is sitting next to Yue's mom, thankful she was feeling well enough to come, and Sydney's husband who arrives back into the room.

On the Jackson side, everyone is in attendance, Michael's mom, siblings, in laws, nieces, and nephews can be seen.

Michael looks impossibly elegant. The black suit fits perfectly against his frame, tailored specifically for him. A crisp white shirt disappears beneath the jacket whilst an ivory silk tie rests neatly at his collar. Gold cufflinks catch beneath the candlelight whenever he moves. A single white rose sits against his lapel.

Mako slips back into the room slightly out of breath from the many steps he's taken. Hardly anyone notices him at first. Most of the guests are still talking amongst themselves. Children fidget in their seats. Janet takes pictures the professional photographers Michael hired will miss.

Mako clears his throat, making an announcement, "everyone, may I please get your attention?" The conversations gradually quiet down, "the bride will be arriving shortly," his smile widens.

Everyone's reaction to the news is immediate. People begin settling into their seats. Photographers become more alert as they direct their cameras towards the entrance, preparing to record and catch the moment.

Meanwhile, Michael feels his stomach drop. Standing at the end of the aisle beside the officiant, he starts adjusting his jacket. Then his cuffs, and then tie, and then his jacket again.

Jermaine notices first, "you know they're not going anywhere, right?"

Michael turns around quickly, raising his brows, his hands link behind his back,"hm?" He asks his brother to repeat himself.

Instead, he just shakes his head, an amused smirk plays on his face as Randy joins in, "are you thinking of running away?"

"What?" Michael's eyes squint in confusion at his question, "no."

"Good," Randy nods, looking around before stifling a laugh, "Y/N would catch up to you anyway."

"Leave him alone," Katherine playfully hits the side of Randy's arm as he immediately clutches the area, smiling.

"Relax, Mike," Tito chimes.

Katherine reaches over to smooth the lapel of Michael's jacket, "you look handsome."

He smiles faintly, "thank you."

She cups his cheeks lightly, "she's a very lucky woman to have you." He looks down, immediately embarrassed, wanting to tell his mom that he's the lucky one for having you by his side.

The first notes of music begin softly. The room instantly stills as everyone's head turns towards the entrance. Katherine takes her seat as conversations disappear completely.

Michael swallows, heart pounding so loudly he's almost convinced everyone can hear it too. A camera pans over to him. Collecting several, different shots at the same time as the other continues focusing on the doorway. His lips press together, glancing subtly at the lens, he provides a charming wink at it before returning his gaze to the entrance.

The door opens.

You appear.

Michael forgets how to breathe in that moment. Despite all the months leading to this moment, nothing could have ever prepared him.

Sunlight catches your veil first. Almost making it glow, the lace trails behind you. The delicate detailing catches every piece of light inside the room. The dress flows beautifully around you. Elegant. Timeless. Perfect.

But Michael barely notices any of it. Because he's looking at you. Only you. The woman who's carrying his child. The woman he loves. The woman who somehow chose him.

His eyes immediately fill with tears. His position which stands at the end of the aisle, he can only view you as something unreal. Too good to be true. As if every good thing that has ever happened to him decided to take human form. As if you're a dream or even an angel.

You look even more beautiful than he could have ever imagined. He physically cannot look away from you as you move carefully down the aisle. One hand holds onto your bouquet of white roses as the other lightly supports your bump. The sight alone nearly destroys him as he watches you carry everything he has ever wanted.

The bridesmaids follow closely behind, noticing everyone's watching in awe besides Michael.

Halfway down the aisle, you accidentally look towards one of the cameras. Immediately looking away, then at another camera, you think for a moment about how the footage is going to show you repeatedly staring into the lenses by mistake.

Your attention drifts away from everything else. The flowers. Candles. Guests. Cameras. None of it seems important anymore. Michael is standing at the end of the aisle. Waiting. Looking directly at you. Only you. His smile keeps appearing and disappearing as if he can't quite decide whether he wants to laugh or cry. Maybe both.

His eyes glisten, and every time he blinks, it seems as if he's trying to pull himself together. For months, you've watched him stand in front of crowds and cameras without fear. Yet somehow today, he looks more nervous than you've ever seen him.

The second he notices you looking directly at him, his smile grows. Completely uncontrollable. Boyish. Soft. The exact smile you've fallen in love with. Your stomach flutters just from him. You're walking towards the man you love.

The closer you reach, the harder Michael smiles. Until eventually, he can't take it anymore. Before you have fully arrived at the front, he holds his hand out. The gesture is automatic and instinctive. As if he simply needs to touch you.

You laugh softly through the nerves as you place your hand in his. Michael gently closes his fingers around yours as if you're something precious. Guiding you to the final few steps towards him, the room collectively melts. Even Katherine dabs at her eyes with a tissue and Marlon pretends he isn't emotional.

Finally standing beside Michael, he doesn't let go of your hand. Not even slightly. The officiant smiles warmly, "family, friends, and loved ones...we are gathered here today to celebrate something beautiful. Not simply the joining of two people...but the joining of two lives."

You try your best to listen. You really do. But every few seconds, you catch Michael staring. As if he still can't believe you're real. Eventually, he leans slightly closer, just enough that only you can hear, "you look beautiful."

You smile immediately, "so do you."

He laughs quietly, "that's not possible."

The officiant continues with the ceremony, "a partnership built on trust, patience, friendship, and love. Marriage is not a promise to be perfect. It is a promise to remain beside one another through every season of life. To celebrate each joy together. And to carry one another through every hardship."

Without thinking, your thumb brushes against Michael's hand. The officiant's words settle somewhere deep inside your chest. Marriage isn't a promise that life will be easy. You already know it won't be. The two of you learned that long before today.

Michael immediately squeezes your hand back. As if he somehow knows exactly what you're thinking.

"Today, Michael and Y/N choose each other freely and completely," the officiant continues, occasionally looking down at the book he's reading from, "before all of us here, and before the family they are already building together."

"Will you love, comfort, honour and cherish one another...in times of joy and in times of hardship...in sickness and in health...for as long as you both shall live?" He looks firstly at Michael, awaiting an answer.

"I will," he nods slightly, unable to contain his smile.

Then over at you, he awaits your answer. "I will," you smile before turning to glance at Michael lovingly.

The officiant smiles himself, sensing the pure love between the two of you, "you may now exchange your vows."

The room grows even quieter than before. You carefully pass your bouquet to Huda who immediately hands over the paper containing your vows. You unfold it, quietly clearing your throat, you glance up to wait for Michael.

Meanwhile, Michael confidently turns to his brothers. Expecting his own, he's only met with silence as Jermaine looks at Tito. Tito looks at Randy. Randy looks at Jackie. They all stat checking their pockets. Nothing.

The guests begin laughing at the scene as you cover your mouth to hide your amused smile. And of course, the cameras catch everything. Michael looks horrified, "you lost it?"

"We didn't lose it," Jermaine comes into defence, continuing to look for them.

"Then where is it?"

Randy suddenly stops. His hand dives into his pocket as his eyes widen. "Oh," he presses his lips together, "I found it." He finally hands over the folded piece of paper as the guests begin to applaud immediately. Even the officiant is laughing now.

Michael drops his head, you find him smiling at the situation. "This family," he mutters as you shake your head slightly with a quiet laugh.

He clears his throat, glancing up at you for a brief second before returning his gaze to the paper. "Y/N..." he begins, "before you, I spent a lot of my time searching for peace. And somehow, I found it in you. You have given me patience, laughter, and a love I never thought I deserved. You make every place feel like home. You make every day better simply by being in it."

Your eyes remain fixed on Michael as he speaks so gently about you, stinging slightly as they threaten to spill tears. He continues, "and I promise that for the rest of my life...I will love you, protect you, support you, and remind you everyday just how much you mean to me. You are my best friend. My family. And my greatest blessing."

Your vision blurs slightly. Blinking rapidly, you attempt to stop the tears before they fall. The effort is completely useless as the second you look at Michael properly, and the nervous smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, the hopeful look in his eyes, the way he's still holding your hand as if letting go isn't possible, a tear escapes anyway.

Michael immediately laughs softly. He's clearly been trying very hard not to cry himself. "Are you okay?" He whispers. You nod quickly despite neither of you believing it.

The officiant smiles warmly, "I believe it's your turn."

Your stomach immediately flips. Finally releasing his hand, you begin reciting the vows. The ones you wrote three separate times. The ones you've been carrying in your drawer beneath a folded piece of fabric. How are you supposed to fit everything you feel into a few paragraphs?

Your hands shake slightly from the overwhelming reality of the moment. Michael watches you patiently the entire time. You take one final breath before beginning. "My dear Michael," you stifle a laugh as he immediately smiles, "you've changed my life in ways I never expected. Not because of who the world sees, but because of who you are when nobody else is looking. You are kind, generous, patient, and you love with your whole heart."

"I promise to stand by you. To be honest with you. To support your dreams. And to remind you of your worth whenever you forget it. I promise to laugh with you. Grow with you. And build a life with you. Today and always. I choose you."

By the time you're finished speaking, neither of you are pretending not to cry anymore. The room has completely given up trying to stay composed as well. Several tissues have appeared. Janet is openly crying, still attempting to take photographs.

Michael reaches for your hand again as if he's been waiting the entire time. The officiant maintains his warm smile. "Beautiful," he whispers under his breath, pausing briefly before announcing, "and now, the rings."

A fresh wave of excitement moves through the room. Suddenly, it's becoming real. Official. Permanent. Michael straightens slightly. You immediately recognise the expression.

Jourdynn, Jermaine's son and Michael's 6-year-old nephew, is the ring bearer. The cushion resting carefully across his lap suddenly becomes the most important object in the room. His eyes widen slightly at everyone looks at him.

Michael immediately smiles, understanding his shyness, he whispers, "it's okay." The reassurance seems to help as Jourdynn slowly stands up from his seat, holding the cushion with both hands as if he's transporting something made entirely from glass.

The room collectively melts. A few guests laugh softly. Janet takes another photograph. He reaches Michael, proudly presenting the cushion, he accepts it carefully, "thank you." Michael gently smooths a hand over Jourdynn's hair. A small, affectionate pat. The kind that comes completely naturally to him.

The little boy beams instantly. Clearly unsure as to whether he is supposed to leave, he stands still. You smile, "thank you." Lifting Michael's ring from the cushion, you gently squeeze Jourdynn's shoulder before he can retreat back to his seat, "you're doing a very important job."

His face instantly lights up. The kind of smile only children can manage. Entirely genuine and proud, he returns to his seat.

Gold bands sit before you. They're beautiful. Timeless. Forever. The room suddenly feels quiet. More emotional. It's really happening. Michael lifts your ring first. Hands visibly shaking, he begins to fumble with slipping it onto your finger.

Eventually, the ring slides onto your finger. It's a perfect fit. For a moment, he just stares at it. As if he can't quite believe it. Seeing the ring there makes everything suddenly real. He lifts your hand and presses a kiss against your knuckles.

Your turn. Taking a steady breath, you hold onto his ring. Michael extends his hand immediately. Almost impatiently which enables you to laugh under your breath at his eagerness. Carefully, you slide the gold band onto his finger. The same finger you've imagined seeing it on for months. Michael looks down at it instantly. Turning his hand slightly beneath the light, a smile slowly appears across his face.

The officiant waits until the both of you look up. He clears his throat gently once again, "by the authority vested in me...I now pronounce you husband and wife."

The words settle over the room. For a second, neither of you move. It's official. No longer engaged, you're actually married. "Michael..." the officiant smiles widely, "you may now kiss your bride."

The room explodes into a frenzy of cheers, applause, and a few whistles. Huda screams somewhere in the background. Michael doesn't even hesitate as he moves closer. His hand lifts towards your face and settles gently over your cheek. You meet him halfway as your hands find his shoulders.

And finally, your husband kisses you. The room erupts even louder. People stand and begin to clap. But for a few seconds, with his forehead resting against yours, it feels as if the two of you are completely alone. Just husband and wife. Exactly as you've always hoped. You're both smiling too hard to properly function. Michael starts laughing, and so do you, neither of you being able to stop.

The officiant gestures towards the aisle, "Mr and Mrs Jackson." You cover your face at the name, in disbelief that it's actually being said. Michael looks down smiling widely.

"Husband and wife," Jermaine applauds. Huda passes the bouquet back over to you as cameras catch every second of the moment.

Finally, hand in hand, you begin walking back down the aisle together. All of the guests rise to their feet. Petals drift through the air. Tiny white rose petals thrown by Michael's excited nieces and nephews.

Some land in your veil. Some land on Michael's shoulders. A few get stuck in his hair. He doesn't even notice as he's too busy looking at you. His wife. The thought alone makes him emotional again.

Meanwhile, you're struggling to process any of it. The applause. Cheers. Smiles. Tears. It feels strangely distant. As if you're watching someone else's life unfold rather than your own. For so long, this kind of happiness felt impossible. Something that happens to other people and not you.

Yet somehow, here you are. Walking hand in hand with the man you love. A wedding ring on your finger. A baby growing beneath your dress. And an entire room full of people celebrating the life you're building with Michael.

Your vision blurs once again. Overwhelmed with gratitude, Michael notices immediately, "are you crying?"

"Maybe," you laugh through the tears, lightly bumping your shoulder against his as he smiles.

As you pass the rows of chairs, you hear multiple congratulations follow from every direction. Katherine reaches out briefly, squeezing your hand. La Toya screams the loudest. Sydney openly cries into Mako's shoulder who gently pats her back. Yue raises her hands above her head, keeping up the applause. Huda wipes a tissue beneath her eyes.

You glance around the room, really taking a moment to look at everyone. The people who support you. Showed up. Loves you. It suddenly hits harder than ever. This isn't the beginning of a wedding. It's the beginning of marriage.

Without thinking, your hand tightens around Michael's. Almost immediately, he squeezes back. The camera follows as everyone gradually moves into one of Neverland's larger living rooms. Slowly settling into a comfortable kind of chaos around you. Conversations overlap. Children weave between adults. Janet continues to take photos despite her siblings’ complaints. The cameras quietly record everything.

The two of you sit down on a cream coloured couch. The loud environment doesn’t catch your attention as you’re too busy looking at Michael. The officiant carefully arranges the paperwork across the coffee table before offering you a pen, “ladies first.”

A few guests laugh. Michael gestures towards the documents, “go ahead.” Your head shakes slightly as you accept the pen. Drunk on excitement, you thoroughly sign your name where indicated. One signature, and then another, then initials. The officiant directs you through each section as Michael watches patiently beside you.

By the time you finish, your cheeks hurt from smiling, “all done.”

The officiant takes the pages before turning towards Michael, “your turn.” He immediately straightens. That alone causes you to smile even harder. He suddenly looks so serious. So focused. As if the paperwork is a mission which requires his complete concentration.

The fountain pen settles between his fingers. His brows knit together slightly and for the next few minutes, he becomes completely absorbed into the task. The room can probably catch fire and you’re convinced he won’t even notice.

“Mike,” Jermaine leans forward, hands intertwine behind his back, “it’s just your name.”

“I’m aware.”

The room laughs, Michael doesn’t even look up. Instead, he carefully studies the page once again. Making absolute certainty that every signature lands in exactly the correct space.

“You’re acting as if this is going to be graded,” Randy sighs, becoming impatient already.

“It’s important,” Michael argues, eyes never leaving the document.

You bite your lip at the sight of watching him take something so seriously. Your hands twist together in your lap. Then untwist. Then twist again. Your wedding ring catches the light every time you move. You can’t stop looking at it. You can’t stop looking at him either. Your feet rub together beneath the dress. A nervous habit. An excited one.

The fabric shifts softly around your ankles as you sit there practically vibrating with happiness. Every few seconds, the same thought returns. Over and over again. He’s your husband. The title still feels unreal. He’s sitting beside you with a wedding ring on his finger. Signing paperwork which officially binds your lives together.

Michael finishes one page. The officiant slides another towards him. Michael begins reading the entire thing before signing again. You laugh quietly as he glances sideways, smiling in equal amusement. The pen continues moving. Signature after signature. Every single one perfectly neat. Perfectly placed.

You observe the way his tongue presses against the inside of his cheek whenever he’s concentrating. The way he double checks details. The way he carefully adjusts the papers so they remain perfectly aligned. Honestly, you might be a little obsessed.

Eventually, the final document appears. The last signature. The last line. The last piece of paperwork. Michael carefully writes his name. Adding the date, he reviews it once and then twice before finally placing the pen down. The room applauds.

The officiant collects the papers with a satisfied smile. “Well,” he glances between the two of you, smiling widely, “congratulations.” Your heart jumps as he taps the completed documents lightly. “Everything has been signed,” he pauses, “you are now officially husband and wife.”

The room erupts into a series of cheers and applause. Beside you, Michael turns immediately towards you. For a second, he simply looks. Taking you in. As if hearing the words officially husband and wife has somehow made everything feel real all over again.

You can’t stop smiling and neither can he. The expression on his face grows almost completely overwhelmed with happiness. Then quietly, mainly to himself, he repeats, “my wife.”

Your entire face warms immediately, “your wife.” You barely finish speaking before Michael leans forward to press his lips against yours. The kiss is soft. Brief and spontaneous.

Around you, voices continue. Cameras keep rolling. Family members laugh. Children race between chairs. Somewhere in the room, someone begins crying again. Yet none of it feels distant.

For once, everything feels exactly where it’s supposed to be. Your hand remains in Michael’s. His wedding ring catches the light and so does yours. Husband and wife. The words still don’t feel real. But the smile on Michael’s face does. And that’s enough.

Tag list:

@akiraaa1239 @sabbiabbydabbywabbie @thsureya120 @michaelswife-jackson @secretlydeepruins @y-x1 @mysterioussag @thebabykashmere @sugarrushbell @naty-sunshine @tenshadows56

[bluemoonwalker]

[akiraaa1239]

Currently learning this dance. If I never upload again I might've broken every bone

[akiraaa1239]

Pairing: Michael Jackson x !make-up-artist reader

Summary: After one week of nothing you decide to contact Michael.

SFW: acquaintances to friends/possibly more?, playing twister, holding hands, eating cookies, meeting his parents, Joseph being a ass as always, Bubbles being a cutie and loving you, Louie the llama

Wordcount: 6.9k

Note: Been pretty busy lately so this took a little longer

Taglist: @appleheadannie @7viiseven @1nth3cl0set

Part 1

Masterlist

Read before requesting

One week. It's been one week since you had last seen or talked to Michael. He's been all over the news, women gushing over things you didn't even know about him.

The tissue with his number on it was rotting away next to your trim line. You really should call him.

But you're scared.

What if you say something wrong? What if he's too busy to talk and you just wasted that call?

Currently you were enjoying some of your mother's cooking, one of Michael's songs coming from the radio, your body moving unconsciously to the beat.

“Y/N.” You look up to see your mother. “Your bedroom's a mess. Clean it up before your dad comes home, you know how he is.”

You stuff your face with another spoonful of noodles before getting up. If any one of your parents found your little secret next to your trim line they'd throw it out, since it was just a simple tissue.

Your dad would more than your mom. He was a perfectionist, needing everything to be perfect. It was already hard enough that he didn't approve of your work as a makeup artist and this ‘dump', as he calls it, where you three live.

