🍎 🎀 𝒶𝓃𝓎𝒶 🎀 🍎 @ap-ple-head - Tumblr Blog

stay (a little longer)

summary: you’re michael’s personal assistant on the bad tour. when a snowstorm grounds your flight and leaves you both stranded, you’re forced to share the last hotel room—and its one bed. the quiet night leads to more than you ever expected. (or let yourself hope for)

pairing: bad!era Michael Jackson x reader

w/c: 9.8k

notes: & THERE WAS ONLY ONE (1) BED—smut ahead!!! boss/employee relationship. forced proximity (or is it?), unprotected sex, they're pathetic and desperate your honor!!! michael EATS. there is discussion of michael’s struggle with insomnia & loneliness. the story also briefly touches on his eating habits. michael is a level 10 yearner, but so is the reader—so much vulnerability. he is a cheeky lil shit in this but still an absolute lover boy & dirty talker. some suspension of disbelief may be required—there are probably (definitely) historical and timeline inaccuracies. also, the role of a personal assistant in this universe is very subjective but lets pretend for The Plot

disclaimer: i give absolutely no one permission to use my writing to train AI ‼️

masterlist • ao3

DENVER, COLORADO. MARCH 26, 1988.

It’s late—11:47 p.m., according to the glowing red digits on the backstage clock. The air inside the McNichols Sports Arena still hums with the leftover electricity of the final night in the city. You can practically feel it in your bones—the faint echo of applause, the way the floor still seems to vibrate even though the crowd has long since spilled out into the cold Denver night.

Normally, you would have already been on Michael’s private jet, halfway to Hartford, Connecticut—the next stop on the Bad World Tour. Tonight ran longer than usual, though. Michael stayed behind after the concert to finish a series of post-show interviews with local charities before leaving the city—something he refused to skip, no matter how exhausted he was.

You watched with a knowing smile as he pushed through his fatigue with the same gentle determination he always had when it came to causes that mattered to him. He even paused for a few fan interactions, signing posters and offering words of encouragement—giving everything he had left.

You’re exhausted yourself—the good kind. The kind that comes with pride, with the quiet satisfaction of knowing you did your job well. You’ve been Michael Jackson’s personal assistant for nearly a year now—your first job in the industry—and somehow you’d managed to keep pace with the whirlwind of the tour for the biggest star in history.

You’re good at this job, better than you had expected. Frank DiLeo had told you more than once that you were “a natural,” and Michael himself thanked you every chance he got for keeping things running smoothly. You still don’t quite believe it, but you love the work you’re doing—even when it pushes you to your limits. Especially when it pushes you to your limits.

You clutch your clipboard to your chest as you step toward the arena’s back exit, your coat half-buttoned, mind already shifting into travel mode.

Pushing open the heavy door, you brace for the usual bite of early spring in Colorado. Instead, bitter cold hits you like a physical blow. The air claws at your cheeks, sharp and metallic, and the ground is already buried under a fresh layer of white. Snow pours from the sky in thick, relentless sheets, causing the entire parking lot to look blurry and unreal.

Bill stands near the SUV, talking urgently with the other security guards as you approach. Michael stands a few feet behind you, hands stuffed into his pockets. His thick winter jacket is zipped all the way up to his neck, the furry hood pulled over his head, making him look smaller than usual. A small smile graces his lips as he watches the snow swirl under the streetlights with childlike wonder.

You shuffle toward the men, your boots crunching in the snow. “Are we good to go?” You ask, breath fogging in the air.

Bill turns toward you, his expression tight. “We’re not going to the airport.”

“What? Why not?” You ask, although the reason is obvious.

”It’s a really bad storm,” he says. “Even by Colorado standards. They’ve halted all flights. Nothing’s going out tonight—private or not. They’re saying maybe noon tomorrow, once the weather clears.”

His words hit you, causing your stomach to drop.

Noon. Nearly a half a day behind schedule.

You immediately start mentally rearranging everything—rehearsal times, load-in windows, Michael’s rest schedule, the press commitments waiting in Hartford. You can practically see the calendar in your mind: the carefully-arranged blocks of time shifting, overlapping, collapsing. You’re already calculating how early Michael will need to wake up tomorrow, how quickly you can get him fed, dressed, transported, boarded—

You sigh in reluctant acceptance. You’ll make it work, you always do, but that doesn’t stop you from cursing the weather for screwing up your plans. You mutter under your breath, irritated: “It’s late March, for God's sake… we should be well past snowstorms and blizzards.”

Michael hears you—because of course he does—and he chuckles softly at your petulant griping. Storms don’t rattle him the way they rattle you. He steps closer, voice gentle but slightly strained. “Is everyone else already on their way?”

You nod. “They left a couple hours ago, they should be landing soon.”

The majority of the crew—the dancers, the band, technicians—had left soon after the show had ended, boarding their flights and leaving only a small group behind: Michael, Bill, a few security members, and you.

Bill nods in confirmation. “I already checked, they beat the storm. Everyone’s safe, joker. No need to worry.”

Michael exhales, slow and heavy. He’s relieved that everyone is safe, but you know him well enough by now to recognize the tension behind it. He hates being late. He hates not being there when the crew starts setting up—a control freak in the most endearing way; he’s a perfectionist, overseeing sound checks and checking lighting angles himself. He likes to walk the stage, to feel the space. To become the Michael Jackson, not only in body, but in spirit, ready to perform his soul out for thousands of fans. Being delayed, even by a few hours, twists something tight inside him.