Just as your mother had said your room was a mess. You didn't really get to clean it up this week or take on the risk of embarrassing yourself on the phone.

This week alone you had a lot of clients. Your list full of gigs had you busy. That huge group of bridesmaids and their bride took a day total to get ready. Ever since you started freelancing a few years back, the women all around your neighborhood and their friends have come to you.

You make quick work of the mess and flop back onto your bed, eyes focused on the ceiling. Everything that was flooding your head was Michael, his eyes that reminded you of those paintings hanging in church. And that damned laugh, the dimples appearing every time he was grinning.

He was destroying you.

Somehow you found yourself sitting upright on the bed, the trimline in hand and the number already dialed.

Just one more click and you'd be connected to him.

Your finger was shaking right over the button, your face grimaced into something straight out of those comedies you saw on those TVs in the window displays.

The trembling gets so bad that you accidentally brush over the dial, starting the call. You yelp, nearly throwing the phone across the room.

“SHIT!”

You could hear the faint humming of the other end of the call, clearly trying to connect itself to whatever number this was.

“Hello..?” A quiet voice answers the call, making you rethink if you had dialed the wrong number. It was a woman's voice.

Immediately you pounce on the device, holding it to your ear to answer what sounded to be a middle aged woman.

“Y-Yeah, hi. Is.. uhm.. Is Michael home?”

The other end grows quiet before the woman replies just as confused. “Who is this?”

You pick at the cuticles of your free hand's fingers, upper lip nibbling at the lower one. “Oh, uhm.. It's Y/N. I-I was working with Michael on the Thriller set a-and did his make-up. He gave me this number.”

Dead silence.

That is until the woman laughs, either amused or relieved.

“Ah! Y/N. I did see your name somewhere in Michael's room just now.”

In his room?

You don't answer, too perplexed at the revelation. What could possibly be in his room that.. references you?

“Well, Y/N. Michael's a little busy with work, but I don't mind you coming around.” The woman's voice softens, the hint of a laugh in it making you feel.. warm. “I'm Katherine. His mother.”

Oh.

You expected anyone but his own mother to be the one to pick up the call.

“Oh.. Mrs. Jackson! I-I'm sorry I didn't know–”

“Oh, shush. Do you have a ride or need something to be put together?”

You stumble over your own words, tangling your index finger around the cord of the trimline. This was stupid. Maybe you shouldn't go.

But Michael..

He..

“Sure.”

The way your words flush out shock you, but you don't reclaim them. Katherine says something else, but only the most important details stick with you.

Ten minutes.

A car.

Michael.

You were gonna see Michael again.

You were gonna see Michael again!

After ending the call and thanking Katherine, you jump into your closet to find something suitable to wear. It wasn't just gonna be him, but his mother and possibly the whole family.

You couldn't wear something simple or over the top. Maybe that pencil skirt again? No. That wouldn't be good.

The room you had just cleaned was back to being a mess, but you finally find the perfect outfit to wear. With your thoroughly brushed hair rocking a blue sweater over a white shirt tucked into some jeans.

Just as Katherine had said, the car that was supposed to take you to Havenhurst stood there. It wasn't fancy, but looked well off nonetheless.

You hesitate, even more so as a guy gets out of the vehicle to open the door at the back for you. This was the start of every kidnapping if you've seen one.

What if it was the wrong number anyway?

The poker face that guy was wearing made you too scared to decline the ride, so you find yourself on the back seat of the black sedan.

Hayvenhurst wasn't as far as you had expected. It shouldn't be if the car could arrive in about ten minutes.

You watch in awe as you drive through the gates of the huge metropolis of the Encino neighborhood. The car isn't even halfway through when multiple hands slap against the window, making you recoil.

The driver doesn't seem to mind or notice, probably used to all this hysteria.

A crazy looking woman presses her face directly against the glass, trying to look inside. Luckily the windows were tinted, only making her see your silhouette.

“Who's that?!”

“A woman!”

The masses try to see into the car, slamming their hands onto the window in unison.

Fortunately the gates close behind the vehicle, relief flooding through your body.

The first thing you notice is the beautiful fountain in the center of the pathway, which reminds you a little of the yellow brick road from the Wizard of Oz, just on grey.

The house looked vintage and mystical, very huge in comparison to your small nest. Your side of the car opens and the driver steps aside to let you out.

You could swear your eyes were turning into stars and hearts with how amazed you were.

This didn't feel real.

“Y/N!”

At the sound of your name you turn to see a woman, a bit smaller in height than you, approach you. You don't even get a word out when she's already skin to skin, embracing you like a long lost daughter.

Your arms awkwardly pat on her back, an even more awkward laugh emitting from your chest.

Who you believe to be Katherine pulls back to take a good look at you, her hands coming up to frame your face. “You're even prettier than on paper.”

Now you really didn't know what to reply.

Katherine lets go of you, realizing how weird this moment must be for you. “Oh, I'm sorry, my dear. Michael's been all over the place since filming that movie.”

You're lost for words, a small hint of a smile forming on your lips. The thought of this sweet young man thinking of you makes your heart flutter. This was something you've always wanted.

“Now come on. I'll show you around while we wait for Michael.” Katherine moves behind you, placing a hand on your back to guide you into their home.

You walk past many workers, greeting them with quiet words and smiles. What shocked you was what kind of exotic animals lived with the Jacksons. As a giraffe walked by you you nearly lost your ability to stand. It was like a different world. Something completely different to your neighborhood where the only animals that you saw on the streets were dogs and thugs.

The inside of the house was just as huge as the outside. Two large staircases lead up to the second floor while the foyer itself has more space than your own room.

Katherine pulls you out of your trance by wrapping an arm around your shoulders. Her smile felt inviting. “You want something to drink?”

“O-Oh.. Uhm.. Sure.”

You watch her disappear into what you believe to be the kitchen, a slight limp in her walk.

You take the chance to explore the downstairs a little bit.

The first spot you look around is the room right next to the foyer, landing you right in what seemed to be a study.

So many pictures that made you happy to see this side of one of the most famous families in the US. You immediately recognise Michael in one of the photos, arm in arm with one of his sisters.

They look happy.

You were about to graze your hands over his face when Katherine surprises you with her presence once again.

“Michael's gonna be happy to see you.” She hands you a glass of water with a single lemon slice.

You nibble at it, still looking at the pictures with a fond glint in your eyes.

The silence that follows gets interrupted by a yelp escaping you as something throws itself at your leg, nearly knocking you to the ground. Some of the water you were drinking did get spilled a little.

At first you think it's either a cat or dog, seeing how many animals the family owned. But to your surprise.. it was a little monkey.

“Oh, Bubbles! Aren't you supposed to be upstairs?” Katherine looks down to the little monkey, who hides behind your legs.

You place your glass on the shelf next to you, kneeling down to take a good look at Bubbles. He was adorable.

“Hi, little guy..”

Bubbles makes quiet sounds, circling you in curiosity. You were just kneeling there so you wouldn't scare him. Suddenly he pounces on you, but not to attack rather cling onto you like a child. The whole moment makes you smile from ear to ear, holding the little chimp to your chest.

You stand up with Bubbles in your arms. “He's adorable.”

“He is.” Katherine pats the little monkey's head. “Michael saved him from those terrible experimentation factories.”

Bubbles keeps his arms wrapped around your neck, the diapers around his waist reminding you of a little child. He is a child. Hearing what he was treated like before being rescued made you think of how so many other animals probably died because of experiences like that.

“Poor thing..”

Katherine only smiles at your words before motioning out of the living room. “Why don't we wait outside for Michael?”

The sun was already high up in the sky as you step out, reflecting on the huge pool not further away.

Bubbles plays with your hair as you carry him after Katherine, tugging at it just enough to get your attention.

A sound behind you gains it instead and as you turn you see a llama being lead by one of the workers. He walks past you and into what looked like to be its enclosure.

“That's Louie.” Katherine appears next to you, having noticed your shocked expression. “Michael bought him about a year ago.”

You smile at the thought of seeing Michael later.

Louie huffs, his head turning to you after being freed of the leash. The moment you two now seemed to have making you stand still, not wanting to scare him. His eyes find yours, or you at least think they do.

With a shaking right hand, the other still holding Bubbles, you move forward to rest it between those eyes that entrance you.

“Ah, Michael!” Katherine's soft voice grows in volume and as you look back you see her waving.

“Mother, what's Bubbles doing here?”

That voice. You immediately recognize it. It was soft and higher than your usual. And as you try to overcome your nervousness and stop hiding behind his mother his eyes widen just as you had expected.

“She just came out to surprise you.”

Both of you ignore Katherine's words, too shy to even say a word.

“Y-Y/N!”

“H-Hi Michael..”

“I'll leave you both to it.”

Katherine chuckles warmly, patting you back and rubbing over Bubbles head, who tries to grab her hands the moment she does. “It was nice meeting you, Y/N.”

You shyly wave at her retreating figure, kind of scared now that you were alone with Michael.

Bubbles himself wiggles out of your grasp, extending his arms to Michael who immediately takes him.

Traitor.

Once again you have to remind yourself to say something and NOT make this awkward.

“H-He's.. uhm.. He's sweet.” You point to Bubbles.

Michael adjusts his hold on him.“Yeah.. heh.. He's always with me actually.” His grin just wouldn't disappear, either of nervousness or he truly was happy to see you.

He quietly motions for the two of you to continue walking, keeping a respectful distance. So you do and you take a stroll through Hayvenhurst's huge garden, which wasn't as big as you had imagined. It was still beautiful, but you could see where the family's patriarch's priorities lie.

Michael takes a breath. “So..” He clears his throat. “Did you find here okay?”

Butterflies form in your stomach. “Yeah.. uhm.. your mom sent a cab.” The edges of your lips wouldn't stop tugging themselves up.

Michael only nods, stopping for Bubbles to wiggle out of his arms and explore the small garden on his own. The two of you stand there. You couldn't help your nails digging into your upper arm, trying to endure this awkwardness.

“Nice garden.”

Mental facepalm. Stupidstupidstupid.

“Thanks.”

Silence.

Why did you even come here in the first place?

“Alice.” You suddenly stand there as straight as a candle.

“What?”

“A-Alice! The book. Did you.. read it?” You swear you were gonna puke with how warm your body was getting.

“Oh! Yeah. It reminds me a little of Neverland.”

You don't say anything, too rooted into place to even move a muscle, just smiling like the idiot you are.

You decide to fidget with your fingers, the air cool yet giving you little room to breathe. Why did you decide to wear two layers again? You tuck at the collar, trying to not look like you were about to pass out.

Bubbles plays with some flowers, jumping up and down in excitement. You unconsciously smile, watching the little monkey act like a real child. He suddenly runs back to you two, stopping in front of you to show you a red petal.

“Whatchu got there?” You kneel down to his level, taking the hand he had the pedal in to take a look at it. “Oh, how beautiful.”

You rub over his head, heart leaping in your chest at how adorable he was acting. He jumps into your arms, squealing. Then he decides to show Michael, who was watching you both very intently.

Only seconds after pouncing into Michael, Bubbles runs back to the house.

“Uh oh.” Michael gets up from where he sat previously, a very concerned smile on his face. A smile that never ever seems to break no matter how serious the situations are. “We should follow him.”

You move a few seconds after he had disappeared into the back door of the house. It was fairly easy finding Michael, who was calling Bubbles from upstairs. The upper floor wasn't as heavily decorated as downstairs, but it had a charm to it.

“Bubbles get down!”

You follow the voice to a half open door, which leads into Michael's bedroom. It was cluttered, albums and instruments adorning every nook and cranny your eyes could reach.

The shelves were just packed with vinyls and books, your fingers tracing over every single one in awe. A small piano stood against one wall, tiny enough to probably carry around the upper floor. Your fingers carefully hover over the keys, hesitant of pressing down to create sounds.

From the corner of your eye you see the desk where a lot of paper and other things were stacked on the other. You get closer to it, brushing aside what looked to be scratch papers with lyrics. Under that you find a notebook, which reminded you of the one Michael had shown you a few weeks back.

A page was just laying there, begging to be seen. You only see the lower part of a face, a name under it.

Y/N

Your eyes widen, your nail hooking under another paper hiding the full sketch. Before you could see the complete thing a hand pulls it away from the desk, roughly shutting it.

Michael's face was as red as a tomato, Adam's apple bobbing up and down. “That's private.”

Your eyes widen, mouth forming into an ‘o'. “Oh, sorry.. I-I–”

“It's fine.”

“No, I shouldn't have–”

“It's fine.”

Your shoulders sag down in defeat, not wanting to continue arguing about something that would lead to more problems. Why were you so nosey to begin with?

You walk past Michael, who was frantically trying to clean up the mess he had created,muttering something under his breath you couldn't quite catch.

Instead of standing there dumbfounded you look more around the room.

The first thing you get your hands on was an album, Thriller to be exact. Your fingers trace over his face. Something heavy suddenly tips over from a shelf Bubbles was exploring, causing you to kneel next to the monkey.

“You okay?” Bubbles only looks up at you with big puppy-like eyes. You check him for any bruise before picking up what looked like a game. “Oh, what have you got there?”

Bubbles points on the cover where the huge letters spell out ‘Twister' in multiple colors.

“I bought it some time ago.”

Your head turns at the sound of Michael's voice, which didn't sound as excited as you expected.

“I haven't really played it yet.” He nervously scratches at his nape.

“Why not? Don't you have.. friends or what about your siblings?” Your heart feels heavier somehow, that sad expression on his face undeniable.

The words somehow came out in a way you didn't want to.

Your free hand flies up. “I'm sorry! That sounded wrong..”

“It's alright, I get you.” His soft tone remains, that smile never wavering.

Your eyes move back down to the cover of the box, an idea flashing through your head. The lightbulb was already high up and visible. Michael doesn't seem to notice though, his focus back on Bubbles who was already climbing up onto another shelf.

You remember the times your parents would invite some friends and family, the love for Twister being the one thing all of you had in common and from Michael's demeanor that was the case for him too.

Instead of asking straight from the get go, you kneel down to unpack the game.

“What are you doing?” Michael asks, stopping right in front of you.

“Playing.”

“Alone?”

“No, you're playing too.”

You raise your head to see Michael trying to suppress a grin. He quickly helps you set everything up, having to move stuff that was in the way.

“Do you even know how to play it?” He frowns.

Now you frown, gasping dramatically at the sheer audacity. The awkward tension between you calms just a little. “Do I KNOW?! Mister.. Of course I do. I'm THE Twister-champion!”

Michael's room is filled with laughter and playful jabs.

“HEY! Stop cheating!”

“I'm not! I have blue!”

“Blue?! You have green!”

“What? No I--oh. Sorry.”

You both end up collapsing after Bubbles jumps onto your back. Michael's hand, which was close to you, loses its grip and he lands directly on top of you. You turn your body so you lay on your own back.

Oh God.

His face was directly over yours.

You swear you could smell bubblegum on him, mixed with caramel popcorn. The tiny space between you burns hotter than ten suns, his breath fanning over your face.

Both of you didn't know how to react or what to say, the game you just played immediately forgotten. His hands support his weight, resting right next to your head.

“I'm sorry.” Michael flinches away, crawling backwards to create space between the two of you.

With a little help from pulling yourself up on a small stool next to the mess you both had created you sit up right. It was kind of adorable to see someone as Michael losing his shit and growing redder than a tomato.

You side eye Bubbles, whose mouth looked suspiciously close to grinning. Traitor.

“It's not your fault.” You shift onto your knees. “That's actually the fun of Twister.”

His eyes meet yours again, communicating in a way.

“You know.. I always lose at it.”

“I thought you're the..“ He dramatically raises his hands in the air. ”..Twister-champion!”

“I lied.”

His jaw flies open, unable to suppress a chuckle.

You burst out laughing, nearly choking on your own spit. Michael can't help joining in until both of you are back on your backs, cackling like two hyenas. The tears burn brightly as you clutch your stomach. It takes a good few seconds to calm with a heavy sigh before flopping back onto your belly to stare at the top of Michael's head.

Seeing him so happy made you happy.

You knew so little of him yet felt so smitten. And not because he was Michael Jackson, no. Just knowing the fact that he enjoys the things you enjoy made you feel less lonely.

“Soooo..” Michael's head tilts up at the sound of your voice, seemingly awestruck at how close you were. “How was your day? Did you record some new songs?”

His eyes sparkle as he mentally recounts today, turning so he could face you fully. The first thing coming to mind was the little baking session with his mom this morning and that little fight with LaToya which was already the standard between the two.

But did he really want to burden you with so much stuff? What if these things weren't that interesting to you?

Yet the way you were looking at him.. it was hard to miss those sparkling eyes. The moment he saw you on set about a week ago he knew you were special. You were certainly no Diana Ross or Brooke Shields, but that was what made you special. Just a girl with her smile and charm.

“I made some cookies this morning..” His hand comes up to scratch his neck. “Hazlenut.”

You hum in delight, stomach already rumbling. It wasn't a secret that you were a big back, loving food more than most other things.

Michael notices, the dimples in his cheeks growing. It was kind of adorable to see you so excited for something simple as cookies. His index finger taps on the mat under you both, thinking of how to keep you entertained. This was the closest he's come to having a friend over who wasn't there for the sole reason of being picked by his father to keep his status upright. Someone who at first glance wasn't just there because she was asked to or because it was a chance to pry into some famous guy's private life.

"We can get some." He giggles. “Let's just hope Janet hasn't eaten all of them.”

You watch him get up to his feet, dusting his palms off on his pants. Just as you were about to do the same you see his hand shoot out to help you up, which you gladly take.

Michael smiles nervously, not meeting your eyes. “We can clean up later. Come on.”

You follow him back downstairs, where a lot of maids were cleaning the foyer and dining room. Of course you were wondering what the occasion was but don't ask Michael or Katherine, who waves to you from one of the rooms you pass by.

The kitchen wasn't huge per se, but polished to the smallest detail. Michael opens a cupboard to rummage through it. He quickly finds the cookie tin and opens it directly in front of your eyes, or rather.. nose.

Smelling good was an understatement. They not only look good, but the pronounced hazelnut smell was driving you crazy. “Wow..”

Michael's lips tug up at one side, smirking at your reaction. He shoves the box closer to you, motioning you to take one, which you do. You eye him from the side before taking a bite.

And oh God.

It tastes like heaven, the crunch making you all giddy inside.

“Ohhh.. you made these?!”

“Yeah.” He chuckles. “Mother and me.”

You roll your eyes while a pleasurable sound escapes your lips. It was almost ridiculous. “Take that tin away or the cookies are gone.”

Michael snorts, but doesn't do what you asked him to do. “Let's eat all of them then.”

You pause while chewing, nearly choking as he pulls you through the halls by your arm until you land outside.

Ending up in his studio wasn't on your plan for today, but being there was kind of an honor. He lets you enter like it was your home rather than his personal studio.

The only thing he does warn you about was getting crumbs on all the buttons and sliding thingys you were more than curious about.

“What does this one do?” You point to one of the sliders while munching happily on your third cookie.

Michael’s fingers hover over said slider,pushing it up a little. A recording of his voice echoes off of the studio, a little bit more high pitched. “This one pitches my voice a little higher, which is how I get some of my background melodies.”

You only nod, more focused on licking out the hazelnut cream.

“Are they that good?”

Your mouth was full but you couldn't help whining on and on. “I desperately need the recipe.. Like.. right now.”

Both of you spend your time laughing, munching on cookies until they're gone and just sharing things you didn't even think to share.

You shift a little in your seat, moving your legs up so they are pressed against your chest and that you could sit sideways. The room was quiet, not as awkward as expected, yet comforting on a calming level.

Even if you felt safer than earlier you couldn't help fidget with pieces of your clothes.

“How's your work going?” He raises one eyebrow. “You do work outside of the gig, right?”

You sit up right, arms wrapped around one knee. “Oh.. yeah. I work from home or go to some clients' homes to do what I do.”

“And is it fun?”

Your smile fades a little, shoulders sagging a little. It was a valid question, yet why did it feel weird having it asked? With a frown you just nod, but it was obvious underlying feelings plagued you.

This time Michael couldn't keep quiet.

“What's wrong?”

You felt bad making him worry, a smile (even if fake) appears on your face. “Oh, nothing.”

“You sure?” He leans forward in his seat to take a look at you. “It doesn't look like it's nothing.”

You sigh, resting your arm on your lap so you could hold your face in your hand. He was pretty sharp you gotta admit. “Well.. It is fun, but..”

“But?”

With a deep breath you sit straight, thinking through what to say. “You see.. I'm sure you never expected to do singing professionally.”

He frowns. “Well no, but.. what do you mean?”

Another deep breath and you swing yourself to your feet, strolling through the room like you owned it. “I never wanted to do make-up, but still ended up where I am. And I do have fun.”

“But?”

You shrug, turning to look at him with a sad smile plastered on your face. “But.. Nothing ever works out.”

Michael frowns. His thoughts were running miles an hour. Meeting you has been the most fun thing in a while, but he hadn't ever thought about your struggles. Now that he thinks about it he did find it weird that you let him drop you off in the middle of nowhere after the last day on Thriller.

“What happened?”

His question makes you lean back on the soundboard, heart heavy in your chest. You've never really talked about yourself or about anything really. Now that he's noticed that he is beginning to grow a lot more curious about you as a person.

“Life happened.” You tap your foot on the ground, straightening your posture just a little. “Life's not always fair.”

Michael huffs out a small chuckle, nodding at your words before getting up from his seat. “You don't have to say that twice.” He slowly strides in your direction, hesitant with how close he was allowed to be. His hand slowly comes up to brush over your knuckles, that have found their way to your lap again.

Your hands flinch on instinct, making him retract his own. “Sorry.”

An embarrassed smile tugs at your lips, cheeks heating at the short contact of his soft and warm touch. Instead of removing himself from your space he leans against the sound board next to you, his hand dangerously close to yours after you had put it down to support your body weight.

“What would you do instead of.. well.. make-up?”

Michael's voice softens impossibly, something you've never thought he was capable of. His eyes couldn't stop studying your side view, almost as if he was tracing every line and flaw, but from his point of view there was none. You were flawless.

“Modeling.”

You think he was gonna question you, make fun of your unreachable dream like so many have before. It was true. Modeling was what you always wanted to do, but were unable to with your lack of wealth and experience.

“I always wanted to be like these models in magazines. Everytime, as a kid, I passed a booth with one on the cover. I just wanted it to be me.”

You turn your head away from him.

“But it can't be.”

Something warm envelops your hand,making you look up with wide eyes. Michael was smiling back at you with that warm glance that looked to be only meant for you.

“Everything can be.” He intertwines his fingers with yours. “If you just let it be.”

The silence that follows for once isn't awkward. It's as pleasantly warm as his touch and sweet as he himself was.

“What happened that you didn't pursue your dream?”

“Well.. We're not that well off and.. my dad he's pretty strict. I'm sure you know that feeling.”

Michael immediately nods, huffing out another chuckle.

You shift a little against the soundboard. “When I was younger I found out my mom used to do small model gigs and just seeing her so carefree on photos that were hidden away.. It made me think of how it would be like..” You take a deep breath. “..if it was me.”

Even as you look back down to your feet his eyes try to meet yours, leaning forward to keep looking at you.

“You can do anything if you set your mind to it, Y/N.”

You can't help your eyes not wanting to break contact, eyebrows tugged up at how vulnerable you felt.

Just as you were about to go further the studio's door slams open, making both of you flinch apart. Michael stands straight, going to confront anyone who was disturbing your peace. You clearly had watched him flip the do not disturb sign just earlier.

You hide behind his back, even more so as you see it being his dad who had just invited himself in.

“Doesn't look like workin' to me, Kat.”

You peek around to see Katherine behind the man, clearly looking like she wanted to hold him back but was unable to do so.

“Explain this, boy.” Joseph suddenly moves past a shaking Katherine, pointing at you with such anger in his eyes. “Who's this?”

Michael keeps an arm in front of you, the same anger coating his expression. He didn't even need the words to express how disrespected he felt from how his father was acting.

“You're supposed to focus on your music, not some girl.” Joseph pronounces the last words rather harshly. Michael frowns, clearly having taken more offence than you. You knew about how strict Joseph was, it was obvious from some interviews you've seen.

“She's not just some girl.”

“Oh, what else is she then? Holy Mary?”

Michael's shoulders tense, upset at how his father was treating you. You put one hand on them to calm him down, having him look at your overly relaxed expression. “It's alright. I don't mind going, we can talk on the phone.”

“No. I won't just let him kick you out like that.”

“It's not kicking out if I'm leaving on my own accord.”

“Y/N..”

You immediately shut him up with your hands enveloping his, smiling up at him as if you were carefree. When you turn to look at his parents you nearly broke into another smile when you saw Katherine do the same, just hiding it so Joseph wouldn't crash out. Speaking of him, he was fuming at how provocatively you were touching his son.

Michael doesn't argue and just leads you outside, past his father whose whole face was twisted with pure rage. You on the other end were kind of enjoying it, having Michael ignore his father just as much as you ignored your own whenever he had his episodes.

An older man was waiting outside, who Michael stops in front. He doesn't talk to him, wanting to first check on you.

“I'm sorry.“

You shake your head. “Sorry about what? That your dad's..” You lean in his direction to whisper the rest. “..a tyrant?”

Michael laughs at your words, warning your heart just a fraction, if that was even possible with how giddy you felt. His focus turns to the older man, one hand moving to your upper back. You swear the air is getting thicker.

“Bill, could you accompany her home?”

Bill only nods once, motioning to the car.

You now had to say your goodbyes to Michael. It wasn't even that long of a visit which made you already miss him. With a heavy heart you turn to him. His expression matched yours, all puppy eyed and sad.

“I’ll call you once I'm home.” You muster a smile,even more so at his hands holding yours.

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

You distance yourself from Michael, waving to him before turning to leave. Not even a few steps away you already miss him. You do the unthinkable and stop in your tracks.

Deep breath.

Very deep breath.

You turn back, face to face with him. It takes a lot of strength to run back to him and give him a small kiss on the cheek. He's stiff immediately, the spot where your lips had brushed tickling so bad that he had to cover it with his hand.

“I'll see you later.”

His lips twitches, not sure if it wants to decide to smile or to pout at how overwhelmed he was. Even minutes after you've left, out of his eyes, he couldn't help just standing there. It is when his parents exit the studio behind him that he finally snaps out of it.

“You better not bring that girl here again, boy. She's distracting you.”

The whole warm feeling leaves in an instant as he hears his father badmouth you.

“Joseph.. “

“Quiet, Katherine!”

Michael turns back to them, rage in his eyes. His father does this everytime Michael was even a fraction happier, ripping him away from the joy like some vaccum sucking all the life out of him.

“Enough. You don't get to tell me who I hang out with and what I do with my freetime!”

“Free time? Boy, you ain't got no free time. Your only purpose is to be the eye candy to these people out there.” Joseph points in direction gate, where Michael could hear the screams of his die hard fans.

He wasn't wrong. His whole life, ever since he started humming tunes as a kid, was covered in that unending spotlight he sometimes didn't even want.

But you were the only light he currently wanted. You didn't see him as something to fawn over, not visibly at the very least. Like a breath of fresh air.

Michael knew arguing with Joseph would be as effective as teaching Bubbles to count to one hundred. Hmm.. That would be more likely than Joseph ever listening to something other than money related stuff. So he just walks back to the house, ignoring everything his father threw his way.

“Boy, come back here! I ain't done!”

Michael walks back to his room, desperately awaiting that one phone call.

[appafanclub]

Chapter 9

Michael Jackson x Fem!Reader

Summary: Wedding dress shopping, filming a music video, and fan interactions <33

W/C: 8.7K

3rd of August 1995

Your phone begins ringing, unzipping your purse to retrieve it, you answer immediately, "hello?"

"Where are you?" Huda can be heard on the other end, providing no warm greeting, "we're all outside the boutique.

"Chuck," you call the chauffeur. He looks up at the rearview mirror to show he's listening, "how far are we?"

"Should be about two minutes ma'am," he smiles politely.

"Thank you," you reciprocate his smile, bringing your phone back to your ear to relay the new information, " two minutes, Huda."

"Alright," she sighs as if she's been standing there for years, "see you soon."

"See you soon," you repeat her words, excited for the occasion, you end the call and place the brick phone back into your handbag.

Desmond, your very own personal bodyguard, takes his sunglasses from the collar of his shirt and places them onto his face. Preparing to look intimidating for anyone who tries to get close to you.

You think back to the moment Michael suggested hiring security for you whenever you want to go out and leave Neverland.

It was a few days ago when he brought it up. You just came out of the bathroom, having washed your face for the night, he was lying in bed.

The television broadcasts a nature documentary. You just about catch two tortoises preparing to make love as Michael changes the channel and a game show host replaces the attention onscreen. "We'll just leave them to it," Michael laughs under his breath.

Your head shakes in an attempt to brush off the image you saw. Smiling at his words, you pour a moisturising serum into your hands. Walking towards the bed Michael is in, you take a seat by his legs under the duvet cover and begin gently patting what's in your hands into your skin.

Michael watches you instead of the television. One hand is behind his head as the other smooths over his face in thought. "I've been thinking," he begins, catching your attention away from the screen and towards him. "I want you to have your own security."

"No," you immediately reply, laughing with wide eyes at his suggestion. You rub the excess serum over your exposed arms as Michael rolls his eyes whilst you're not looking.

"Baby," he whispers softly, leaning forward, wanting you to hear him out, "people know who you are now."

You stop for a second, looking over at Michael who places an affectionate hand on the small of your back, "so?"

"People are going to follow you," he explains, speaking from experience, "they know you're pregnant now."

"I don't need someone following me around," you refer to the security, standing up from the bed as Michael's hand drops to the covers as you leave.

You walk towards a mirror which stands beside a wall, finding your Vaseline and applying it to your lips. "Yes you do," Michael resumes his position against the headboard, turning to look at you from the bed.

"I'm not a celebrity," you look at him for a brief second through the mirror.

"You kind of are," he tilts his head, debating the idea. You turn around completely, hating the idea of being a celebrity, Michael looks up, "if something happens when I'm not there..."

He doesn't finish his sentence, unable to fathom even imagining any harm being inflicted on you. You walk towards him, understanding the crisis he must be in, you lift your leg over the duvet and sit on it.

He takes your hands in his, "please," he looks into your eyes, "do it for me."

You're quiet for a second, grasping his reasons, you agree, "okay." He releases a small sigh of relief, bringing your hand up to press a gentle kiss against it.

It's Desmond's first day working with you. Michael introduced you to him just as you were about to leave. Completely unaware that Michael had even began looking for options already, you think back to earlier this morning. When you awkwardly extended your arm to greet him and he hesitantly shook it back as if you weren't the person he's supposed to be protecting.

The ride towards the boutique has been quiet. You've made an effort to spark a conversation through asking about his day to which he only provided a one word answer, "okay."

He's far from nervous. He seems cautious. As if he's waiting for someone to pounce onto the car roof; enabling him to spring into action.

Just as Chuck calculated, you arrive outside the boutique in the two minutes he predicted. You find your friends Huda, Sydney, and Yue waiting outside.

Before you can even reach for the door, Chuck is already outside and opening it for you. Desmond checks for oncoming traffic before getting out himself, looking around for anything that can be seen as a threat as he walks to your side.

"Hi," you cheerily greet your friends, adjusting the strap of your handbag over your shoulder.

"Hi," Sydney says back, looking suspiciously over at Malik, "who's this?"

Looking back at him, you decide to introduce everyone, "this is Desmond, and this is Sydney, Yue, and Huda," pointing at each woman who wave a polite hand.

"Nice to meet you," he nods his head, "Mr Jackson wants me to keep anyone from bothering her."

"Michael hired you?" Huda's brows raise, "that makes more sense."

"Yeah," you smile in agreement at how protective he is, absentmindedly rubbing your hand over your stomach.

"Well," Yue changes the subject, "let's go inside."

You've dedicated the day towards wedding dress shopping. Occasionally, at home, you look through bridal catalogues to see what's in season and gain somewhat of an idea towards what you would like to wear.

Michael's mom recommended this boutique in Beverly Hills for you to try on some dresses and hopefully order one.

You've decided to bring some close friends along to help with the task and provide their input. Sydney is someone you've been friends since your days of working as a CNA.

You remember the exact moment the two of you met. It was a tiring shift, like all days, when you were just 22-years-old; before you met Michael. Understaffed. Overworked. Running entirely on caffeine. By 2pm, you've already been yelled at on three occasions. Twice by patients and once by a nurse.

Whilst carrying a fresh set of linens down the hallway, you hear it. A very loud voice coming from one of the individual rooms, "no!"

You immediately sigh, knowing exactly who it belongs to - Mr Dawson. 83-years-old. Stubborn. Difficult. And singularly convinced that every woman in the building exists for his entertainment.

You step into the doorway, finding another CNA already standing there. A woman you've never seen before. Dark hair and arms folded. Expression completely fed up. Meanwhile, Mr Dawson points at her dramatically, "I said no!"

She continues staring at him, "okay."

Mr Dawson blinks, not anticipating that answer, "I don't want a woman helping me."

"Okay," she repeats, unbothered.

You press your lips together, turning slightly to hide your laugh. The woman finally notices your presence, exchanging a look which highlights her complete exhaustion from dealing with this guy.

He begins pointing, "you."

"Me?" Your brows raise at his gesture.

"Yeah," he smirks, eyeing your body whole, "get in bed with me."

Your eyes widen, completely mortified with his bold command as the other CNA looks ready to laugh, "afraid I can't do that, is there anything else you need?"

"Useless," he scoffs, "fetch that nurse which gave me a bath."

The two of you look at each other, shuddering at his filthy words and attitude. Despite reporting his perverted behaviour to the company, nothing is done to control it. In the end, female CNAs are forced to just endure it.

You leave the room alongside the other woman who follows. Catching up to you, she matches your pace, "I'm Sydney."

"Y/N," you smile, extending your hand to shake hers. The two of you find a quiet space to escape the overwhelming environment for a second. Sydney leans against the nurse's station as you use the wall to support yourself, releasing a tired, pent up breath.

After a long moment of silence to recollect your thoughts, Sydney speaks up, "it's my first day."

You smile, brows knitting together in sympathy, "I'm sorry about that," you refer to the encounter with Mr Dawson, "they're not all like that."

"Good," she wipes the sweat away from her forehead, "otherwise I'd quit." You laugh again.

After this day, you never stopped talking. Sharing lunch breaks and shifts together, bad days gradually became easier with her by your side.

Yue is Sydney's sister-in-law. She's twenty six which is three years younger than you and the others. Eventually, after overcoming her initial shyness, she joined the friend group.

Years later, you're all standing outside of an expensive bridal boutique, almost impossible to believe that you've watched everyone grow over these past few years.

The door opens and you all walk in. A woman, who looks to be probably in her forties, greets you, "Y/N?"

"Hi," you offer a polite smile.

"Congratulations," she moves around the counter to greet you properly.

"Thank you," you nod your head slightly.

She glances down at the clipboard in her hands before lifting some of the papers, eyes skimming through the written information, "we've been looking forward to meeting you."

The boutique is classy. Soft cream walls. High ceiling with engraved patterns. Large mirrors located on nearly every wall. Fresh flowers arranged throughout the showroom.

Yue's attention drifts briefly towards one of the dresses nearby to her. Eyes catching the tag, she pauses and leans closer just to ensure she read it correctly. "$12,400?" She whispers under her breath.

Huda overhears her words, walking to her side and viewing the dress herself, "for that price it should walk down the aisle itself."

"Huda," you click your fingers, trying to catch her attention, wanting everyone to listen to what the owner has to say.

"So," she begins talking, "do you have anything in mind you want to try on?"

"Well," your hand rests instinctively against your stomach, "by the time it's the wedding, I'll be seven months along."

"I'll keep that in mind," she nods, looking around, scoping for options, "try anything you'd like, we can make alterations nearer the time." She pauses again before making a realisation, "I'm Miranda by the way," she extends her hand, "I've done a few dresses for some of Michael's brothers' wives."

"Lovely to meet you," you shake her hand, "the wedding's going to be small," you explain, resting your finger against your chin at the image presented in your head, "close family and friends only."

She nods, listening carefully to your vision, "something elegant?" She summarises, you nod, "right...I definitely have a few dresses in mind."

Miranda walks towards a rack of multiple, differently styled wedding dresses. She flicks slowly through each one as they're too heavy to casually pass, eventually pausing on one, she carefully takes the hanger. Presenting it to you, she holds it up, arm shaking from the weight of the dress.

"I think you should try this one," her eyes squint, envisioning you wearing it.

"Thank you," you nod, following her to the fitting room as she saves you the hassle of carrying it yourself.

"If you need any help with putting it on, your friends and I will be right outside," she reassures before drawing the curtains to protect your privacy.

"Okay," you sigh to yourself, hands smoothing the fabric of the enormous skirt as you take in the sight, hanging high above you on the hook. Its neckline is off-the-shoulder, accompanied by layers upon layers of tulle and a long train lined with tiny pearls. Very fairytale.

You begin with taking off your handbag, resting it on the hook beside the dress, you finally manage to completely strip down to your underwear. Contemplating whether your bra should stay on, you decide to do so in case the leaking occurs out of nowhere and stains some very expensive outfits.

It takes a lot of effort to get the dress off of its hook, back already aching from the task, you ensure any zips are open to make it easier to try on. The fitting room can hardly hold your skirt as it's finally on. Weighing you down, you open the curtain and walk out to obtain everyone's opinions.

The dress enters the room before you do; it's quite overwhelming. One sudden wrong move and your bump will rip the fabric's stitches and expose everything.

Everyone immediately gasps. It's objectively stunning. Your hand automatically rests against your stomach. Miranda takes your hand, leading you towards the podium to carefully step onto it. Once you're stable, she adjusts the train to fall dramatically behind you.

"Beautiful, my dear, " she smiles as everyone watches the intricate, pearl details of the dress catch perfectly in the light.

"She is," Huda agrees, standing up from the couch her and the others were waiting for you on. She circles you, Sydney doing the same to effectively analyse it.