Bill turns to the SUV, pulling open the back door. “We’re gonna head back to the hotel. Let’s move before it gets worse.”

Michael steps aside and lets you climb in first—something he always does, a gesture that feels strangely intimate despite you reminding yourself that he’s just being polite. You slide into the middle row, and he follows, settling beside you so closely that your thighs press against each other.

The warmth inside the vehicle is immediate, the windows fogging with every breath. The wipers drag across the windshield in slow, strained arcs, barely keeping up with the onslaught of ice and snow. The moment the vehicle starts moving, the tires spin on the ice, and your body tenses immediately. Michael notices, nudging you lightly with his elbow. “You’re jumpy.”

”I’m not,” you mutter, even though you absolutely are.

“You sure about that, girl?” He drawls out, poking you in the side, pressing hard enough for you to feel his pointy finger through your thick coat.

You swat his hand away, trying not to smile. “I grew up on the West Coast. This kind of weather isn’t natural.”

He giggles in response, his arm draping casually behind you against the car seat, around your shoulder. “Well, I’m used to it. Gary got storms like this all the time. And touring with my brothers all over the place… I’ve seen worse.”

You roll your eyes, but his teasing does settle something inside you, despite the shiver that rolls through you as he scoots closer to you—subconsciously, you tell yourself. Probably just huddling for warmth.

He’s always been flirty and touchy with you—little nudges, soft teasing, gentle brushes of his hand against yours when he hands you something. That’s just how he is, though. He was like that with everyone—it was in his nature.

You’ve always remained professional—he’s your boss, after all. But you’ve spent so much time together—late nights and early mornings, getting to know one another, talking for hours about things that have nothing to do with schedules or checklists or responsibilities—that you like to think he’s become your friend, too.

Still, you’d be lying if you said you never thought about it—about him—like that. That you hadn’t dreamt about his damn smile, or about the way he looks at you sometimes like you’re the only person in the room.

But you love your job, and he’s Michael Jackson. You’re just… you. His employee. He’s your boss, you remind yourself again. So you push your thoughts down, ignoring your stupid feelings—burying them under professionalism and responsibility.

Another skid jolts the SUV, and you tense again. Michael leans in, voice softer now. “Hey. Stop stressin’.”

“I’m not stressing,” you lie, letting out a shaky breath.

”You are,” he insists, smiling. You can feel his warm breath against your ear as he speaks. “The next show isn’t for a few days. It’ll be alright.”

You know he’s trying to make you feel better, despite being stressed himself. He can’t stand being away from his crew while they need him. But you appreciate the comfort anyway, especially with the storm raging outside.

The drive stretches on endlessly, tires spinning occasionally on hidden ice and the wipers continuing to fight a losing battle against the snow. Finally, the SUV pulls up to the hotel—a luxury tower in the heart of downtown Denver, the same one that you had been staying at for the past week—snowdrifts already pile against the entrance. You watch as even Bill struggles to open the door against a strong gust of wind.

You shake the snow from your coat and hurry to the front desk, Michael and the security team close behind. The concierge looks frazzled as you approach him—cheeks flushed, tie crooked.

“Good evening," he says, even though it’s clearly anything but. “How can I assist you?”

You clear your throat, slipping immediately into professional mode. “Hello. We checked out this morning. We were scheduled to fly out tonight, but our flight was canceled due to the storm. We need new rooms for Mr. Jackson and his team.”

The man behind the counter winces, swallowing loudly. “I’m very sorry. Because of the concert tonight bringing in tourists—and now the weather—we’re nearly at capacity. We have very limited availability.”

Your pulse quickens. “How limited?”

”The penthouse is occupied. No suites left. Not a single one…” he says apologetically. “But perhaps I could ask another guest to give up their room for Mr. Jackson. I’m sure someone would be willing—“

Michael tunes into the conversation then, stepping forward immediately. “No. Please don’t do that.”

You knew he would never accept that. He would never take a room from a fan—he’d sooner sleep in the lobby.

The concierge nods quickly, looking relieved to avoid an awkward interaction with another guest. “We do have two standard rooms available—one with a king-sized bed, another with two queens.”

Two rooms. For all of you. You sigh—it would have to do.

”We’ll take them.” You nod, sliding the company credit card in his direction.

Keys in hand, you turn back to the group. Michael stands closer than you realized, and he catches you as you nearly bump into him, hands landing on either side of your shoulders. Snow clings to his curls, the flakes beginning to melt slowly. Tiny droplets remain on his lashes. You force your gaze away, blushing, and gesture toward the elevators. “Let’s head up.”

The group moves as one—the four security guards flanking you and Michael on all sides. You fall into step beside him, hyperaware of his presence.

Inside the elevator, a soft chime marks your ascent to the eighth floor. It’s not as private as you would prefer—typically reserving the penthouse for Michael, or an entire floor. Not simply for comfort, but for safety. Anything to ensure his privacy and protect him from the unpredictable energy of crazy fans—

No—spirited fans. You correct yourself with a wince. You knew better than to refer to Michael’s fans like that, even in your head. He made that rule clear on your first day—to treat his fans with love and respect. They’re not ‘crazy’; they’re passionate, devoted, and overflowing with love. And he loves them back with equal intensity.

Admittedly, you had grown to love them, too. Even the ones who pushed boundaries from time to time. They meant well… usually. Besides, up until a few months ago, you were one of them, admiring your favorite singer and performer from the sidelines.