"It is gorgeous," you glance down, playing with the ruffles, "but I think I want something a lot more...simpler."

"I agree," Sydney nods, "I don't think you can even sit down."

Miranda takes your hand again, carefully stepping off of the podium and heading towards the couch Huda was previously sitting on. You try taking a seat. The skirt bunches. Your bump doesn't exactly fit. Everything looks and feels uncomfortable.

"Okay," you try getting up but eventually fail. Huda and Sydney each take one hand to gently lift you up from the couch. "This dress is too heavy," you breathe heavily from the strain of the task, "it's not meant for pregnant women."

Yue laughs quietly before turning her attention towards Miranda, "is there another option?" She nods, skimming through a different rack which is located on the other side of the room.

"I'll need some help taking this off," you look between them.

Huda nods reassuringly, "of course."

Just as you return to the fitting room, Miranda holds up a different dress, "a lot more simpler," she repeats your request, "and a lot of brides are choosing this style lately."

"Thank you," Huda smiles, taking it before drawing the curtain again. She hangs the new dress onto the hook which is beside the empty one you're currently wearing.

The fitting room is cramped with two people and a ginormous skirt filling it. "Okay," Huda pats your shoulders, unzipping the side of your dress and carefully removing it. Slowly sliding down your body, the dress pools around your legs as she tries collecting it into her hands.

You release a sigh of relief once it's completely off you, "I'm tired already."

"Come on," Huda tries cheering you up, taking the empty hanger and putting it through the dress as a way of reducing the clutter which is currently taking up the small room, "you've been looking forward to this for so long."

"I'm still excited," you smile again, reaching for the next dress, "I just hate having to try stuff on."

"I know," she understands your frustration, "I'll give this one back to Miranda."

You nod, moving into the corner as Huda slightly opens the curtain for Miranda to take the dress off her hands. You remove the hanger from the new dress provided. Finding this style very frequently on magazine covers, it's a lot easier to put on than the prior dress. However, it's the opposite problem. Sleek satin. Fitted silhouette. Delicate beading. Minimal train. Very sophisticated.

"I don't think this is the one," Huda's mouth purses to the side.

"I don't think so too," you nod in agreement, opening the curtain regardless to show everyone. Their faces immediately wince, including Miranda's. "Okay, so no one likes this one?" You laugh, reading their expressions.

It sits awkwardly around your bump. "You keep adjusting the dress," Yue notices, "your stomach's going to get bigger so it'll be a lot worse during the wedding."

"You're right," you nod, checking your side profile of the dress in the mirror, dissatisfied with its fitting on you.

"Um," Sydney hesitates before asking, "haven't you thought about getting married after the baby is born?"

"Not really," you answer truthfully, "Michael said he wants to do it as soon as possible." Miranda's already looking for another dress as you continue, "it's only going to be a small ceremony anyway. The only people from my side are you three, your boyfriend," you point at Huda and then at Sydney, "and your husband and mom." You turn to Yue, "have you given your mom the invite?"

"Yeah," she nods, pressing her lips together, "we'll see closer to the time how she's feeling."

"Of course," your brows knit together, understanding the circumstances, "it will mean a lot if she does come."

"She'll try her best," Yue honestly admits, grateful for your effort to include her mom.

"I have a good feeling about this one," Miranda returns to the couch, where you're all talking, holding up a dress, "very classy."

"It is," your eyes widen, taking the hanger and closing the curtains behind you once more.

"How has your mom been recently?" Huda sits down on the couch beside Yue. Almost a year ago, her mother was diagnosed with breast cancer.

"She's finally considered chemotherapy," Yue informs her of the details, "I've been taking her to a few sessions; hopefully it works out."

Huda nods, reaching her hand out to hers, "I'll keep her in my prayers." She turns to Sydney, "how's Mako handling it?"

Sydney's arms are crossed, pacing around the room, she's constantly looking down at the floor, "he's okay now...but at the beginning, he'd spend the whole day in bed, just a whole depressive episode."

The conversation abruptly ends as the curtains open to reveal you in the third dress. You take a step forward, no one says a word, you immediately become nervous, "what do you think?"

There's no answer as you make your way towards the podium. This dress feels different from the others. Somehow lighter. Easier. As if it was made to move with you rather than around you.

Soft ivory silk, empire lined waist, sitting comfortably above your bump. Delicate lace traces the bodice, disappearing into the skirt below. Off-the-shoulder sleeves rest gently against your arms. Nothing about it feels excessive. Or forced. It feels right.

Miranda makes her way to your side, helping you step onto the podium again. The skirt settles softly around your feet.

"Y/N..." Huda brings her hand up to cover her mouth in complete awe, "you look like a princess." She immediately moves towards you, analysing the dress once again. She opens her bag to retrieve a single tissue, dabbing her eyes.

"Stop," you laugh quietly, "you're going to make me start crying."

"I can't help it," her voice breaks. Sydney walks over to her side, wrapping an arm around Huda's shoulder and allowing her the space to cry as she wipes a few stray tears with the side of her finger.

You laugh at the sight in front of you, turning to the mirror again. For the first time, you can actually see it. Walking towards Michael as he waits for you. His expression when he looks up. Your eyes immediately sting at the image.

"What do you think, Desmond?" you ask for his opinion, finding his bored expression in the mirror as he stands near the entrance of the boutique.

"I don't know much about dresses," he laughs quietly under his breath, rubbing his palm against his forehead, "but this one looks nice."

"I think this one's perfect," Miranda adds, "but would you like to try on a few more?"

"Um...probably not."

"Are you sure?"

You observe your reflection for another second, with the biggest smile on your face, you conclude, "this is the one."

"Okay," Miranda nods. Your friends maintain their smile, happy with your choice to go ahead with this option. "Let's get some measurements."

The next few minutes are spent with Miranda circling around you with a measuring tape, writing down notes onto a clipboard. Bust. Waist. Hips. Then several measurements specifically around your bump. "We'll make this part a bit looser to allow some room for growth."

"Definitely," you laugh softly.

"How far along did you say you'll be on the wedding day?"

"Almost seven months," you remind her.

She nods, writing it down, "perfect. We'll make some adjustments closer to the date." She carefully pins several areas of the dress before stepping back to assess everything. Everyone watches as if they're supervising a construction project.

Eventually, Miranda lowers her clipboard, "I think we're all set."

You smile, glancing at yourself in the mirror one final time before reluctantly disappearing behind the curtain to change. The moment the dress comes off, you already miss it, and a few minutes later, you're back in your own clothes. Everything feels different now, knowing your wedding dress exists and is waiting for you.

When you return to the boutique floor, Miranda is waiting behind the counter with paperwork. The final total sits neatly typed across the page. All of your friends nearly recoil at the price $8,900. Desmond doesn't even blink. You suspect he's seen far more expensive things working for Michael.

Miranda smiles politely, "this includes all alterations."

You nod, reaching into your handbag and sliding one of Michael's credit cards across the counter. A small machine is brought out in which several slips are printed. You write your signature as well as your address and landline number in the required spaces. Just like that, the dress is yours.

Miranda carefully hands you a copy of the receipt, "we'll contact you in a few weeks for another fitting."

You nod, understating her instruction, "thank you for being so helpful."

"No problem, dear," she smiles, "thank you for using our service." Your eyes drift towards the garment bag which hides your dress. Hanging on the rack behind Miranda and the counter, you're practically counting down the seconds until your wedding day.

"Right," Sydney immediately loops her arm through yours, "who's hungry." Desmond holds the door open for all of you to leave, assessing the premise to ensure your surroundings are safe.

"There's a new café two streets over," Huda remembers.

Yue nods, "if we're thinking of the same one, my colleague said their lattes are really nice."

"I wish I could," you sigh, "but I need to go home."

"What for?" Yue's brows knit together.

"Michael wants me for something," you don't explicitly announce filming the music video.

"Ah," Huda smirks, interpreting your vague implication, "he wants you for something?"

"Yeah," you play along, "he does." Desmond pretends he's focusing on something else to avoid listening to the conversation. "He's working right now," you explain, clearing everything.

"Right," Sydney nods slowly, an unconvinced smile takes over her face, "we can all go together another time."

"Yeah," Huda agrees, "we'll let you know if it's nice."

"Well," you glance at Chuck who leaves the driver seat to open the back door for you, "would you like a ride there?"

"Um," Huda thinks over it before looking at Sydney and Yue, "no thanks, it's not too far."

"Okay," you smile, moving closer to hug all of them individually, "thank you for coming along today and helping me."

"It's okay," Sydney shakes her head, "we love the one you picked out."

"Me too, I can't wait to finally wear it once everything's done on it."

"I wonder what Michael's going to wear," Yue speaks up.

"We're keeping it a surprise from each other," you explain, although it's something you've been thinking about a lot.

"Bye, Desmond," Huda waves as you carefully step into the car. Chuck closes the door behind you as Desmond goes to the other side.

"Have a nice day, ladies," he waves back. The engine starts as you wave through the window at your friends until they're out of sight.

"Found anything at the shop, ma'am?" Chuck looks at you through the rearview mirror as you settle into the seat

"I told you, you can just call me Y/N," you smile, having told him a thousand times, "and yes I did."

"That's good," he nods, eyes returning to the road ahead, "back home?"

"Yes," you answer his question, smoothing your outfit before asking, "didn't your daughter get married recently?"

"She did," he's surprised you remember, "a venue in this area actually."

"Beverly Hills hotel?" Desmond joins the conversation.

"That's right," Chuck nods again.

"My brother got married there," he begins explaining.

"Are you married, Desmond?" You turn to him, deciding to take this opportunity and get to know him better.

"Yes," he smiles at the memory, "Vegas. Eighteen years ago."

"That's amazing," you can't help but feel relieved that he's opening up to you, "what's her name?"

"Denise," he replies, "high school sweetheart." You clutch your stomach, suddenly feel the baby kick, your face winces at the sharp pain. "Are you okay?" Desmond leans closer in concern.

"I'm fine," you reassure him, smiling somewhat weakly as your brows knit together, "the baby's just kicking."

"Oh," he nods. Registering the situation, he relaxes seat, "does it happen often?"

"All the time," you laugh, "I'm just glad it didn't happen when I was trying dresses on."

He laughs too, pausing for a brief moment before speaking up again, "I have three kids."

"Aww," you pout your lips, "what are their names?"

"Elijah, Naomi, and Cairo."

"Unique names," Chuck nods.

"How many kids do you have, Chuck?" You ask.

"Three with the my first wife and four with my second," he looks up for a second, recalling how many.

"Seven?" You repeat, he nods proudly, confirming what you heard was correct, "I like the idea of a big family."

The conversation naturally drifts after that. Occasionally, someone will comment on traffic, or a passing landmark, but mostly, the comfortable quiet settles back over the car.

You find yourself resting your hand against your stomach again. Absentmindedly tracing small circles over the fabric of your dress. Outside the window, the scenery slowly becomes familiar. Eventually, Chuck slows the car. Almost immediately, you know why.

The Neverland gates come into view ahead. The usual crowd of people gather outside them. Several recognise the car as they begin waving excitedly, holding up cameras, or simply smiling.

Despite being overwhelmed by the attention sometimes, it's difficult not to appreciate their genuine happiness across many of their faces.

The car rolls slowly forward. Someone steps closer, a small teddy bear wearing a little blue ribbon in her hands. "For the baby," a young woman beams, "congratulations!"

"Aww," you lower the window, "thank you." Carefully passing the bear through, you accept it with both hands, she looks thrilled. "It's adorable."

Others begin calling out congratulations as well. Your expression softens, "thank you, everyone." Besides you, Desmond takes the teddy bear and begins examining it.

"We need to check it first," he looks over at you.

"What for?"

"They put random shit in this stuff," he pauses for a second, "excuse my language."

"What have people tried before?" Your curiosity peaks.

"You're better off not knowing," he sighs, having seen far too much, he doesn't want to repeat it.

As the car moves forward, and the crowd almost disappears behind you, you just about catch a newspaper being held up above everyone. You squint, failing to decipher what it says as it morphs into a blur.

You look at Desmond whose jaw tightens...as if he read what it said. "What was that?" Your brows furrow.

"Tabloid," he doesn't hide it from you.

You groan, immediately knowing it won't be kind, "what did it say?"

He shifts slightly, "something about your pregnancy forcing Michael into marriage."

Your eyes narrow, "what?"

He immediately regrets saying anything, "don't listen to it; it's stupid." You turn your head to look out the window, confused by the story. "Michael really loves you," he adds, "doesn't stop talking about his girl." You look down at the ring on your finger, smiling at Desmond's words.

Once reaching the front of the house, Chuck opens your door once again. Taking your hand and helpfully lifting you out of your seat. "Thank you," you nod to him, grateful for his service.

Climbing the stairs, you spot a newspaper lying near the doorway. Someone left it outside. You slightly wince as you bend down to pick it up.

The headline fills the page. Huge black letters. Impossible to miss.

BABY TRAP?

Your eyes follow the next words. "Insiders claim Jackson's quiet fiancée secured her future with a pregnancy."

Below it shows a photograph of you and Michael from a recent, casual day out. You're holding his hand as the other rests against your stomach. He's staring directly at the camera, waving his hand at it with a big smile.

For a brief moment, you just stare at it. The paper suddenly feels heavier in your hands. Not because you believe any of it, but because someone does. And it's enough for them to print it. Sell it. And enough for strangers to read over breakfast and decide your life.

You swallow the built up saliva which has been sitting in your mouth. Folding the newspaper in half repeatedly until the headline disappears and it's nowhere in sight. If only it was that easy.

You open the front door quietly. The familiar calmness of Neverland has been replaced with an active environment of overlapping voices and movement.

People weave through the hallways carrying equipment. Someone rushes past with a clipboard. Two production assistants argue over the best lighting. A makeup artist hurries along the carpet, holding an entire case of brushes. Neverland transforms from a home and into something you can only describe as a film set.

Carefully moving through the organised chaos, the folded newspaper stays clutched against your side. The further you move in, the easier it becomes to follow the noise.

Eventually, you reach the main room to find him. Michael's sitting on a chair beneath bright studio lights as a makeup artist works efficiently across his cheekbones. He's wearing part of the wardrobe already. His dark hair falls neatly around his face.

One producer stands nearby, discussing camera positions, as the other flips through his notes. Somehow, Michael notices you the second you appear in the doorway. His entire face lights up. Smile arriving instantly, "I've been waiting for you."

Before you can say anything, he reaches for your hand, pulling you closer to press a quick, gentle kiss against your lips. His eyes drift to the folded newspaper still trapped in your hand. His smile fades slightly, "what's that?"

A part of you doesn't even want to bring it up. Not in here. Not today. Not whilst he's working.

Regardless, you hand it over. Michael glances down, reading the headline, and immediately closing his eyes. Physically tired, "don't read it." His response comes so quickly it almost surprises you.

"What?"

"Don't read it," he repeats, folding the paper again.  His tone is gentle. Almost tired.

"I just want to see what they said."

He sighs, "you shouldn't."

You keep shifting in your position, "why?"

"Because it's garbage," he shakes his head.

You reach for the paper again, eyes moving across the article, you begin reading aloud. "'Sources close to Jackson claim the singer has always wanted children, making the timing of the pregnancy difficult to ignore.'"

"Stop," Michael orders quietly.

You ignore him, continuing. "'Friends question whether the relationship would have moved this quickly without a baby on the way.'"

"Y/N."

"'Some insiders believe Jackson's quiet fiancée may have secured her future before securing a wedding ring.'"

"Baby," he drops his head into his hand.

You keep going anyway. "'Critics continue questioning whether love or opportunity is truly behind the relationship.'" You finally lower the paper, silent for a second, you quietly ask, "is that how you feel?"

"What?" His head turns to you immediately.

"Is it?"

His brows furrow at the question, "of course not."

You study him for a moment, "then why do they think they can speak about how you feel?"

Michael briefly looks down at the newspaper before returning his gaze to you. Shrugging, he answers, "because they've been doing it my whole life."

You suddenly see it. The exhaustion and sadness in his face. Years of putting up with this. You immediately hate all the people who caused it.

The makeup artist distracts herself with organising her tools as Michael leans back into his chair. He begins reciting a list, "they said I slept in a hyperbaric chamber."

You blink, "what?"

"They said I bought the Elephant Man's bones," Michael continues, "they said I wanted to clone myself." You look horrified at what they've said about him. He points at the newspaper, "they write whatever they want." Humour fades in his voice, "they always have."

He sounds so used to it. Not even angry or surprised...just tired. "They don't know you," you defend him immediately.

Michael smiles faintly, "I know."

You step closer, brushing your hand against his arm, "it's cruel," your voice quietens, "they write ridiculous stories and people believe them."

Michael nods, glancing down at the floor, the room settles into a comfortable silence. One filled with the distant movement of crew members continuing their jobs around you.

Then finally, one of the makeup artists clears her throat, not wanting to interrupt, but needing to. "Y/N?" She calls, causing you to turn. "Sorry," she smiles apologetically, "it's your turn."

You glance at Michael who immediately reaches for your hand, providing a reassuring squeeze before letting go. "Go on," he encourages softly. You nod, allowing the makeup artist to guide you towards an empty chair beside Michael's.

Meanwhile, another member of the wardrobe department appears carrying a garment bag, "Michael, we need you for the final fitting."

"Okay," he nods, looking over at the makeup artist, "are you done with me?" She smiles, nodding at his question. "Thank you," he stands up.

Before leaving, he leans down beside your chair. Pressing a quick kiss against your cheek, he quietly says, "don't think about that paper."

Your eyes meet his in the mirror, "I won't." He smiles one last time before disappearing behind a partition with the wardrobe team. Your makeup artist begins working carefully across your face.

Around you, the room gradually returns to its normal rhythm. Lights adjust. Cameras move. Producers discuss shots. The music video continues forward. Yet every few seconds, your eyes still drift towards where Michael is.

The makeup artist finally steps back, "there." You immediately look at yourself in the mirror. The result is surprisingly simple; exactly what Michael wants. Your skin looks slightly brighter. Eyes a little more defined. Nothing dramatic or excessive. Just enough for the cameras.

One of the stylists appears in the reflection, "ready for wardrobe?" You nod, slowly standing up from the chair after sitting for far too long. The dress waits nearby, covered in a garment bag, it's protected. Two assistants carefully unzip it to reveal a soft ivory fabric.

The material feels impossibly light as they help you into it. Satin settles gently over your body. Skimming every curve without clinging, hiding your pregnancy, or drawing unnecessary attention to it either. It simply exists in a natural, beautiful manner.

Thin straps rest against your shoulders. The neckline remains soft and elegant. The fabric falls all the way towards the floor in smooth flowing lines. Every movement catches the light perfectly.

The finishing touches only take a few minutes. A few adjustments and a final check before guiding you back towards the main set.

You walk through the doorway, and in that moment, Michael notices immediately. The conversation he's having with a producer dies halfway through. His eyes lift and remain fixated on you.

Michael's outfit consists of a silk, cream shirt which sits perfectly against his frame. Several buttons are left undone near the top. His sleeves roll loosely to his forearms. Dark trousers balance the softness of his shirt.

The stylist beside you eventually breaks the silence, "what do you think?"

"Beautiful," Michael nods, glancing over your body.