Still, you’re glad to have security guards there. Four of them total, including Bill. You steal a glance at them as you step off of the elevator, and your heart tightens. They’re clearly exhausted—faces drawn, shoulders slumped, eyes heavy. They had been working since early morning; transporting Michael safely to and from the venue, managing crowd control and backstage access, keeping him safe. They should have been on a plane by now, asleep and recovering.

You swallow the guilt, knowing there was nothing you could do to change the circumstances, short of being able to control the weather.

The elevator doors glide open, spilling warm light into the hallway. Bill takes the lead with his team, assessing the two rooms quickly. “We’ll take the one with the two queens. Shifts as usual—first team, get some sleep. I’ve got point for now.”

Bill gives instructions to the other guard taking the first shift, and gives you a gentle pat on the shoulder. “Y’did good, kid.”

You smile back, grateful—growing warm at the praise. Over the past few months of working so closely, Bill had become one of the few constants you relied on throughout the whirlwind of the tour, and he had quietly taken on something of a “work-dad” role—always offering advice, checking in, nudging you toward confidence as you learned the ropes of the job. His approval felt like a small victory.

You turn back to Michael, who waited patiently a few steps away, his duffel bag slung over his shoulder. You gesture toward the second room. “This one’s yours.”

He follows you inside, the door swinging shut behind him. You take in your surroundings, and you almost laugh. It’s a “standard” room, technically—but it's still a luxury hotel.

To you, a “standard” room meant a Holiday Inn room containing two double beds with stiff floral comforters (hopefully without bedbugs), and a complimentary breakfast buffet, if you were really splurging. This room, though, was nothing like that. A king-sized bed sat against the far wall, crisp white linens tucked perfectly, pillows fluffed to maximum softness. (Bedbug-free, you’re sure.)

A small seating area faces the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooks the city—although the view tonight was nothing but swirling white. A mini-bar sits on the other side of the room, stocked with neatly arranged bottles and snacks that you know Michael won’t touch. A large-screen TV sits opposite to the bed. The carpet is thick enough that your boots sink in slightly as you step.

“I’ll call room service,” you say, completing a mental checklist as you scan the room for anything he might need—extra blankets, bottled water, towels. “Have them bring up some orange juice for you. And dinner. Don’t even try to lie to me, Michael Jackson—I know you have barely eaten today.”

You hear Michael snicker quietly at your accurate assessment and drop his duffel bag onto the floor. You continue looking around, making sure everything is perfect. You check the thermostat settings. “I’m really sorry it’s not a suite. If I could’ve—“

“Wait,” he interrupts. You turn toward him with a raised brow. “There were only two rooms. Where are you staying?”

Your stomach sinks. You’d hoped—foolishly—that you could slip away before he had a chance to ask. You hadn’t made a plan for yourself yet, wanting to get everyone else settled first. That’s your job. That’s what you do.

You try to skirt around the question, waving dismissively. “Oh, that. Don’t worry about me. I’ll figure something out.”

Michael plants his hands on his hips, giving you a look that is so perfectly, unintentionally mother-hen that you almost laugh, biting the inside of your cheek to hold it in. He doesn’t say anything—simply waits with an expectant look on his face that says ‘explain yourself.’

You sigh, defeated. “I was… probably going to try to crash in the lobby. Or maybe sleep in the SUV if they give me a blanket. Or I think I saw a motel next door—“

Michael’s horrified reaction is immediate. Appalled, he cuts you off, the words coming out so fast and firm they catch you off guard.

“Absolutely not.” He steps toward you, shaking his head in exasperation. Before you can sputter out a defense, he reaches forward and practically yanks your bag off your shoulder, setting it on the floor beside his own.

“That is a ridiculously stupid plan,” he continues, incredulous. “You’re not staying in a lobby. You’re not sleeping in a car. You’re not going out in this weather. Absolutely not. Over my dead body.”

You open your mouth to argue—even though you already know that you’re not winning this one. It was a dumb plan, and you knew it. (Even dumber to think he might let you get away with it.) He cuts you off with a single look.

”You’re staying in here. With me.”

You stare at him, stunned. He crosses his arms, doubling down on his mother-hen posture. You almost giggle at how serious he looks. Michael Jackson—global superstar, beloved icon, standing there like a stern parent scolding you for trying to sleep in a car. The spitting image of Katherine Jackson herself, right then. It would be funny if you weren’t so irritated.

”Michael,” you sigh. “I can’t just—“

”You can,” he says simply. “And you will.”

You stand in front of him, your arms now folded tightly. Your foot begins tapping in a steady rhythm that betrays your irritation. Michael mirrors you instantly—arms crossed, his own foot now tapping, chin tilted upward—determined to match your stubbornness beat for beat. It’s ridiculous, and childish. You narrow your eyes at him, trying to look stern, but his soft bambi-eyes make the attempt very difficult.

“You’re my boss.” You remind him, weakly. “I can’t share a room with you.”

It’s a flimsy argument and you know it. You’d spent months practically living together—working side by side, eating meals together, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder, traveling the world. You had yet to share a room, granted—but the line between professionalism and something else was already blurry.

Michael raises a single eyebrow—the cocky one that you try so hard to hate—and suddenly he looks every bit like the superstar the world views him as. “Then don’t make me play the boss card.”

“The boss card,” you repeat, deadpan.

He nods, leaning into the spiel with almost theatrical confidence. “That’s right.”

You stare at him, wholly unimpressed and unsure where he’s going with this. He stares back, absolutely delighted with himself.