"Now that you're both ready," the director claps his hands, looking between you and Michael, "we can start filming."

The first setup is surprisingly simple. A large window. Soft white curtains. Warm afternoon light pours through the glass. The entire living room has been arranged to look peaceful and somewhat dreamlike. Almost too perfect.

One of the assistants gently guides you to the window, "just sit there," she points. You nod, gathering the ivory dress to settle around your legs as you carefully lower yourself onto the cushioned seat beneath the frame.

A makeup artist quickly appears one last time to adjust a strand of hair before disappearing again. Around you, people continue to move, cameras get repositioned, lights dim, crew members whisper to one another.

Yet the moment you look outside, everything suddenly feels quieter. You find yourself absentmindedly resting your hand against your stomach. Watching the sunlight stretch across the gardens. You feel the baby shift slightly, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you they're there.

"Perfect," the director comments, "stay exactly like that." You're suddenly fighting the urge not to laugh at the situation, at the camera pointing directly at you.

Across the room, Michael waits for his cue. One of the assistants explains the shot, "you'll enter from there."

Michael nods, listening to his instruction, "and then what should I do?"

"That's it."

Michael smiles, immediately pleased, it's the easiest direction he's received all day.

The room gradually becomes quiet. Someone calls, "rolling."

As another voice follows, "speed."

Then, "action."

Michael steps slowly into frame. The camera follows each movement he makes. His focus remains ahead, exactly where it's supposed to be, until his eyes land on you and everything changes.

He's suddenly not acting anymore. Not really. A smile appears instantly. It's unplanned; not involved in the script. The kind that always happens whenever he sees you.

Behind the monitor, one of the producers points, "there," he nods, "that's the look." Michael doesn't even realise he's doing it. He just keeps walking, eyes never leaving you. As if he's forgotten the cameras exist and there's thirty people in the room.

You notice his smile, immediately reciprocating it, which isn't in the script either. However, the director doesn't stop it. Nobody does. It's a lot better than what they had planned.

Michael finally reaches the window. Settling beside you, his hand instinctively finds yours. The movement is done automatically, neither of you even think about it.

From behind the cameras, someone yells, "cut." There's a pause as you release a heavy breath you didn't even know you were holding.

"Okay," the director nods, "that was good...but, Michael, you weren't supposed to smile until you reached her."

"Sorry," Michael apologises. Laughing nervously, his hand still holds onto yours, "I forgot."

"It's okay," he shakes his head in reassurance.

The next setup takes considerably longer. Most of the time is taken up with several production assistants hurrying back and forth, carrying their equipment outside. Cables stretch across the grass. Reflectors sit between flowerbeds. You stand beneath the shade of a large tree as a makeup artist lightly powders your face.

The garden looks beautiful. Almost unreal. Late afternoon sunlight spills across the pathways. Flowers sway gently in the breeze. The soft, dreamlike image Michael wants the music video to convey.

Eventually, the director claps his hands again. Drawing everyone's attention, "okay, this one's simple." Michael finds his way to the same shaded area you're under. The director points at you, "Y/N walks first," then at Michael, "you follow."

Michael looks between you and the director, smiling slightly, "don't you think it will make me look like a creep? ...just following her?"

He sighs, "no...you'll be admiring her."

"Hm," Michael glances at you, "okay then."

He continues explaining the scene, "you're walking through the garden together," he pauses, "that's it."

The cameras begin rolling. You start walking first. Slowly. The skirt of your dress moves softly around your legs. Sunlight catches the fabric every few seconds. Behind you, Michael follows just close enough.

At first, you're focused on remembering where you're supposed to go and where the cameras are. You glance over your shoulder and immediately forget everything. Michael's looking at you, the same way he does when you're both alone.

A smile reaches your face before you can stop it. He smiles back instantly. Somewhere behind the cameras, the director faintly whispers, "don't stop filming."

You continue walking until eventually stopping at a flowerbed. Michael reaches you a second later. The script says he should just stand beside you. Instead, his hand automatically reaches for yours.

Neither of you seem to realise you've done it. Your fingers lace together naturally as if they belong there. Michael looks down at your joined hands, then up at you. A small smile appears again.

"Cut." No one moves at first, allowing the moment to continue for a second longer.

The garden scene takes several attempts as it provides a wide selection to choose from when editing. As the final shot is approved, a small round of applause follows as people immediately begin moving equipment again.

The organised chaos resumes as you collapse onto a nearby bench with a relieved sigh. Everything aches, especially your feet and back. Michael appears beside you almost instantly, "how are you doing?"

You smile, "I'm okay." He doesn't look convinced.

An assistant approaches carrying a bottle of water. Another offers snacks. A third asks if you need a cushion. At this point, you're fairly certain that everyone on set is more concerned about you rather than the actual music video.

The next setup takes place beneath another tree. Much simpler than the previous scene, the director explains it quickly, "we want some close-ups." He gestures vaguely, "hands," a nod towards Michael, "on her and the baby."

The cameras adjust, lighting shifts, a crew member settles a blanket for you to sit on. They allow you to hold onto them as you carefully lower yourself to take a seat.

The ivory fabric pools around you. The breeze moves softly through your hair. The entire scene feels peaceful, almost private despite a whole audience watching.

"Rolling," the familiar words echo again.  The camera starts close, focusing on your hands resting against the curve of your stomach, then slowly moving upward.

You glance down instinctively, smiling to yourself, the baby shifts just slightly and enough for you to feel it. The movement isn't visible, but your expression changes.

Behind the monitor, several people notice. The director points, "there." It's Michael's cue to enter the frame. Naturally lowering himself beside you, his eyes drift to your stomach as one hand settles there.

What was originally planned as several different shots, angles, and movements, it's all summarised into Michael rubbing small circles against the fabric covering your stomach.

You look down, then back up at him, a smile slowly appears. Michael notices immediately, smiling back.

Suddenly the entire set disappears again. Just for a moment, it's only the two of you and the tiny person neither of you have even met.

"Cut," the director stares at the monitor, then quietly says, "yeah...that's the one."

And with that, you're finished filming.

By the time the cameras have been packed away, the sun has almost disappeared entirely. Under the soft evening light, the garden glows. Crew members begin carrying equipment back towards the house. Others discuss schedules for tomorrow as the atmosphere winds down.

You stretch slightly, finally calm enough to sit down and relax. You begin thinking about dinner, wanting something to eat until Michael appears beside you. "Come with me," he gestures you to follow.

"Where?" You lean forward, preparing to stand up.

"The editing room," he places his hand on the small of your back in guidance. The music video might be finished filming, but Michael Jackson is nowhere near finished.

The editing suite sits deeper inside the house. Much quieter and cooler than the set. Several large monitors glow softly throughout the room. Tape decks sit beneath them. Stacks of labelled cassettes occupy almost every available surface. The technology looks complicated enough to launch a spacecraft.

At first, you try paying attention to the footage. You really do. Clips of what was filmed earlier and on separate days of just Michael flash across the monitors. It's multiple scenes of him walking along the beach, watching the waves of the ocean, as he lip syncs the lyrics.

Yet somehow, your attention keeps drifting elsewhere. Back to him. Michael hasn't sat down properly in almost twenty minutes. His focus sharpens at the task.

"Stop," the footage freezes immediately. Michael leans closer, "no." He points, "back it up." The tape rewinds, allowing the video to continue for a few seconds, he taps the screen, "right there."

No one else even notices the moment, but apparently he did. The tape continues again, another few seconds pass, then, "wait." The footage stops again.

Watching him work feels strangely fascinating. He's completely different. Very...focused. Without being cold or distant. He's completely in his element. It's as if he's speaking an entirely different language now.

"Use the second angle."

"Not that one."

"The tracking shot."

"No, after that."

"Slow this dissolve."

"Too early."

"Three seconds later."

You don't understand half of what he's saying, but apparently, everyone else does as every instruction is followed instantly. The footage changes, improves, changes again, improves again.

You end up sitting quietly near the back of the room. Simply watching how confident is. How quickly his mind works. How clearly he can already see the finished video before anyone else.

Eventually, one of the older producers notice. The man had silver hair and reading glasses permanently balanced near the end of his nose. He's probably old enough to be your father. Maybe older.

"Now I understand why he's been impossible all day," the man walks closer to your side.

Your brows knit together in confusion, "excuse me?"

"He's showing off," he points his cigarette at you, bringing it to his lips and lighting it.

"He's not," you shake your head, "do you mind?" You nod towards the cigarette.

"Oh, right," he looks down at your stomach, dropping the cigarette and stepping on it. "You know... you're even prettier in person."

You try your best to ignore him, already fed up with his nerve to smoke in front of a pregnant woman as well as his instinct to litter the floor instead of disposing it properly.

"Seriously..." he continues, "if I was fifteen years younger, I'd be making a serious move."

For a moment, you simply stare at him. Maybe fifteen years younger would've helped. Maybe thirty.

Now you're standing beside him, all you can think about is Michael who thanks every member of staff before leaving a room, talks to your stomach every single day, kisses the baby goodnight before kissing you.

Your eyes drift across the editing suite. Finding him almost immediately. He's currently watching one of the monitors, pointing at the screen as the rest of the producers listen.

The comparison isn't even remotely fair. One man is standing beside you, smoking indoors before dropping it to the floor as the other ensures the lighting makes your eyes look prettier on camera.

You almost laugh, not because the producer is funny, but because he genuinely seems to think he's competition.

He waits expectantly. As if he's delivered some impressive compliment and you're supposed to be flattered. Instead, you offer the politest smile you can manage, "that's nice."

His face visibly falls. You don't feel guilty at all. Your heart stopped being available for comparison a very long time ago.

Somewhere across the room, Michael suddenly turns around. His eyes immediately find you, flickering between you and the producer. He heard the conversation.

Michael points beside him, "come here."

You immediately know he's talking to you. The producer laughs, "oh, come on." Michael doesn't even look at him, waiting for you instead.

You smile to yourself, "okay." Without hesitation, you push yourself away from the wall you're leaning on to walk across the room.

Michael looks back at the monitor, "move that clip back." His request is quickly obeyed, "the garden footage." Another nod, he points at the screen, "there."

You reach his chair, without needing further instruction, you settle carefully onto his lap. One arm firmly wraps around your waist as if it belongs there. Behind you, the producer sighs, rolling his eyes at the display of your willingness to be with Michael.

A knock sounds at the door. One of the producers open it to reveal Desmond who's taken aback by the amount of people in here. His eyes scan the room, immediately stopping on you and walking further in.

"Good things we checked the bear," he presses his lips together, folding his arms in front of him.

"Did you find anything?" You tilt your head, forgetting all about it.

Michael turns, listening to what Desmond has to say, completely unaware of the context behind the conversation.

"Tiny camera hidden in the stitching."

"What are you talking about?" Michael looks between you and Desmond, "what camera?"

You're in a state of disbelief. Silent for a few seconds as you process the information, you begin explaining to Michael,  "someone gave me a teddy bear at the gates."

Desmond opens the folder he has in his grasp, describing the findings, "camera hidden inside the head, specifically in the eye."

Your hand nervously rubs over your mouth at the realisation, "they said it was for the baby."

Michael glances at you before speaking to Desmond, "did you find out who gave it to her?"

He nods, "we're working on it."

Michael's grip on your waist tightens. He tries getting ahold of his anger at the nerve someone has to invade your privacy. Thinking this is a way to get closer to his family.

Desmond senses how uneasy are. Reassuringly, he places a hand on your shoulder, "the bear never made it past security; that's why we're here."

You nod slowly, relieved, but not completely. You can't stop thinking about it. The teddy bear. The woman smiling whilst handing it over. A gift meant for your daughter, or at least pretending to be.

For a moment, the editing room falls quiet. No one really knows what to say. Producers exchange uncomfortable glances. One clears his throat. Another looks back at the monitors. The atmosphere has shifted completely.

Eventually, Desmond closes the folder, "we'll handle it."

Michael nods once, "thank you."

He quietly leaves the room, door clicking shut behind him.

You feel Michael's thumb move comfortingly against your side. When you glance up, his attention is already back on you. Not the footage or producers. You.

And suddenly, something clicks. Why there's so many bodyguards, security checks, gift getting inspected. Why he worries so much. This isn't unusual for him. That's the part that hurts most. The fact he isn't surprised by it.

You lean against him. He quickly presses a kiss to your cheek. Across the room, someone restarts the footage. Monitor glows softly. Music begins to play again. Life continues just as it always does.

You watch Michael turn his attention back towards the screen, calmly discussing edits as though nothing happened , you finally understand something.

Loving him means loving the extraordinary parts of his life. But it also means learning to live with the difficult ones.

Your hand finds his beneath the desk. His fingers immediately intertwine with yours.

And this time, when you look at the monitor, you aren't watching the music video. You're watching him. Still creating. Still smiling. Still choosing joy despite everything.

Somehow, you think, that's what you admire most. Not that Michael Jackson learned how to live with the spotlight. It's that after all these years, it still hasn't taken the softness out of him.

[shesmycollaarr]

(...) never asked me once about the wrong I did (Albert Wesker x Reader)

Tags: Gender-Neutral Reader-Insert; No Use of Y/N for Reader-Insert; POV Albert Wesker; POV Third Person; Possessive Albert Wesker; Protective Albert Wesker; Albert Wesker is Bad at Feelings; Soft Albert Wesker; Blood and Gore; Canon-Typical Violence; Torture; Angst; Heavy Angst; Angst with a Happy Ending; Happy Ending; Unhappy Ending; Bad Ending; Good Ending; there are 2 basically; choose your own fate lmao; Hurt/Comfort; Hurt No Comfort; Character Death; Angst with No Happy Ending

Word Count: 5,394

Summary: Albert Wesker is untouchable, invincible, indestructible. His many enemies cannot touch him, not after surviving even Chris Redfield's rocket launchers and the volcano's fire back in Africa.

But there is one thing that will hurt him and a group of his most desperate enemies has just gotten a hold of it: you. Now the question is, can he get there in time to save you or is he doomed to lose the only thing he's ever truly cared about?

Also on AO3: Here

Requested by anon here

If Wesker were to be honest with himself – and a tad less arrogant, in truth – he would admit that this was a long time coming. It really shouldn't come as a surprise, not considering how many enemies he made from that fateful day in the Arklay Mountains when he decided to betray S.T.A.R.S. and Umbrella both and up until this moment. And in a way, it isn't surprising. That someone would have the courage – or the stupidity – and the means to strike back, to come at him in retaliation for once isn't a surprise. But Wesker has always acted unconcerned about this possibility simply because he thought, ‘Well, what could they possibly do to me when I've already surpassed every human threshold for vulnerability and weakness?’

He failed to consider you.

You are a variable that completely blindsided him. An anomaly. An error in the code. But instead of purging you out of his system, instead of correcting that error, he just rewrote everything else around you in order to make room for you and wrap you up in his shield. He doesn't know what this is – fondness? Boredom? Obsession? Love? How could he know – he, who's never been truly loved by another, who's never loved anyone else before?

Maybe it's a little bit of everything, in the end. He finds himself smiling fondly at your silly quirks, things he would usually get annoyed at if they came from anyone else. Doing anything with you or simply sharing space with you even if it's in complete silence has cured his boredom and restlessness more than once, oftentimes staving off what would have been an inevitable migraine in any other circumstance. And when it comes to you – your whereabouts, your current activity, if you're safe, if you're happy, if you've eaten yet, if you're bored – Wesker finds himself turning those thoughts around in his brain on a maddening loop every time he is away from you without fail. Is that love? He thinks it could be.

You came into his life like a whirlwind. You refused to leave. He tried to push you away, swat you aside like a particularly annoying fly, like he does everybody else. But you weren't a fly at all and so you persisted. And you somehow went from infuriating stranger to most precious thing in all creation in the span of a few years, but somehow… Somehow Wesker has remained so blindsided by you, still so awestruck, that he's failed to factor you in for people's retaliation plans against him.

So now here he is.

A thrashed room, a broken keyboard, a mouse ripped from its slot, and above it all, a cracked monitor frozen in that same image that's been lighting up a blazing inferno in his chest and reddening eyes since the video was sent to him twenty minutes ago: you, skin bloody and cut open, tied to a grimy examination table as you gaze into the camera with wide eyes filled with tears. He couldn't even hear your voice, just muffled screams that might have been his name or might have been curses aimed at him for ever having the misfortune to meet him.

Wesker finally stops his rampage when his eyes snag on that grotesque picture taken straight out of his nightmares. He clutches the edge of the desk, knuckles white against the reinforced material of it though he can still hear it creaking in protest against his grip. His teeth are bared in a silent snarl while his eyes jump all over the screen, roving over every visible inch of you and cataloguing your injuries – torture wounds. Meant to inflict pain, as much as possible, for no reason at all.

That's what kills him the most.

These people? They didn't take you because they want to use you as leverage against Wesker for something. Not even to interrogate you and torture secrets out of you. No, they took you as revenge, plain and simple. Wesker killed someone – or a bunch of someones, knowing him – important to them, experimented on them for his plans, leveled their entire city at the end of his usually explosive endeavours – the details aren't important, he wasn't paying attention. But these people… well. They decided an eye for an eye was in store. Simple as that.

The video was more of a taunt than a ransom demand.

“Maybe we'll ship what remains of them to you and let you give them a proper funeral. Though maybe not. None of your victims ever get that, after all.”

“AGH!” The roar that escapes Wesker is a pure animal-in-distress sound. He flips the whole desk entirely this time around then stands there in the middle of all this destruction, chest heaving, eyes stinging, trying to resist the urge to claw at his own skin to get at the bleeding black hole sitting at the core of him that won't let him calm down. It hurts. It hurts in a way that being impaled by the Tyrant in the Spencer Mansion never did. It hurts worse than when he was the only child to never get mail or care packages or visits from family at any and all the boarding schools he frequented as a boy. It hurts worse than when he visited Spencer and got confirmation that his entire life had been a lie, just a careful orchestration of a megalomaniac in need of a reality check. It hurts worse than all of these combined and multiplied by a hundred.

He wants it out. He doesn't want to feel this way, he can't, he won't survive it.

A startling ping breaks the suffocating silence of the destroyed room and pulls Wesker out of his spiral. It came from his phone. He pulls it out of his pocket with hands he won't admit are trembling and unlocks it to see a new encrypted message from the same people who took you. He briefly sees red before he forces his grip on the phone to loosen and wills his thumb to actually tap on the message and open it so he can see what those bastards sent now.

He doesn't want to think about the worst case possibility so he refuses to brace himself against it.

Had enough time for a little breakdown? Is the despair settling in yet? If yes, then congrats! You now know how everyone you've ever hurt felt right before their demise. You never gave anyone else a choice but because we aren't the monsters you are, here's a gift from us to you: if you actually care about this poor idiot who keeps crying your name as if it'll save them, then why don't you turn yourself over to us? A life for a life. No tricks, no lies, and especially no fancy powers. Once you're dead, they go free. Pinky promise. Or you can do nothing and we'll keep mailing you body parts over the next few weeks. Choice is yours. Make it soon. See you here. Or not. We don't care either way.