”I’m your boss,” He continues, voice smooth and authoritative. “And I’m ordering you to stay in this room for the night.”

Your jaw drops, and you sputter—caught off guard by the sudden shift in his tone. He’s never ‘ordered’ you to do anything. “That—that is… so not fair, Michael.”

A wide grin stretches across his stupidly handsome face—triumphant and boyish. He knows he’s won. He knows you know he’s won. And he’s enjoying every second of it.

You roll your eyes and scoff, muttering something unflattering under your breath—something about egotistical pop stars—before crouching down to pick up your bag and shuffle toward the couch. Michael clears his throat. “What do you think you’re doing?”

You gesture vaguely at the couch, confused. “I’m taking this.”

He looks at the piece of furniture like it personally offended him. “No, you’re not.”

”It’s fine.” You insist, not sure you have any more fight left in you. “Seriously, Michael. I’ll take the couch. You need the bed. You just performed for forty thousand people and you have a packed schedule tomorrow as soon as we land. You need to rest.”

He shakes his head immediately, having absolutely none of it. “You’ve been working all day, too.”

”That’s different.”

”It’s not.” He counters.

You glance at the couch again, helplessly. It’s… not great. Not terrible, but definitely not meant for sleeping. It’s one of those decorative pieces hotels use to make rooms look fancy, but certainly not meant for comfort. The kind of furniture that says ‘look, we’re pretty and expensive’, but absolutely does not say ‘please relax here for eight hours’.

You wince. “I’ll be fine.”

”No.”

”Michael, please—“

He cuts you off with a decisive shake of his head.

”I’m a gentleman.” He says, voice firm. “Do you know what my mother would say to me if she found out I let you sleep on the couch? I’d never live it down. I can’t deal with all that.”

You snort—you can’t help it—because the image of Katherine Jackson scolding her grown son for poor manners is both funny and entirely believable. Still, you can’t bring yourself to accept. “Michael, seriously, I can—“

“No.”

”But—“

”No.”

You huff, crossing your arms again. Your track record of winning arguments against him was already abysmal, and clearly tonight was no exception.

“We’ll share it.” He gestures toward the bed with yet another grin. You briefly consider smacking it away. “It’s king-sized. There’s plenty of space. It’s the only option that makes sense.”

You nod shyly, biting your lip as heat rises to your cheeks at the implication of sharing a bed with him, even for one night. At that, he notices your hesitation—the way your arms are folded tightly, and how you can’t quite meet his eyes. Suddenly feeling guilty for pushing you, his cocky expression fades into something gentler.

“Hey,” he says quietly. “We can put up a pillow wall, I won’t touch you. It doesn’t have to be weird. I just want you to get some rest… you’ve been runnin’ around all day taking care of everything—taking care of me. Let me take care of you a little. Okay?”

Your heart flutters—traitorously—at his sincerity. You shove the feeling down. Hard. He doesn’t mean anything by it, you remind yourself. He’s just being kind. He’s just… being Michael.

Still, it melts the last of your resistance. “Okay. Fine.” You sigh, long and resigned.

His smile returns—wide and toothy.

”But,” you add quickly, pointing a single finger at him. “You get first dibs on the shower. That’s my final offer.”

He laughs then—bright and genuine. Relieved. “Deal.”

Michael turns, disappearing into the bathroom with a skip in his step—far too pleased with himself for winning yet another argument.

You watch as the door closes behind him, shaking your head in amusement. You let out a soft laugh despite yourself. He’s impossible. Absolutely, utterly impossible. And yet… you wouldn’t trade him for anything.

You finally allow yourself a moment to relax—your body sinking onto the couch. You grunt as the cushions barely give beneath your weight. You would never admit it out loud, but the couch really is uncomfortable as hell. You wouldn’t have gotten ten minutes of sleep on it, let alone a full night. You’re very glad Michael isn’t there to witness your discomfort, it would only make him more insufferable.

Still, it’s the first time you’ve sat down all day—the relief washing over you immediately. Your shoulders throb, your legs ache, and your feet feel like they’ve fused to the insides of your winter boots that are still on—wet and cold from the snow. You toe them off one at a time and let out a relieved groan as you stretch out.

You hear the shower start—the rush of water muffled by the door—and then you hear him. Humming at first, low and gentle, before a soft melody lifts into quiet singing. He knows full well he’s supposed to rest his voice between concerts, but he just can’t help himself. Music lives in him the way oxygen lives in everyone else.

You giggle softly. You briefly consider tapping on the door, reminding him to be quiet, to save his voice, to follow his doctor’s orders. But you don’t—you love hearing him sing.

You hear him perform nearly every night and still never get tired of it. For a single moment, you let yourself pretend you have him all to yourself—his voice, his presence. Him.

You instantly scold yourself as that familiar flutter in your chest returns—He’s your boss. He’s your boss. He’s your boss.

You repeat the words like a mantra—attempting to smother the feeling before it grows into something unmanageable. Something dangerous.

You have to be okay with boundaries, with that invisible line drawn between you. Tonight is no exception, even if you’re sharing a bed with him. Because if you let yourself acknowledge your feelings, for even a moment, it will only hurt. You don’t want to lose him—That is… your job. Yes, that’s all—your job, nothing more. Surely having him as only your boss is better than not having him at all. Right?

You shake your head, forcing your thoughts into something practical—something safe. Work. Work always helps.

You pull your clipboard out and begin flipping through the pages. The familiar columns ground you as you begin rearranging the next days’ schedule, calculating how early you and Michael will need to wake up once flights resume.

You jot down notes, arrows, reminders. You plan out when you’ll need to call the venue manager, when to check into the next hotel, and a reminder to confirm transportation. You make a note to yourself to make sure Michael eats breakfast in the morning, not to let him skip it again.

At that thought, your stomach growls, a reminder that you hadn’t eaten much today, either. Hunger hits you all at once, sharp and insistent. He was right about one thing: you had spent all day taking care of everyone else.

You reach over to the phone on the endstand and call for room service. You order orange juice for Michael—his favorite, you learned on day one—and something light for him to hopefully eat, as well as your own dinner.

You hang up the phone with a soft thanks and your gaze drifts toward the duffel bag he had dropped earlier. His coat was crumpled on the carpet beside it, having been shrugged off and dumped unceremoniously on the floor at some point during your argument.

You stand, walking toward the pile and pick it up, your fingers brushing softly over the material. It’s still warm from his body heat, his scent wafting from it. You bite your lip, about to make a dumb decision.

You glance around the room nervously, as if making sure no-one was watching, and bring the coat to your face, inhaling deeply. The scent of his cologne mixed with sweat, stage smoke and something uniquely him fills your nostrils, and you close your eyes—allowing the sensation wash over you for a single, stolen moment.

Your heart flutters again, harder this time, and you quickly pull the coat away, forcing yourself to come to your senses. Your cheeks warm with embarrassment as you realize what you just did. You scold yourself again—

He’s your boss. He’s your boss. He’s your boss!

You repeat the words in your head until they lose meaning, a useless rhythm in your mind.

You walk over to the wall hook and hang the coat neatly—trying to pretend the gesture is purely professional. You’re still adjusting his coat on the hook, softly smoothing the fabric down when you hear the bathroom door open with a soft click. You jolt, jumping away from the coat hook like you had been burned.

Guilt flashes through you, even though you’re sure he didn’t see anything—that is, didn’t see you sniffing his clothes like an absolute crazy person. But your guilt is short-lived, evaporating instantly as it is replaced by something else entirely. Something far more overwhelming.

Steam billows out into the room like a gentle fog, and Michael stands there, wearing nothing but a white towel slung low around his hips. Droplets of water make slow paths down his skin, glistening under the warm lamplight. His curls are darker when wet—a few strands falling across his forehead, the damp ends trailing along his shoulders and collarbones. He looks like a scene from a movie—effortless, magnetic, and entirely unaware of how devastating the sight is.

Your face heats instantly—the rush of warmth so sudden it makes your cheeks sting. You nearly choke as you try not to stare, but your eyes betray you, drinking in the unexpected sight before you.

The two of you freeze in a startled standoff, like deer caught in each other’s headlights. Michael clears his throat softly, one hand adjusting his grip on the towel as his gaze flicks away, suddenly shy. The tips of his ears are tinged pink, and he looks endearingly human—caught off guard and a little flustered at your gawking.

“Uh… my bag. I left it—“ he gestures vaguely behind you, where the duffel sits at your feet.

“Oh!” You squeak, voice embarrassingly high. You feel like an awkward teenager, nearly tripping over the bag in your scramble to move out of his way, giving him a wide berth so you don’t accidentally brush against one another.

He blushes, avoiding eye contact. He nods toward the bathroom. “I’m done, if you wanna go ahead. I can change out here.”

You manage a jerky nod, eyes fixed on the carpet as you grab your bag with stiff, robotic movements. You shuffle past him into the still-steamy bathroom. The moment the door closes behind you, you slump against the wood, letting out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. You press your hands against your burning cheeks, heart still racing.

He’s. Your. Boss. You repeat it again and again, desperately hoping it will erase the image of him standing in front of you wearing nothing but a towel. (It doesn’t.)

You pull open your overnight bag and pull out your pajamas—an oversized Bad Tour Crew shirt, and a pair of old sleep shorts. You groan internally, suddenly wishing you had packed something cuter, something less… practical.

You shake the thought away. It doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter. He’s your boss. You’re only sharing a bed for practical reasons. That’s it. And that's alright.

You shower quickly, letting the hot water melt away the lingering tension from your shoulders. You towel off as quickly as possible and get dressed in the oversized shirt and shorts. You take one last steadying breath, repeating your mantra once again before stepping back into the hotel room.

Michael is already settled onto the bed, now fully clothed—thank god—sitting cross-legged with the phone pressed up against his ear. He twirls the cord absent-mindedly around his fingers as he speaks, his tone soft and affectionate. You’re pleased to find him at least picking at the food you ordered him, the orange juice sitting half-finished on the nightstand.

He looks up as you enter the room with a startled expression, his cheeks turning slightly pink as if hoping you hadn’t overheard his conversation. He wraps up the call almost immediately. “Okay, yeah. Goodnight, Mother. Love you too.”

He hangs up and offers you a sheepish smile. “That was Mother. She heard about the storm and was worried. I let her know that we’re okay. She says hello… and to thank you for everything. She adores you, you know.”

Your cheeks warm again. You had only met Katherine a handful of times, but her grace and kindness had left a deep impression. Michael had certainly inherited so much of that from her.

“Well, that's my job.” You murmur, trying to sound casual, hoping he doesn't notice your blushing. You sit on the edge of the bed and chuckle softly at the sight—he really did set up a pillow wall. A neat line of pillows divide the bed into two clear halves like a fluffy barrier of professionalism.

”Eat,” he says, gesturing toward your food tray, and you don’t hesitate. Michael turns on the TV, flipping the channels before settling on an old Hollywood movie you don’t recognize as you dig into your food.