He hurls the phone at the wall. It hits the surface with a satisfying crack before falling to the floor, but by that time Wesker has already whirled out of the room, footsteps stomping on the ground as he marches like the soldier he used to be once upon a time, in a different life. The people milling about in his latest lab setup jump out of his way like scrambling cockroaches and Wesker hates them all in that moment, hates them with a passion that wants to level this entire facility and watch it crumble into ruins. He hates them for being ignorant of how his entire life, his most precious jewel, is about to be snuffed out if he doesn't get there fast enough. He hates them for being safe in their ignorance, happily oblivious as they continue their work with not a care in the world. He hates them for not being you.

It would be so easy to unleash himself upon them, to say ‘fuck it’ to the entire thing he's been trying to build here and just take it all out on these hapless idiots. The Uroboros under his skin is almost itching to do it. But you appear in his mind's eye like a spectre, your bright eyes and soft smile haunting him, and he knows he can't disappoint you like this. He promised. Less destruction. A bit more kindness, where possible. He knows you dislike senseless cruelty, disapprove of his past methods. You agree with his goal of aiding humanity with a virus that could actually be salvation instead of doom, but you don't like the path he's taken so far to get there.

So he promised to do better, or at least try. When did Albert Wesker change so much and for another person at that? How come he never noticed until now, when his gloves are creaking with the force of his curled fists as he marches through the lab and all the way to the top of the building where a helicopter is waiting, trying not to murder everyone he comes across simply because you would disapprove?

Wesker doesn't bother with ordering a pilot to come assist him. He explodes out the door and onto the helipad like a storm given form then climbs into the pilot's seat and begins the process of preparing for a flight. He has no time to lose and if there is one thing Wesker has learned in all his years of being alive it's that if he truly wants something done right, he has to do it himself.

He spends the journey to the destination given in that last message agonising over thoughts of you. How scared you must be, all alone and at the mercy of those lunatics who would take their anger with him out on you. He didn't let himself linger over those words when he first read them, but now he thinks about that remark – about you crying for him, begging him to come to you, to help you, to save you. 

When's the last time he was anyone's salvation? Has he ever even desired to save anyone but himself? He can't remember.

The abandoned building you're being held in rises over the mountains as he nears your location. The wind is frigid and carries a hint of ice in it but Wesker barely feels it as he guides the helicopter to a patch of land ideal for landing and lets the bird touch down none-too-gently. He shuts everything down and climbs out.

All is quiet, almost deafeningly so, in the wake of the helicopter blades’ whirling. There's snow all around him, winter in everything but name so high up on this peak, and the wind is relentless as it lashes at Wesker's skin and makes his coat flap dramatically behind him. He starts to walk and snow crunches underneath his boots with every step he takes. Unbidden, a memory of you surfaces – nose red, lips pulled wide in an infectious grin, dancing in the snow last winter and calling him a Grinch for not joining you in your revelries.

The massive, solid iron doors up ahead start to slowly pull open as he approaches and the memory is banished back to the vault of his brain with the motion of his right hand grasping his glasses and wrenching them away from his face, folded harshly and tucked into the inner pocket of his coat.

Wesker comes to a stop several feet away from the nearly open doors. His body is thrumming with energy and rage, every atom in him screaming to attack and not stop until every last one of these vermin are nothing but lumps of flesh and pathetic bone under his feet. But he cannot risk you. He will not gamble with your life.

The woman who emerges from those doors is tall and scarred all over. She is geared up like a soldier and heavily armed, but doesn't quite carry herself with the discipline of a soldier. There is defiance and insolence in her gaze when she tilts her chin and looks him in the eye.

“You came,” she remarks, toneless, and her eyes flick up and down his form to take him in the way someone might observe a worm squirming under a rock. When Wesker remains silent with nothing but the weight of his crimson glare on her to speak for him, she continues, “I have to admit. I didn't expect you to show. Didn't think you'd care.”

Wesker grits his teeth and tightens his fist in lieu of punching a hole through the woman's chest cavity.

“They keep crying for you, you know?” she continues conversationally, as if they're discussing the weather or politics or a new recipe for casserole. “Personally, I find it a bit pathetic, but I can't judge them too much. They're in a lot of pain, after all. Do they really call you Albert? Really? Not a very scary name, that. But I suppose that tracks. Only a motherfucker with a name like Albert would have the audacity to kill and use and maim as he sees fit and think that there won't be consequences. You–”

“Is there a point to this little speech, dear, or is your plan to simply bore me to death?” Wesker interrupts with affected boredom in his tone. “I did as you asked. Here I am and you're wasting my time prattling on about whatever sob story you're gearing up for. Spare me. Release your hostage then you can have your fun with me all you like.”

The woman's face twists in a glare only for a moment before she visibly composes herself and jerks her head in a signal for her, no doubt, hidden partners skulking in the shadows. Her expression morphs into a smile then, a very cruel and bloodthirsty one.

“I was getting there, you impatient prick. But I guess we can speed things up if you're gonna be like that. Well, here they are, just like we promised.”

The sound of feet scrambling for purchase on metal flooring reaches his ears before two figures come into view. One of them, taller and geared up just like the leader, is standing farther back with a gun aimed at your head and a massive arm wrapped around your shoulders and digging into your neck as he holds you forcibly up. The other one is you.

You're dressed in the same clothes he last saw you in, when you called him on video to say goodnight even if the timezone difference made it late morning for him. He never should have let you travel alone. He should have been there, guarding you, protecting you, making sure no one could lay a single finger on you. Because now? Now you look like you've been through a meat grinder. Your clothes are torn in places or entirely cut off to expose your bruised skin, littered with cuts, puncture wounds and various burns. Your eyes are bloodshot and one of them is so swollen and bruised it's entirely shut while your lips are split from a punch and cracked from dehydration, with painful looking red marks leading from the corner of your mouth all the way to your ears where a gag was most likely placed on you for hours.

You can barely stand and, in fact, the only thing keeping you upright right now is the arm around your throat, digging into your flesh and making you gasp and choke when it tightens its grip.

Wesker feels like he's floating or perhaps drowning. Nothing feels real. Not the snow under his boots nor the wind whipping at him without mercy. Certainly not the sight of you, the only thing that matters, the meaning for his wretched existence, bloodied and bruised and looking so very small in that brute's painful embrace.

Your hazy eyes manage to find him in the span of seconds during which Wesker tries to come to grips with his reality, and they light up, as much as they can, at the sight of him. It makes an entire supernova explode in his chest but similarly, it sours something in his gut to see your faith in him even after he failed you so spectacularly, something that almost feels like guilt.

“I knew you'd come,” you whisper so quietly your voice would be lost to the wind if Wesker's every sense wasn't so attuned to you right now. “I told them.” You sound weak and almost lifeless, on the brink of something that suddenly terrifies Wesker and grips his heart in an icy hold that threatens to shatter him completely. He doesn't want to contemplate such a fate, doesn't want to imagine you dead and inert in his arms, all that love and life suddenly gone from the world.

“I am here, dear heart. I will always come for you,” Wesker answers, loud enough to make sure his voice carries over to you, before his eyes flicker back to the woman he wants to see dead and torn to pieces for putting you in this state. “You had your fun, now release them.”

“Hmm. You know what, Albert? I don't think I like your tone. How about… no?”

“No?” Wesker repeats, tone gone colder than these mountain peaks, body stilling so completely it looks inhuman. It makes the hairs of everyone present stand on end, a fight or flight response activating in everyone's hindbrain.

“Yeah. ‘No’ sounds about right,” she continues without a care in the world, unaware or perhaps uncaring of the danger she is in. “Udo, go ahead.”

BAD ENDING:

Between one blink and the next, somehow too fast for Wesker to realise what is happening and act yet seemingly happening in slow motion right before his eyes, the man behind you uses the hand holding you up to flick open a knife and run it across your throat, slicing it open long and deep. You gasp and gurgle as blood spills down your front, eyes wide and panicked, hands and feet scrambling to get away from something that already happened. The man opens his arm and lets you go and you hit the ground with a thump, thrashing and choking on your rapidly dwindling breaths, desperately clutching at your open throat in vain.

No. This can't be happening. This isn't happening.

But it is.

You were the love of his life. When people say that, they're usually exaggerating – they've loved before, they'll love again. It's nothing truly special, just a really powerful feeling that can fade or be overcome with enough time and will. But when Wesker says it, he means it. He's never loved before, never known the kind, unselfish touch of another. He's never felt like he's enough simply because he is him – not his achievements, not his strength, not his intelligence. Just him, exactly as he is. You were his everything, all that was good and worthy of being saved and preserved in the world. You were his humanity.

In that moment, as your gurgling breaths and dwindling heart beat echo in his ears like a war drum, Wesker knows that he'll never love again. And that he'll never allow himself to be human again either.

“You just made your last mistake,” he growls lowly, a distinctly inhuman sound that makes everybody stand up straight and cock their guns in his direction. He doesn't explode in a rage of fists and pain. All of that, he tucks away the way he used to do before you showed up in his life and taught him how to stop hiding. Instead, he lets his Uroboros unfurl and his eyes glow a demonic yellow-gold, and before that wretched, stupid woman can blink, he impales her clean through. He lifts her up with the force of his strike and watches her dangle in the air for long seconds with impassive but blazing eyes. Her companion starts shooting at him desperately but Wesker dodges the bullets without looking before swatting the man away with a tentacle – he can hear the man's skull crack open upon impact.

“You… are n-nothing… bu-but a… monster,” the woman gasps, stuttering and choking as Wesker drives the Uroboros further into her.

Wesker tuts, yanking her forward harshly, and looks her straight in the eye with murder in his gaze.

“Yes. You made sure of that. And now all of you will experience first hand what it's like to be at the mercy of a monster and receive none,” he intones, baring his teeth at her threateningly, before he tears her apart cleanly in two and throws her away like leftover meat from a hook. “Now. Who's next?”

What unfolds is nothing short of a massacre. Wesker tears through the whole building until he is satisfied that none survived and then he stands there, bathed in the blood and guts of all those people, and feels absolutely hollow. The satisfaction of revenge is nowhere to be found. The Uroboros retreats into his skin and he, alone, remains – solitary, blood-stained, and still so very human despite it all. A keen rises up his throat and escapes him, like a wounded dog calling for salvation, and then he's falling to his knees as he cries, shaking and trembling and feeling so very cold in a world without you.

He finds his way back to you as if navigating through fog but your figure isn't the warm crackling fire he could sit close to and warm himself over the way it used to be. Your fire has been extinguished and all he finds is blackened charcoal crumbling into ash in his palms.

“Dear heart. My heart. Oh, what am I to do without you?” he murmurs in a voice he doesn't recognise, kneeling in front of your cooling corpse and gathering you in his arms like spilled yarn he wishes he could wind around himself and put back together. He runs his bloody, gloved hands over your bloody, matted hair in a desperate caress and cries into the crown of your head, rocking you back and forth and feeling like all light has been snuffed out from the world, all goodness has been sucked out of him. “I'm sorry. I am so sorry. I failed you, my love.”

He cannot bring himself to move for a long time. Wesker sits there, crumpled in the snow with your body dangling in his stiff arms, and tries to find a way to keep going, tries to find a reason for any of it now that you're no longer a part of his world.

He cannot.

Yet still, when the time comes, he rises to his feet with you cradled gently to his chest, and carries you slowly back to the helicopter. He places you in the copilot's seat, buckles you in securely, then rounds the bird so he can get behind the controls and prepare for takeoff. Before he gets in, he turns back towards the bloody mess he left behind, and hopes that if anyone comes across the massacre they'll know who caused it and why and will think twice about making the same mistake these idiots did.

Wesker pulls his glasses out of his pocket and puts them back on with careful precision, then climbs into the helicopter and starts flicking switches. While he waits for the vehicle to be ready for the flight back home, he pulls a spare phone out of his pocket and dials the number for the head scientist at his newest lab, eyes briefly flicking to your slumped form.

“Prepare one of the cryo chambers. Have it ready for me in two hours. And send out a new mission objective for the entire staff: we are working on regeneration from now on. We won't stop until we find a way to bring someone back to life. Good, get it done.”

Wesker's gloves creak around the controls as he pulls the helicopter in the air and starts the flight back to the lab, but when he takes his left hand away to grasp your stiff and cold one in his palm, his touch is gentle as his thumb rubs over the back of your hand. He doesn't say anything, all words having bled out of him on that mountain, but he doesn't let go of you either. Not during the flight, not when he carries you into the facility hosting his labs, and not until he places you gently in the prepared cryo chamber and says goodbye.

“I won't fail you again, dear heart.”

Wesker turns away from you as the device holding your corpse closes up behind him and seals you away, walking away from you with heavy footsteps and a heavy heart. The Albert Wesker you coaxed out and brought back to life in the few short years you were together died that day with you and he makes sure the world knows it, makes sure it feels every last bit of pain he did.

He lost his entire world that day, after all. Why should anyone else's survive?

GOOD ENDING:

Wesker hears the quiet snick of a blade being released. His eyes snap back to you in an instant but more importantly – the man's hand. Before anyone can react, and with an urgency and desperation Wesker never thought himself capable of, he unleashes his Uroboros and runs a spear-like tentacle straight through the man's eye, driving it through his skull all the way to the other side, letting it come out of the back of his head and pin him to the wall.

As the man's arms go limp, your support goes with them so you crash to the ground in a heap of bruised limbs, letting out a cry of pain and curling up to feebly try to protect your head from further injury. The tentacle pulls out with a squelch, spraying filth everywhere when he shakes it to clean it of blood and brains, then he directs it to you without missing a beat. It wraps around your body like a vine, cradling you gently but firmly, and then lifts you up carefully to carry you back to Wesker's side. He shrugs off his coat and lays it out on the snowy ground, then places you so very carefully on top of it before removing the tentacle from you and focusing his attention back on his targets.

“You shouldn't have done that,” Wesker informs the woman who just gave the order for your death in a clinical tone that, nonetheless, is shaking with barely restrained anger. Fear and rage burn an intertwining path through his chest and all it takes is a glimpse at that woman and her companions now coming out of the woodwork like worms after a storm, fingers on their triggers and hatred in their eyes, for Wesker to snarl in their direction and unleash himself upon them.

He is merciless in their destruction. He tears bodies in two, crushes their skulls beneath his boots and rips the eyes out of their sockets with his bare hands. He breaks limbs, tears them off their bodies entirely, runs them through with his Uroboros – he deals as much pain as possible in as gruesome a manner as possible. He roars as he mows them down like the insignificant vermin they are and bathes in their blood, relishing in their screams. For every wound on your body, every scream and cry that escaped your lips, for every drop of fear and desperation he felt at having you out of reach and in danger, Wesker takes it out of them tenfold.

When all is quiet and the world has gone still, all that remains are the two of you – a bloody pair, clinging to each other in the middle of a massacre, the windy mountains hostile and freezing but your bodies warming each other and keeping the other safe. Wesker has protected your body and, in turn, you protect his heart, his soul.

“You got hurt, dear heart. I failed to protect you, I am–”

“Don't apologise,” you croak weakly, lifting up your palm to place it on his face and wipe away some of the blood streaking his skin. “You're here now. You saved me. I'm safe.”

It seems like a mantra meant for him, a reminder, more than anything else. And he realises why as soon as you say it: his shaking stops as your words wash over him and register properly, and he finally slumps against you, tucking your head into his chest and clutching you to his body as tightly as he can without aggravating your wounds. You hold him back as much as your weak arms will allow and he finds himself quietly weeping into your hair for a few moments.

Wesker pulls away much sooner than you both know he needs to hold you for and wipes the tears away with a rough hand that mostly just streaks all the blood around but succeeds in hiding the evidence of his loss of control over his emotions.

“Do you have any wounds that require immediate attention?” he asks gruffly even as he pats you down himself. You shake your head. “Alright. Then let us leave this hellhole and get you proper treatment back home.”

He stands with you in his arms, trembling form wrapped up in his coat, then walks slowly back to the helicopter so as not to jostle you too much. He ends up strapping you in the back because the copilot's seat is too uncomfortable for your wounds and then, before you know it, he's taking off and leaving the mountain behind and all its horrors.

While your wounds aren't life threatening, they are a bitch to recover from and they put you in a lot of pain throughout the entire process of getting better. Wesker is there at every turn, obsessive in his care, but you indulge him no matter how exasperating the behaviour might get. He doesn't know how to tell you that something in him will go wild, like an animal in a cage, if he can't have you near and in his sights. Doesn't know if he is capable of admitting that you are the only thing keeping him somewhat human right now, that that monster you saw unleashed that day was a glimpse of him without you in his life.

Instead, he pulls you closer on the couch so you can recline on him when your hurts are giving you trouble in getting comfortable. He kisses your forehead and gently runs his lips over your swollen eye as it goes down slowly day by day. He rubs your ankles and wrists when phantom pains of rough restraints make your skin itch and joints ache. He shields you from the world with his heavy body when you wake up gasping in the middle of the night from memories you can't bury and whispers promises of safety into the crown of your head, running soothing fingers up and down your bare spine until you unclench and relax back into the mattress.

He doesn't have the right words for what he's feeling. Wesker knows he loves you but he doesn't know how to say it. But he's sure you understand anyway, especially when he cooks you dinner one night, all your favorite dishes laid out on the table, and right before dessert he pulls out a black velvet box and opens it slowly, pushing the open box towards you on the table and leaving it there between you, a question in his eyes and in the way he desperately grips your left hand.

“Yes,” you murmur with wet eyes and a lump in your throat without ever being asked the actual question, at least not out loud. Wesker smiles, full and sweet and genuine, then gently slides the ring onto your finger and kisses the knuckles reverently, promising with his actions if not his words that he will cherish you and keep you for as long as he shall draw breath on this wretched earth. You are his heart, his very dear heart at that, and you belong with him – protected, always, and all his.

[veinyan]

Happy birthday to crow<3

[akiraaa1239]

Just got out the Michael movie a SECOND TIME and I have to start writing part 2 NOW! I will continue my Luis request in parallel of Mikey, but I'm just too excited for part 2 of this amazing fic!

[akiraaa1239]

Platonic

nothing yet.

SFW

nothing yet.

NSFW

nothing yet.

Headcanons

nothing yet.

Series

Behind the scenes (ongoing)

Meeting Michael Jackson, THE Michael Jackson, wasn't really something you had planned. After getting the position to be one of the many makeup artists working on the singer's huge project called 'Thriller' you grow closer to him. Maybe this friendship has its benefits?

[writingdose]

“I want to write a fic about this but I don’t think anybody will be interested in it” ummm hello excuse me ma’am what do you mean you don’t think anybody will be interested in it??? YOU. YOU ARE INTERESTED IN IT???? write it because YOU are interested in it and YOU want to write about it. fanfic writing should always be first and foremost about YOUR enjoyment, not other people’s.

[feekins]

Has this been done already or

[akiraaa1239]

Pairing: Michael Jackson x make-up-artist!reader

Summary: After getting a position as one of the make-up artists of a project lead by Michael Jackson, you can't help growing closer with the young man.

SFW: Strangers/colleagues to friends, real life events from behind the scenes of thriller (some are fictional), KFC date at the end

Wordcount: 7.9k

Note: This was inspired by @appafanclub and their Michael series. Since Thriller is my favorite Michael era I've decided to write about him. Divider is from @cillmequick

Part 2

Masterlist

Read before requesting

“THE Michael Jackson?!”