Neither of you speak for a while, both lost in your own thoughts, contemplating everything that had happened that evening—the concert, the storm, the canceled flights, the unexpected closeness of sharing a hotel room. Despite that, however, the silence isn’t awkward—it’s warm and familiar. An easy quiet that can only exist between two people that had spent months learning each other’s rhythms.

You finish the last few bites of your dinner, replacing the lid and wiping your hands on a napkin. The movie continues to play quietly in the background, but neither of you are really watching it. You’re too aware of his presence beside you, and you can sense him mulling over something—one of his legs hangs off the edge of the bed, bouncing nervously as he begins to anxiously run his palms up and down his thighs, a nervous tic you’d come to recognize.

“Michael? Everything okay over there?”

He bites his lip—deep in thought as he gathers his words. Finally he clears his throat, eyes fixed on his hands. “I just… wanted to say thank you.”

“You already thanked me,” you remind him gently. “And I was happy to do it.”

You’re about to add that it’s your job—that you’re his assistant, and that taking care of him is quite literally what you’re paid to do—when he interrupts you. Not rudely, but urgently.

”No,” he says, voice soft. “I mean… For staying with me.”

You blink, letting the words hang in the air between you. His cheeks color slightly, and he looks away, rubbing his palms together nervously. His leg bounces faster, nervous energy radiating off him in waves.

Before you can respond, he rushes to explain—words spilling out quickly like he’s afraid to lose his courage. “It’s nice. You know… to have someone here. With me.”

You soften immediately, heartstrings being tugged.

“I don’t sleep well after shows,” he murmurs. “You know that.”

You nod. You do know—his chronic insomnia was explained to you when you were hired—as if it were some small detail to be aware of when scheduling travel and appointments. But you had never talked about it with him personally, much less heard him say it out loud.

“…It’s not just the adrenaline. Or jet lag.” He hesitates. “I just… I don't like being alone after a show.”

Your chest tightens, and you try not to interrupt as he continues. He avoids your gaze, looking down at his fidgeting hands. “I usually call my Mother. Or talk to Bill. But most nights, when they’re busy or asleep, I just… stare at the wall. For hours. Or I practice choreography. Or write. Or read. Or watch movies. Or—“ He swallows, shaking his head. “Anything to take my mind off how alone I am.”

His voice cracks a little at the end, and he winces, like he hadn’t meant to let that much vulnerability—that much honesty—slip out.

Instinctively, you shift closer, reaching across the pillows to place a hand on his arm. “Why didn’t you tell me? I’m almost always just a hotel room away.”

“You work all day.” He shrugs. “I’m not gonna bother you with something as stupid as…” He trails off. He really believes that, you realize. He really thinks he’s a burden. Your heart aches, eyes stinging with sudden tears.

“It’s just nice to have you here.” He says. “Even just for the night. I know I’m your boss. I do know that. I would never expect more than… I know we’re not… I just wanted to thank you, that's all.“

You bite your lip, watching him closely as you consider his words. Suddenly, he’s not your boss, and he’s not Michael Jackson. Right then, he’s a very lonely man pouring his heart out to you, desperate to be heard. To be seen.

“Alright,” you exhale, making a decision. “Right now, for the rest of the night; I’m not your employee, and you’re not my boss. I’m off the clock.”

He looks up, surprised at the declaration. Then, something in him melts—his shoulders relax, and the smile that spreads across his face is so genuine that it makes your heart skip a beat.

”Okay?” You grin, nudging his shoulder playfully.

”Okay.” He nods, the word coming out as a relieved chuckle. “I’m glad. Because… Well, th’truth is, I haven’t viewed you as just an employee for a while now.”

Your heart stutters. And you try—desperately—to push the feeling away, to remind yourself that he doesn’t mean anything by it, that he views you as a friend. That’s all. He needs a friend.

But right then… you swear he’s looking at you like you’re something more. Much more.

And you’re looking back at him like you wish you could be.

Outside, the storm churned on—relentless and wild. Inside, though, the room felt suspended in time. Minutes melted into an hour. Then two.

As the time slips by, your conversation drifts effortlessly from one topic to another. He tells stories about his brothers and sisters—the mischief of their early touring days, about the places he’s visited, the people he’s met. You share quirks from your own childhood—your family, the places you lived growing up. You discuss your favorite Disney movies, and debate playfully about whether Disneyland or Disney World was better—his eyes lighting up as he insists the original park “has that special energy, you know?” You tease him mercilessly when he gets worked up over it, and the sound of his laughter—bright and boyish—makes something warm bloom deep in your heart.

He talks about his music—lighting up as he does so. You could listen to him talk about his work for hours, his passion transforming him—getting excited, hands moving fast as he talks and voice raising an octave as he tells you about everything he’s working on, and his plans for future projects.

He makes you laugh—really laugh. The kind of laughter that shakes your shoulders and leaves you breathless. You can’t remember the last time someone made you laugh that hard.

At some point, without either of you noticing, the pillow barrier began to gradually fall apart. One pillow ended up tucked beneath your head, another propped beneath his knees. A third is kicked aside entirely, forgotten on the floor.

Without realizing, you’ve inched closer and closer, drawn together by the warmth of conversation, by the storm outside that makes the hotel room feel like its own little world. Suddenly, your legs brush. The contact sends a quiet spark up your spine and you freeze—just for a heartbeat—but neither of you pull away.