“Shh! Will you keep it down?!”

For the past ten minutes you've been trying to shut your best friend, Sarah, up after you had told her about your new position after leaving your old one. It didn't help being in the middle of the local mall, with people turning around with every word she said out loud.

Sarah slaps a hand over her mouth, grinning from ear to ear.

You only wanted to invite her to not only tell her the news but also to go shopping together. It was something you both always did, tell each other new things in your lives while doing the thing you love: spending money on useless things.

“It's nothing new.. just doing makeup for music videos.”

“NOTHING NEW?!”

You slap her shoulder while shushing, frowning at how loud she was being.

“Sorry.. uhm.. Nothing new?! You're gonna work for THE Michael Jackson!”

“It's only one time..”

“So?! You're.. omg.. you don't get it. That's Michael Jackson we're talking about! ‘Billie Jean' Michael Jackson!”

You can't help eyeing the floor, the gazes of passerby burning through you painfully. Your friend had always been rather.. blunt about her volume, not caring if she was fully declaring her whole sex life to the world or whatever this was.

“I know who he is, Sarah.” You murmur under your breath, the heat raising to your cheeks.

“Seems like you don't since you're not even reacting the same way ANYONE would!”

“He's a human like you and me..”

Sarah's mouth falls open, eyes widening at the sheer audacity you seemed to possess. Her hand finds your shoulder, dramatically shaking her head in response. “You my friend.. still need to learn a lot about the world.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes in retaliation. Without warning her, you get up with the shopping bags you had filled today.

Maybe you shouldn't have told her after all. You loved Sarah, but with the way she reacted you weren't sure if she'd make an even huger fuss about it.

On the way home you couldn't help thinking of things that could go wrong. What if you embarrassed yourself and be fired on the spot? This wasn't the usual crew you worked for and only got in because your father was friends with Rick Backer, someone who inspired you to get into the makeup business yourself.

It would only be a one time thing to see if you were cut out for such big things.

You were so in thought that you mentally blacked out until you were laying on your bed, the shopping bags leaning against it.

Just three more days. Three more days until the big day. You were so excited internally that you were starting to doubt yourself.

Your thoughts get disturbed by the shrill ringing of the blue trimline sitting on top of your wardrobe. The moment you take the call you knew it wasn't any one of your friends or family members.

“H-Hello?”

The other end was quiet for a moment until a voice of a middle-aged man cut through the silence. “Yes, hello. Is this Miss L/N?”

You swallow a lump, your other hand shaking as it comes up to hold the phone. “Yes..? Yes, this is her.”

The line is filled with certain sounds of paper being worked through before the man clears his throat. “Here’s Frank, just want to inform you to be at the address I had sent you over mail at about eight in the morning. That's okay with you?”

Your eyes widen, a grin even visible in your tone appearing almost instantly. “O-Oh! Uhm.. Yes, of course! I'll be there, thank you so much!”

This was serious now. You were gonna work and meet Michael Jackson.

Usually you woke up at around seven if you had to be somewhere work related, but your excitement took the better of you and you were already awake at five.

Getting ready was the most stressful part, needing to look absolutely flawless and professional for your first day. You had decided to wear that pencil skirt that you had only worn once for your graduation nearly a decade ago. Surprisingly, it still fit after all that time. You finish off your outfit with a simple white blouse.

Now what to do with my hair?

You think of doing a simple ponytail, but that wouldn't do. Since you still had some time you decided to go with a half teased up look, almost making it seem like a lazy beehive your mom loves to wear.

Before you leave for work you take a banana to go, saying goodbye to your parents who were teary eyed at how proud they were. It's not everyday your daughter goes to work for the biggest pop star not only in the US but also the world.

Outside you put on your favorite flats, which are lazily slipped into so you could run for the bus, which was packed as always this time of day. Fortunately for you, you were able to find a seat. The set was pretty far away from home, about a fifty minute drive. You were pretty tired, not being able to sleep properly all night does that to one.

With all your might you push yourself up to rummage through your purse and pull out your walkman. Listening to some songs was always relaxing, especially the ‘Off the Wall' and ‘Thriller' album.

Shortly before your stop you wake up from a small power nap, very glad to haven't missed where you were to get off.

The wall to the studio wasn't far, the streets packed with the people living in the neighborhood, mostly residents flooding the entrance to the studio. You and many other people who looked like they were trying to squeeze through the masses, hoping to get a glimpse of the security so you could tell them why you were here.

At first they were sceptical, not believing you to be working for Michael, but when you showed them the mail you had received you were quickly led through.

The halls weren't any better than outside, people rushing through to find where they were stationed at. You were slightly panicking,not knowing where to go or what to say to even find your place. Just as you were about to go looking for Michael's manager a loud voice calls through the loudness.

“Attention!”

You look up and see Frank Dileo, the manager and an acquaintance of your father, the sole reason you were even here. Next to him stood a younger man, darker complexion, kind eyes and he looked like he was stuck smiling.

Michael.

“Thank you all for coming. Most of you already worked on bigger projects, but this one will be the biggest of all.” Frank looks over to Michael, who's grinning from ear to ear but the way he was shifting betrayed his nervousness. “Today we will only start with looking around the studio where I and some of my colleagues will show you around.”

Frank smiles, looking over at Michael and another man beside him. He had a full beard and glasses, a woman clinging to him. “May I introduce you to John Landis and his wife? They were the sole reason for the idea behind this project. They'll give you directions. And over here we have Rick Baker. He'll show the ones around working in the makeup department.”

John introduces himself as well, smiling over at Michael.

“You still wanna say something, Mike?”

Michael shifts, cheeks reddening at the thought of speaking in front of this crowd. Ironic. He was an amazing performer, singing in front of even bigger crowds.

“Thank you.. for coming!” He looks around the room, raising his hand to slightly wave. “I hope we all get along and this project will become one of the best!”

And with that you all had the go, walking to your designated positions. You didn't know where to exactly,so you find John, who was talking to Michael and his manager Frank Dileo. Rick not far behind.

“U-Uhm..” Your hum makes the four men direct their focus on you, Rick smiling at the familiar face.

“Y/N!” He wraps his arm around your shoulders, pulling you into the conversation they just had. “Vampires or Zombies?”

“W-What?”

The four of them look at you, expecting a reply about what seemed to be the small conversation they just had.

“Michael insists Zombies are more fit for the music video, but I personally believe Vampires feel more ghoul-like.”

You laugh awkwardly, hand coming up to the back of your neck. “W-Well.. Zombies?”

Michael was just smiling, not fully meeting your eyes yet trying his best to keep himself engaged in the small talk. He nods, also awkwardly chuckling at you suddenly joining them.

Rick dramatically sighs, laughing at the sheer audacity before focusing back on you. “Gentlemen, may I introduce my friend's daughter, Miss L/N? She's here to help the make-up crew.”

Frank extends his hand, which you take with the biggest smile on your face to hide how nervous you were. When you turn to Michael, he hesitates but does the same eventually. His hand was just as sweaty as yours, betraying how he was feeling the same as you.

“Shall we?” Rick's voice guides you back to what was more important. Work. He begins to show not only you, but also the other make-up artists around what was about to be your ‘office' for the time being.

It was very exciting to be so close to Michael, knowing that so many people would kill to be in your place. He was just walking in front of you, occasionally turning his head so you could see his side view.

As John and Rick were explaining multiple things about what makeup you'd do on not only Michael but also multiple other actors. After everyone had left to look at the products and multiple prototypes of John's work, the man himself had pulled you aside.

“Y/N.” He smiles. “I'm glad you took this chance. Rick told me so much about you.”

You smile nervously, nodding your head as you didn't know how to react exactly.

His gaze moves up and lands behind you, lips quirking up into a grin. When you look behind you there he was. Michael was shifting on his feet, not meeting your eyes once again. “Michael, good that you're here! What do you think about her helping me with your makeup?”

Michael's eyes immediately go up to John, only quickly going to you. He nods, smiling at the idea.

John pats your back before leaving you both to it, probably wanting you to have the chance to speak to the King of Pop himself.

Well, you didn't speak. It was awkward. You wanted to leave or let the floor swallow you whole.

Say something.

Say something, Y/N!

“U-Uhm.. Hi.”

“H-Hi.”

You gulp as the silence continues, making you kind of sick and embarrassed to be here. Other fans would probably tackle him, smothering him with kisses and love bombing his very being. You? You were too awkward to do so, and that would be highly unprofessional.

“I'm Michael..”

Did he just tell you his name? Everyone knew his name. Was he really as shy as you? You out of all people?

“I-I know.”

You can see him mentally facepalm himself, which he laughs off as he always did. That sweet high pitched laugh that caused his cheeks to grow faint dimples.

“Y-Yeah, I guess you do..” Just as you did earlier, he scratches the back of his neck. This felt like the worst thing in your life yet also the highlight of it.

John quickly returns, saving you from the embarrassment of your life. The day continues with only being shown around and chatting with what were about to become your co-workers.

Michael himself was bombarded with what seemed to be fans that held themselves back on a respectful level. You didn't want to make him even more overwhelmed than he already looked to be. So it ends with you not talking to him again for the day. He was so busy and you had to first get familiar with your surroundings to work.

When the next day came where you were supposed to help John with Michael's makeup, you were thrilled (pun intended) to finally be useful.

It was early morning when you arrived, now not in your fancy get up to be more comfortable while working. You had decided to wear your high-waisted jeans with a striped shirt tucked into it. Just as you enter the studio you take off your denim jacket, hanging in the wardrobe where everyone else kept their belongings.

The place was packed, but you couldn't see Michael anywhere. Today you'd do the makeup for the first scene with Ola Ray, playing the girlfriend of Michael's character, where they'd be in the middle of the woods. Something simple.

“Ah,Y/N!” You weren't even fully there yet and John was already at your side, pulling you in by the arm to where some people were already sitting. “Thought you'd never arrive! You know what to do. Michael only needs a bit for his rosy cheeks and Ola the full meal, but she's already being worked on.”

John leaves you standing dumbfounded and when you look back you see a few artists already working on Ola. Michael was sitting in the other chair, a magazine on his lap. With the way he was reading it seemed to be interesting, but you knew it was just to cover his shyness. You did that too.

Your nails pick at your cuticles, thinking of a way to approach him. Funny enough Michael was just as nervous, thinking of what to say once you arrived. John had already informed him of you doing his makeup, which got him all giddy on the inside. Talking to you for the first time gave him a feeling he'd never felt before, something other than shyness.

“H-Hey..”

Speak of the devil.

Michael snaps around like someone had set off an explosive nearby. He lets out a breathless chuckle, mumbling a greeting that could've been overheard by anyone.

“I'm here to do your makeup.” You walk to the shelf that kept all the stuff you needed, looking through it to find some foundation and prepping stuff.

Michael was very quiet as you did what you were paid to do. Everytime you came close to his face, be it to put on primer or to use the foundation that looked like a second skin, his breath hitched. Those rosy cheeks were quickly hidden behind the brownish liquid, making him look flawless.

“Alriiiight..” You pad some powder over his finished look before putting away all the important essentials to proudly study your work. “Done!”

You turn him in the chair so he could stare into the mirror, which was filled with pure adoration. “Wow. Looks amazing!” You smile at his words, quiet to let him take it all in.

“I-It fits with your costume.” You point out the outfit he was wearing, which looked straight out of a high school drama. He looked absolutely handsome.

“Thank you..” He smiles, looking at you through the mirror which seemed easier than to turn around.

Ola was still sitting in the styling chair, being powdered by a woman looking almost ten years older than you alongside many others who were doing her hair. The girl was stunning, the white ribbon in her hair finishing everything off perfectly. They looked like a match made in heaven with the way they were matching.

You crouch down to one of the drawers that was marked with ‘hair products', earning a glance from Michael that burns through the back of your head, just like that weird burning feeling in every single part of your body. “W-What are you doing?”

Your body was rooted in place, making you unable to get up or even look up. With shaking hands you fish out the hair gel and comb before using all strength in your body to get to your feet, legs trembling.

“J-Just..” Your words betray you so you just hold out the products, a pathetic smile on your features. “..Hair.”

Michael's eyebrows shoot up and frown right after, one side of his lips tugging up as if he felt pity for you. He just nods, turning back to the mirror to let you work. Your hands shake while styling his already beautiful locks, applying gel to the sides until you have what you wanted.

The whole process plus makeup takes about 45 minutes give or take. In the end both Ola and Michael look absolutely stunning, the costume pulling everything into perfection.

From what you've heard they had practiced a lot for the small movie. Dancing whenever your shift had ended and just practicing everything they needed for the final product.

What wouldn't you give to see both in action? Especially Michael.

“Guess it's time to shine, you guys.” John's voice makes all of you look back to see him stand there alongside Frank, Mike's manager.

Everyone starts to murmur as the two main stars leave to go filming. You, of course, have to join them for any touch up they need. The shoot takes you to the woods a bit further away from the studio.

The whole set is packed and Michael alongside Ola sits in a car a bit further away from where the cameras stood.

They play the scene perfectly after John begins filming. You were almost jealous of Ola, who was sitting in that car with everyone's celebrity crush. At least you were more level headed about it.

The next scene takes place with both walking in silence. They talk a little until Michael confesses to Ola's character and they hug.

The scene ends as Michael crouches down in pain after telling Ola's character about a secret he was hiding, which had to be filmed on another day due to the makeup and special effects not being there where they were.

“CUT! Nice job, you guys. Michael, will you go to Y/N and Rick so they can help you with your contact lenses?”

You were already prepared, having taken the contact lenses out of their container to hand to Rick.

“Will you look up for me, Mike?” The man asks in a soft tone, matching the one the young singer always had with everyone around him. “Y/N, tissue.”

You quickly take one out of your pocket, handing it to Michael so he could dry the tears that escaped. With the yellowish half-catlike eyes he almost looked the part of the werewolf transformation that was to take place in the first part of the product.

Then it's back to acting, even if only for a few seconds. Michael was good in everything it seemed. Singing? Check. Acting? Check. What couldn't he do?

You watch in awe as the short time is being used as intended until John cuts the scene off so Michael could get the prosthetic fangs from you.

He stops right in front of you, laughing at something Ola had said. You look through the things you needed for today's filming day before finding the fangs. You hand them to Rick, who already had gloves on to put them into Michael's mouth properly.

You awkwardly stand beside the two, not knowing what to do with your hands. Michael adjusts the fake teeth, smiling and laughing like a child who has done something silly. You couldn't help sharing his joy and when Michael's big eyes stared up as if he had finally found someone to joke around with other than John.

Michael continues acting, slipping up from time to time but mastering it in the end.

“Alright! Lunch break!”

Lunch? Oh, right! You've been out here some time now that you didn't even notice that it was already noon.

You found yourself a quiet corner a bit further away from set to pull out the lunch your mom had packed for you.

You were glad that everyone went about their break and wouldn't bother you, you wouldn't want it any other way.

Or so you thought.

You let out an audible sigh as you felt someone sit a bit further away from you.

“Oh, am I disturbing?”

That voice. You immediately recognized it.

You look up to see Michael with a wounded expression that looked like it wasn't an act from him. The piece you swallowed just now stuck in your throat, making you cough violently. Michael giggles and quickly hands you a pack of juice he had just opened.

You hesitate, but end up downing a few gulps of the sweet liquid.

“Orange juice.” His soft voice drags your eyes back to him. “It's my favorite. If you want water I can get you some.”

“No!” The word comes out sharper than intended. “I-I mean.. No, thank you.”

You both sit in silence once again, staring down at the juice carton between you two. The sandwich in your hands felt extremely heavy in your shaking hands and after thinking for a second you decided to split it in half.

“You want some?”

He only smiles, reaching for the bread with the faintest “thank you” he could muster.

You both sit in silence. Again. This was so awkward for the two of you.

Say something.

“So..” You clear your throat. “.. Are you ready for later?”

With later you meant the werewolf transformation. It was something where even you, a makeup artist, couldn't fully help. You were more on the natural or full face model makeup side rather than the artistic theater one. Still you didn't mind helping.

“Oh..” Michael traces the bread with his fingers. “Yeah, I guess so.”

You laugh, even if nothing was even there to be all happy about. This whole thing was way too awkward for your own goods.

Your eyes dart around to find something to talk about. A book beside Michael was what made you sink back onto your seat.

“What's that?”

Michael looks over to where you were looking mid bite and covers his mouth while apologizing for his full mouth. “Uhm.. that.. sorry. That's my personal notebook.”

You nod, trying to not look like you were daydreaming once again. His whole person was very interesting and listening to him even more so.

“You wanna see?” His eyes sparkle almost childishly,that smile brightening his whole complexion.

“But I thought it's personal..”

“Oh, I don't mind showing you some drawings or lyrics.”

He scoots closer, keeping a respectful distance while flipping through the pages. You watched in awe as he showed you multiple drawings of different things, be it family members, people he worked with or fantasy beings of his own. One that stood out the most was the one with what looked like a young boy with a pointy cap.

Hesitantly you reach out to graze your fingers over it, lips agape at how beautiful his sketch was. “Is that..?”

“Peter Pan.” He grins once again, bashful at being asked about the one thing keeping sane. “I've loved his story since.. well since I can remember.”

You listen intently to his words, legs crossed over the other. Instead of glazing him like everyone around him did you just..are there, something Michael seemed to need. Someone who's there and doesn't start complimenting his every move.

Both of you have a good time, laughing about whatever comes to mind.

You find out he's been a huge fan of everything people label as childish. What you both had in common was your love for animals, especially the more exotic ones.

“You have a monkey?!”

“Oh.. yeah. Bubbles.”

You giggle at the name, finding it amusing that he had so many animals that were mostly kept in zoos.

“That's literally the coolest thing ever.”

Michael bashfully looks away, hands tightening around his notebook. He's always been a little different, shy and lonely while people all over the world adored him.

This small conversation with a girl was the first step to being more confident, because you weren't even trying to glaze him with sweet words.

“Lunch break's over!

You were chatting the whole way back to the studio over things that weren't even important to the project.

“That's crazy. She sent you a knife?!”

“Yeah… pretty scary to be famous.”

The stories Michael told you were both scary, funny and wholesome.

“What'd you do with the knife?”

“Give it to the authorities, what else?”

“Uhh..” You dramatically frown. “I dunno.. throw it away? Send it back?”

Michael laughs. “What would you do if a crazy girl sent you a knife and told you to kill yourself?”

Your mouth falls shut and you had to think for a moment. “Uhm.. Well..”

Michael's expression just reeks 'Told you so' energy as you both walk side by side. His arm clutched his notebook to his chest. He was still wearing the clothes and make up, which would be taken off sooner than later once he's back in the studio to get the werewolf mask done.

“I actually have a really old copy of Peter Pan at home, do you want it?” You stop at the crossing as cars drive by.

“Which year?”

“Uhmmm..” You break an awkward laugh. “Yeeaaaar? It's old..?”

Michael huffs a chuckle, leaning into your view. He looked like a Cheshire cat. “Old?! Girl, I got the 1950s edition.”

You scratch behind your ear, heat raising to your ears. “Uhm..Like..1920-ish? It was my grandma's.”