You begin thinking. Too much—about him, about him opening up to you. About the way your heart fluttered when he said he wanted to take care of you—and how badly you wanted to let him.

You’re mid-sentence when he reaches over, lithe fingers brushing against your cheek to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

You forget what you were saying, words evaporating on your tongue as everything narrows in on the warmth of his fingertips and the softness in his eyes.

He realizes what he’s done a second too late—eyes widening and breath catching—but he doesn’t move his hand. His gaze drops to your mouth for a beat before flicking back to your eyes.

Your pulse thunders so hard you’re sure he can hear it. You stare at one another for a long, suspended moment, and in your head the familiar mantra begins again—

He’s your boss. He’s your boss. He’s your—

But the words crumble—fluttering uselessly in your mind before disappearing entirely, lost somewhere in the snowstorm outside.

And him? He looks at you as if you had personally hung the moon and stars.

He leans in—slowly, instinctively—his forehead resting against yours, your noses brush. He’s close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath fan across your lips, shaky with restraint.

“Tell me to stop.” He whispers, voice low and pained. It’s not a demand—it’s an offering.

He’s giving you out, and you should take it. You know you should. You should tell him to stop, roll over, go to sleep, and never speak of this again.

But you don’t. Instead, you lean in—choosing to throw caution to the wind. Choosing to accept the feelings you’d been trying so hard to bury. Choosing him.

You close the gap, pressing your lips against his—impossibly soft and tasting like orange juice. His hand slides to your jaw, thumb stroking gently, as if afraid you might pull away.

He pulls back for the briefest second—just long enough to take a shaky breath—before kissing you again like he physically cannot stop himself, as if months of careful restraint have finally snapped and he would rather drown in you than come up for air.

He kisses you deeply—a soft, needy sound escaping from his throat as his lips move against yours, hungry and insistent—tongue sliding in to taste you fully.

His hand moves to cradle the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair as he pulls you in. The other trails down your side, mapping the curve of your waist. You melt into the sensation, hands sliding up his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heart beneath your palm.

“I meant what I said earlier…” He grunts out between heated kisses, voice rough and low against you. “I haven’t seen you as just an employee for a long time now.”

His lips trail down, pressing warm, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw before moving to the sensitive skin of your neck. “I want more with you… so much more.”

A helpless moan escapes from your lips as he bites a sensitive spot behind your ear, soothing it instantly with his tongue. He’s half on top of you now—your hands sliding under his shirt, palms gliding along the smooth, warm expanse of his broad back, feeling every flex of lean muscle as he moves over you.

He groans when you touch him, the sound vibrating against your throat and sending shockwaves straight to your core.

“Tell me you feel the same,” he begs, voice strained from months of longing, of holding himself back. “God, please… I need to hear it, baby.”

You nod furiously, heart hammering in your chest. “I’ve been trying to ignore it for months,” you respond breathlessly. “How much I wanted—want you. I couldn’t stop it.”

You can feel his smile curve against your skin before he kisses you again. He moves so he’s fully on top of you, his weight a warm, delicious pressure that sinks you deeper into the soft mattress.

His large, warm hands caress your sides, your waist, your hips—any inch of skin he can reach, while he rolls his hips against you, grinding his unmistakable hardness right against your core. The friction drags an involuntary moan from your throat as heat pools low in your belly. He knows it, too—rocking against you again in a slow and deliberate circle.

”Michael,” you whimper, the single word trembling with need.

He doesn’t hesitate, his fingers finding the hem of your shirt and pulling upward. You lift your arms to help him and he pulls it the rest of the way off—flinging it carelessly across the hotel room.

The cool air hits your bare skin for barely a second before his mouth is on you, hot and eager as he captures one nipple between his lips. He sucks gently, tongue swirling around the sensitive peak before trading it for the opposite side. He kisses and licks his way down your torso, worshipping and memorizing every inch, before reaching your sleep shorts.

His palms possessively squeeze the soft curves of your hips before hooking his fingers into the waistband and dragging your shorts and panties down your legs in one smooth motion, leaving you completely bare beneath him.

He settles himself between your thighs, pressing slow, worshipful kisses on your sensitive skin, working his way closer and closer to your dripping center. Your glistening cunt is fully bared to his gaze, and the intense, raw hunger in his expression makes your breath hitch.

Shyness washes over you suddenly. You try to close your legs instinctively, but his large hands wrap firmly around your thighs, holding them open. “You don’t have to—“ you start, voice small.

He cuts you off, voice low and rough with want. “Please, baby…. Please let me taste you. I need it, honey.”

The sweet endearment sends a sharp, involuntary spasm straight through you, fresh heat flooding between your legs. He looks up at you then, eyes desperate and pleading, silently asking for permission. You nod, unable to deny him—or yourself—any longer.

That’s all he needs before diving in—a hungry, animalistic groan escaping as he tastes you for the first time. His tongue drags slowly up and down your slick folds, savoring every last drop of your arousal before circling your clit with devastating precision.

The wet heat of his mouth is overwhelming—soft lips sucking gently, tongue exploring every sensitive inch as if he’d been starving for your exact taste. He moans against you, unable to help it, the deep vibration traveling through your body and pulling a broken cry from your lips.

Your hand flies to the top of his head and threads into his hair, gripping the damp curls as your hips rock helplessly against his face.

He keeps you spread wide with a bruising grip while he devours you with slow, relentless devotion. Every lick, every suck, every gentle graze of his teeth builds your pleasure higher, coiling tight until the world narrows to nothing except for the feeling of his mouth on you and the sounds he’s making—like he could stay there forever. And you would let him.