His eyes widen and he's immediately more talkative than usual. Topics that interest him, mostly Peter Pan, make him a completely different person.

He's been speaking so much that he didn't even notice them already arriving in the studio, where it was time to continue with the process of the project.

It was a very very very long process, with many artists surrounding Michael that you felt out of place.

You watched them rub foam rubber all over his face until all that was left of his chocolate skin was his upper body.

The artistry of this type of makeup got you standing there in awe, watching everyone work around Michael, whose face was fully covered now.

“Y/N.” Rick's voice snaps you out of your little daydream. “Tissue.”

What was it with you and tissues today?

After they had taken off the hardened foam rubber off of his face, Michael cleaned any residue. His eyes find yours and he laughs at the ridiculousness of the moment.

Your brows furrow as he cleans his nose. “You okay?”

He laughs. “Yeah.”

Rick and the others do a great job on the mask, something you couldn't fully see due to not being able to help at all. You weren't talented or at least educated in this field.

But watching? Wow.

Michael couldn't help laughing.

At what, you might ask? Everything.

That man was a ray of sunshine and didn't stop smiling once since your little talk earlier.

Seeing how full the room was you decided to leave it and retreat to the break room, where your walkman was waiting for you.

Your hands feel around the table the moment you sit down, since you forgot to put it in your purse earlier. Instead your fingers graze over the cover of a book.

It was a copy of a children's book.

The writing on it reveals it to be Peter Pan.

This has to be Michael's.

Inside the book the initials ‘MJ' make your assumption become reality. The pages were already worn out, probably from flipping them too much. He did say his version was from the 50s.

Soon you had forgotten why you were here to begin with, casually reading through what used to be your own favorite kids book.

You began to see patterns of Michael's behavior,which was very similar to Peter's.

You sit there for about two hours until your shift ends. You could've gone home, but instead you read the whole thing.

The exit was packed with people leaving and paparazzi waiting outside, somehow knowing Michael was inside. Going home was gonna be pretty traumatizing from now on, something you didn't think of when you took the job.

“Michael!”

“Here, Michael!”

“Look here!"

This moment made you feel deep respect for Michael. As if you didn't have that already. This life must be exhausting.

You were glad to be home sooner than later.

But unfortunately this was gonna be your life for the next few days.

Work.

Cameras.

The full package.

The days did fly by like it was nothing, but one thing made it more fun than makeup.

Talking to Michael.

You didn't understand why he wasn't surrounded by friends, true ones. He was the funniest guy you had ever met!

Every lunch break, makeup sessions and even times you got to work too early to see him practice his dancing was filled with both of you talking about life. Not Thriller, not his career or his popularity. Life and jokes about whatever came to mind.

“Nice.” You grin up at Michael after he had finished his training with the others who were cast to be zombies.

The sweat was dripping off of him, one droplet finding its way down his nose. He was downing cold water for once and no orange juice.

He flops down beside you, panting crazy. “You think so? My footworks lacking today.”

You shake your head, frowning at his words. “Lacking? Sir, I'm gonna have to ask you respectfully to shut up.”

Michael laughs, nearly choking on his water. You were kind of proud to get him to laugh so easily.

“I mean it.” Your face softens as he calms down, eyes truthing for once. “You're amazing. No one can pull it off like you.”

Michael looks away, his lips tugging up in his usual gentle way. Everyone on this set always made sure he was happy, but you did it in a way he couldn't explain. A breath of fresh air coming close to it.

You gasp, making Michael flinch at how sudden it was. He immediately sees a light bulb appear over your head, but he doesn't question it even when he watches you look through that purse of yours.

“I got you the book you wanted!”

You fish out the oldest piece of literature he'd ever seen. The pages were slightly yellowed, worse than his own version. You could see his breath hitch as he reached out to touch the fancy cover, which had been decorated with what looked like sewing magic.

“Y/N..”

“Yeah..?”

His dimples reveal themselves once again, the glint in his eyes brightening as he looks at you. “Thank you.”

“Oh.. you're welcome.” Heat radiates from your cheeks and you almost forget about something else you wanted to give him. “Wait.”

His brows furrow.

You hand him two more books and he was charmed immediately.

Alice in Wonderland and its sequel.

“They're yours. I rarely read and they're more than safe with you.”

Michael doesn't know how to respond. His hand twitches against the cover of Alice in Wonderland. “I can't take it.. it must still mean a lot to you.”

“Michael.. I'm serious.”

His eyes are overly glossy as they meet yours. “Thank you.”

Your shy smile returns and your cheeks burn as he lays a hand on your shoulder. “Y-You're welcome.”

He pats your shoulder before going back for rehearsal,absolutely mogging everyone.

Today was the day you'd get into more action. Michael had already told you a whole lot more than Rick or John. The Zombie makeup would be with you helping around the whole cast. There would be a lot of work to do, which is why so many makeup artists were all around the studio.

It was hell. Stressful. Exhausting.

The first part was very easy, considering the music video continues in that theater not far from the studio. It was just Michael in light make-up, hanging out with Ola's character. But the rest? Oh boy.

Rick did all the outlining while you did all the painting, which was a very pale shade of green. It took hours to get him both into costume AND makeup.

You were truly at the end of your senses when you had to help with the other cast and their face paint. This made you hesitant of going out and watching them all perform, but you still did for Michael's sake of having someone other than directors and fans around him.

The whole dance was filmed not far from the studio and it was absolutely phenomenal. Residents of the neighborhood were watching Michael like hawks, especially the fangirls that were screaming nonstop.

John had insisted on filming the making as well so cameras were pointed at you as well. It was messy.

Watching Michael dance was something straight out of a fairytale. It was calculated and perfect. Bloopers did arise, but mostly coming from the cast around him.

At first you thought filming wouldn't take longer than three to four hours, but you thought wrong.

Twelve hours enduring screaming, chaos, fixing makeup. It was a lot. But it was fun nonetheless.

You sigh as you rest in one of the chairs behind the cameras, chugging down the third bottle of water.

Michael was talking with John about something related to the choreography.

You close your eyes, sprawling yourself over the chair like it was a couch.

This was nice. You could feel yourself getting used to this. Stress and then just relaxing while others did their jobs.

“BOO!”

You scream, eyes widening at the ghoul face appearing before your eyes.

All you hear is Michael's laugh and you making sounds of terror, trying to regain yourself.

The scare makes you clutch your chest, the other hand covering your face.

“Oh,shit. You okay?”

You let out a sarcastic laugh, shrugging at the audacity of him asking that. “I don't know.. Am I?”

He helps you up, keeping a secure arm around your shoulder in a way to apologize.

“What do you need?” You ask with the slight tremble in your voice. Michael looked like he just personally killed someone.

“Oh.. John just sent me over to fix my makeup.”

He indeed did need some fixing. The green paint was smeared a little and covered his red suit a little. The chair you just sat on was soon occupied by the young man as he waits patiently for you to do your thing. The brush tickled against his cheeks, making him giggle like a small child.

“Are you gonna be finished with filming soon? You're still stuck on the first part of the dance.”

Michael glares up at you, frowning. “It has to be perfect. Imagine it's not and I miss something!”

You shake your head and pat his shoulder. “Michael, your fans wouldn't mind it. Mistakes make you human.”

He sighs, his shoulders sagging in defeat. “Perfection is what I need, Y/N! I guess I do understand what you mean.”

You chuckle while putting away the necessities for his makeup, not noticing a certain person approaching both of you.

“Ah, there you are!”

The sweet tone of a woman finally makes both of you look up to see Ola, who was standing there like the second coming of Christ. Her makeup looked near to perfect for someone who had been filming for the past ten hours.

She wraps her arms around Michael's arm as he gets up, resting her cheek on it with a rather cheeky smile. “John says we gotta continue filming before the sun comes up.”

He returns her smile with the same sweet expression he reserved for you, making something weird tug at your heartstrings.

You ignore it.

“I'll see you later, alright?”

The air thickens a little, but you just smile in response.

You sit back and enjoy the show of Michael dancing, perfecting the people around him and the screaming fans not further back. It went as far as them climbing rooftops nearby, causing the set to stop in their tracks to get security, who got everyone down fast.

After twelve hours of fixing up people's makeup you were EXHAUSTED, but everything finally came to an end. Everyone was applauding the moment the last zombie scene was filmed. There was only one more, which had to be done only with Ola and Michael, back in normal makeup.

You had helped take off the last of someone's face paint when Michael was already leaving. He made sure to stop by where you were working.

“See you tomorrow, Y/N!” His arms wrap around you from behind, keeping a respectful space between you both. “Can't wait for the last part.”

You turn your head a little, his face closer than you had thought. Your eyes immediately dart away, cheeks burning alongside that smile you were trying to hide.

He quickly excuses himself and runs to his limo, which was waiting alongside Ola. She had the privilege to be driven home by the one and only, something most of you dreamt off.

Just as you thought he was gone you hear a very loud howl. The source was Michael, who was standing on the car's roof with his signature pose – hand on crotch and other arm raised. It was something he's been doing every time he goes home for his fans.

It made you giggle a little. Very adorable and funny at the same time.

A nice send off for both the fans and his colleagues.

Just as promised the last day of filming was the next day after that crazy long one. Today wouldn't be long, considering the small scene that was left.

You were just there to help with any smeared makeup if there was any.

After yesterday's last zombie scene in this Victorian House in Carol Avenue, about ten minutes away from the studio, you all had returned to finish the same scene just without the zombies.

Michael soothed a scared Ola, who was clinging to him the moment his character helped her to her feet. Just before he turns to the camera, John says “CUT!” so Michael could go to Rick and you for the yellow contacts.

He stands in front of you, leaning over a little so you could reach his eyes. With a careful touch you help him put in the lenses, dabbing a tissue where tears rolled free. His lips were tugged up into a soft smile, eyes watching you like a hawk.

“Alright everyone. Last scene!”

And Michael delivered, grinning back into the camera.

“CUT!”

Everyone starts to celebrate, applauding and yelling out praises of adoration. Ola was already on him the moment John's mouth even opened.

You also can't help cracking a grin, which grows bigger as Rick pulls you into his side.

Your gaze drifts over to Michael, who was being smothered by everyone. The smile on your face fades at how much love it was, not because you were mad at it or upset.

So much adoration and love from anyone and anything.. It was something you craved sometimes.

“We did it!” Michael's voice disrupts your train of thought, even more so as he jumps into your arms.

The entire room was filled with cheers and joy, people tripping over each other to get to Michael, but his eyes were just on you. And he was beaming. Ecstatic.

Your throat closes up from how close he was, the room growing smaller by the second until it was just you two. His hands felt foreign on your body, his scent taking up almost all the space that was left.

Your eyes twitch shut as John lands a hand on Michael's back, patting it until the young musician turns around.

Once again you're back in the background, both men hugging at the accomplishment of getting this project to finally be what they wanted it to be.

Michael's time is occupied for the rest of the day until he's back in your make-up chair. His legs were dangling off the chair like a child, head propped back,eyes closed and a faint twitch of his lips every time you rubbed a makeup remover pad over his skin.

People, who were beginning to slip out the set, walked by to say their goodbyes or rather yell them over.

“Yo, nice workin' with ya, Mike!”

“See ya, Mikey!”

“Get home safe, Michael!”

All that until the only thing you could hear was the vanity light, humming softly.

Michael’s fingers tap on the arm rest, secretly watching you through half-lidded eyes.

“Aaalright..” You wipe the last bits of foundation off his overly soft face. “Done. You can go now, Michael.”

He swings his legs off the chair, turning just enough to see you clean up the mess on the vanity.

“Hey..” Michael can't help staying, not wanting to leave you all alone. His fingers tremble a little as they settle on the small table next to him. “H-How about I drive you home?”

You blink a few times, confused as to why he was offering something he hadn't in the past four days. “What? Me?”

Michael huffs a chuckle, watching you look around as if he had been talking to someone completely different. “Of course you, who else might I be talking about?”

“Oh.. Um.. Sure, yeah.”

His eyes beam at your response, so excited his legs couldn't stay still. “G-Great! I'll wait outside for you.”

Your fingers fidget with the hem of your shirt, feeling smaller than ever after being asked to ride in a car with a guy, that guy being the most famous popstar in the world at the moment.

You take a little longer, packing every single item slower than expected.

When you finished packing and head out you were starting to feel your heart race a little. This was getting serious.

Outside the air was fresh, seeping into your lungs like a million sharp knives that just happened to have a feather light blade. Mixed feelings.

At first you didn't know how to approach the obviously Michael-coded limo, which held a rather crimson colour.

You shift on your feet, nails digging into the bag that held the makeup. So many thoughts and outcomes flood through your head.

What if it'll get awkward again?

Will he even talk to me?

Maybe this is pity for taking the bus everyday.

“You coming?” You hadn't even noticed Michael rolling down his window, waving to you to finally join him.

You take a deep breath, running along the sidewalk until you stand in front of the door. Michael opens it from inside, letting you enter.

The inside was even fancier than the outside, seats made out what looked to be white leather. Your legs brush his briefly, making that flutter in your chest grow worse. He draws a small curtain over the window, which makes you notice that every window was covered.

You shift in your seat, which was straight across Michael's. Something you immediately notice is him wearing sunglasses. At night.

His outfit was changed too. No longer was he rocking the red leather that would probably cause a riot amongst fangirls as soon as the mini movie would be released. Now he was wearing a dark bluish sweater with a white blouse under it, the jeans making his legs look longer. The boots finished the outfit almost perfectly.

He looked straight out of the romance novels you found your mother reading every morning.

The car started driving almost immediately, the driver nor Michael asking where you live.

Just as you predicted, the drive was awfully awkward. Only glances and slight cracks of smiles spared for the other.

“You hungry?”

The ride had been filled with silence for more than ten minutes, so hearing Michael's voice made you slightly flinch.

“Oh.. uhm.. yeah, I guess.”

Michael nods and knocks against the wall of the car. The window behind your head rolls down, startling you a little. The driver doesn't turn his head, but listens to the young man in the back as he redirects the car to the next KFC.

Michael orders a bucket of wings and orange juice while you satisfy yourself with some fries.

You try to chew a little more quietly while Michael inhaled his huge portion of wings.

“You want some?” Michael points to the bucket on his lap, that was already starting to empty itself.

The people pleaser that you are you take one, nibbling at it pathetically.

Michael says nothing, but notices.

You suck on your fingers after finishing everything that you could, feeling a whole lot better.

“Here.”

Without having the opportunity to reply, Michael shoves the orange juice he had gotten for himself into your lap.

He knew what you were getting at, how shy you were masked by a touch exterior. It was very relatable for him, though that facade had been built by years of experience. By his father.

He just stayed quiet, hoping you'd grow a bit more comfortable around him. This was something he also desperately needed in times where he felt the same. Just someone who didn't rub salt in the already bleeding wound, someone who'd listen and not ask question after question.

The past few days had made both of you friends, two people who shared so many attributes and interests.

Soon you were on the highway again, looking through the curtains just enough to see other cars fly by. You had never been in a limousine and it was kind of fun now that you got a little less tense.

Unbeknownst to you, Michael was smiling. It was always nice to see other people happy, but with you it felt almost like he himself was the one feeling the joy. The way your eyes shined and your smile lines deepened.. It made you look like a sun goddess.

The moment the car takes a turn into a rather familiar street filled with apartment complexes and people with faces you've seen every day walking around.

“Uhm.. it's okay if you just drop me off here.”

This whole neighborhood was the complete opposite to what he probably saw on a daily basis. The walls of every house were covered in graffiti, kids running around on the streets without caring for any cars driving around and those complexes looking older than the oldest person alive.

“You sure? Just tell me the address and we can make sure you're home safe.”

“I'm sure.”

Michael doesn't ask twice, noticing the discomfort in your features. Maybe a man asking for a woman's address so stubbornly wasn't the best look.

So he lets you out, rolling down the window just enough for you to be the only one that sees him.

People were already staring, asking themselves whose limo that was.

“Come home safe, okay?”

You nod your head, clutching the makeup bag to your chest. You still had to deliver it back to Rick, but that could wait.

“Thank you for.. the food and driving me back.” A small smile tugs at your lips.

“Anytime. How about we do that again?” His voice lightens with hope.

Your cheeks heat up, that smile that couldn't help forming, making you all the more giddy. You brush back a strand of hair that freed itself, the eyes from the neighborhood burning into the back of your head. “S-Sure..”

Before saying goodbye he hands you a tissue with a number written in it. “Call me.” Was all he said before driving off.

The murmurs of the shopkeepers and others made you dart down the street until you got to your apartment.

This was gonna change your life for sure.

[akiraaa1239]

Hi. Can I request Luis Serra with fem reader if he survived the events of resident 4? Like a mix of Headcanons sfw and nsfw. (Also could reader be latina/hispanic?)

Hi! Of course :D I'm currently writing a fic for something outside of Resident Evil, but i'd love to. I love these kind of fics with the what ifs of certain characters surviving.

Stay tuned! I'll tag you once I finished it

[akiraaa1239]

As some of you know there is supposed to come out a documentary about Michael Jackson called "the Verdict". It's about the allegations and trial.

Unfortunately not a very positive three part docu. It's supposed to be shining light on both sides, but sadly it looks like its showing how guilty Michael was and that he's not innocent.

We all know that's BS and so I ask of you to sign this petition. We can't let them win and have to stop this tasteless show from airing, seeing how it got revealed right after the biopic.

[akiraaa1239]

I just can't stop thinking of Michael. It's not because of the movie, not just that to be honest. Currently I'm writing a fanfic inspired by @appafanclub's series and I'm trying to keep it respectful and loving.

I'm literally over here bawling my eyes out listening to his songs on CD, knowing he's gone and knowing what shit he went through.

Seeing him happy during Off the Wall and Thriller, near to carefree before the Pepsi incident in comparison to the 90s..hits hard. He's never been carefree, but this small amount of time came truly close to it.

People also say he's died thinking everybody hated him, while I agree to an extend I believe he also knew people all over the world adored him and wanted to do everything in their power to Heal The World. Michael had fans who truly loved him, but also family that did. There are people in his family that he also thought were against him, but he knew there was still goodness.

Michael was murdered in cold blood and everyone can still pretend he died of an overdose, but we all know this wasn't the full truth. He himself said people would say he died cause of drugs after he died and it wouldn't be true. That doctor, like one of his brothers said, was a finger to a bigger hand.

We have to keep his memory alive and if writing fics, which Michael himself would've probably enjoyed, is doing that so be it. This man has been my anchor since I was 11/12 ever since my mom introduced me to him like seven years ago. I wasn't as crazy about him as now, but I still loved him.

I wish I could've met him or at least seen/heard him perform live. My dad did hear him outside the stadium in '99 and I'm very jealous and envy him.

He was too good for the world and I cry knowing he's gone and that the world was too cruel to him.

There is also a small challenge gonna happen on June 25th, 11:20pm German time. We all play Heal the World for six minutes. This world won't be saved, but even this small moment can come close to it.

Thank you for even reading this, if anyone did. We won't be silent and we'll continue to fight for Michael.

[weskie]

zeno fic is fucking hilarious to me at this rate lmfao

[akiraaa1239]

This shouldn't be relatable, but it is 😭