You can hear how embarrassingly wet you are as he slides one hand down, teasing your entrance before slipping a single finger deep inside you. The wet, obscene sound of it fills the room, and it doesn’t take much effort for him to add a second one, curling them against that perfect spot inside of you. You clench around them instantly, arching off of the mattress with a loud cry.

You couldn’t hold back the sounds spilling from your lips if you tried—his name nothing more than a broken echo that grows louder and louder with every stroke of his fingers. Your mind is blissfully empty except for one repetitive thought: Michael, Michael, Michael.

It had never felt like this with anyone else—the way he touched you, the way he tasted you as if trying to memorize you—you’re absolutely sure he had ruined you for anyone else.

He pulls his mouth away just long enough to look up at you, the bottom half of his face glistening with your slick, fingers continuing to thrust in and out at a steady pace. “Come for me, baby,” he practically begs, voice hoarse and desperate. “I want—I need you to fall apart for me.”

You’re so close, teetering right on the edge, but not quite there yet.

”Look at me.” He commands. You obey instantly, watching as he leans back down, wrapping his lips around your clit, sucking firmly while his fingers keep that perfect, effortless rhythm. He looks up, meeting your gaze with dark, wide eyes. At that, the coil inside you snaps.

You cry out his name, thighs trembling uncontrollably as your walls clamp tightly around his fingers. He doesn’t stop for a single second—doesn’t even consider slowing down as he works you through every pulsing aftershock, drawing your orgasm out of you until you’re shaking and gasping for breath.

It’s not long before it becomes too much, inching into overstimulation. You push against his shoulder and he pulls away finally—pupils blown and eyes glassy. He looks completely drunk—instantly addicted to you.

”You taste so good,” he slurs, voice completely wrecked. He withdraws his fingers from your fluttering heat and lifts them toward you, like an offering of sweet wine. Without hesitation, you grab his wrist and wrap your lips around the wet digits, tasting yourself on his skin.

Michael lets out a deep, guttural moan at the sight, his hips twitching pathetically against the bed. You can only imagine how hard he has become—his cock straining painfully inside his clothes as he watches you suck his fingers clean.

You shoot up, grabbing the collar of his sleep-shirt and yanking him upward toward you, crashing your lips against his. The taste of yourself lingers on his tongue, tangy and intimate—intoxicating. It sends another rush of heat through your body.

You want more. You want everything—every touch, every sound, every piece of himself he’s willing to give you.

Your fingers fist tighter into the fabric before you tug it over his head, throwing it somewhere into the abyss. You’re on him instantly—pressing your mouth against his bare skin, trailing hot, wet kisses down the column of his neck and across his sharp collarbones. You can feel his pulse racing under your lips, his whole body trembling with barely-held restraint.

“Don’t stop,” He pleads, voice husky and ragged, tilting his head back to give you more access. He moans softly when you begin to nip at the sensitive skin. “God—I’ve waited so long for this, girl… dreamt about it. I’ve been so damn patient. You have no idea what you do to me.”

”Show me,” you respond, placing a kiss at the center of his chest, right above his heart. “I need more, Michael. Please—“

He pulls back enough to cradle your face in his hands, eyes burning with sincerity.

“I’ll give you everything,” he promises. “Anything—everything you want, mama.”

In one fluid motion he pushes his pajama bottoms down his hips. His cock springs free, slapping heavily against his toned abdomen. He’s thicker than you would have imagined, given his lean frame—flushed dark, the tip glistening with precum. The sight makes your mouth water and your core clench with fresh need.

You reach for him eagerly, fingers wrapping around the warm, velvety base. He hisses sharply through his teeth at the contact, and he gently pulls your hand away, lacing his fingers with yours.

”Not yet,” he rasps, squeezing your hand. “I swear to god, I’ll bust if you touch me like that right now… and I’m not done with you yet.”

”But… I want to taste you,” you admit softly, feeling shy and girlish. “I want to make you feel good too.”

He shakes his head, a smile curling his lips. “I want that too, more than anything. And I’ll let you… next time.”

Next time. The promise settles warmly in your chest and makes your heart skip a beat. You know what that means—there will be conversations tomorrow, heavy ones. Things between you and him will never go back to the way they were. You should care. A smart, professional person who values her career should care deeply. But you don’t.

You’re so utterly consumed by him—by the pleasure humming through your veins, by the way he’s looking at you like you’re everything he’s ever wanted.

Consequences be damned. You’ve been good. You’ve been patient. You’ve done everything right for so long. And he—Michael Jackson himself—wants you just as badly as you want him.

You nod, surrendering to him completely. A wolfish grin spreads across his face as he reaches down and slides his fingers through your soaked folds and pushes them back inside of you. A third finger joins soon after, stretching you open with slow, careful thrusts. Pleasure sparks through your body as he once again curls them perfectly against your g-spot.

His mouth stays close to your ear, whispering praises between the soft kisses along your neck. “That’s it, pretty girl. Let me hear those sounds. You’re so beautiful like this.” His thumb brushes against your clit in steady rhythm with his fingers. “So wet for me… only for me. Just like that, yeah? Right there?”

His dark, expressive eyes lock onto yours as he pumps three fingers deep inside of you, hitting that perfect spot over and over again. Your second climax of the night builds fast, your breath coming out in short, needy gasps. You’re right on the edge when he abruptly pulls his fingers out—popping them into his own mouth this time, sucking on them greedily.

You let out a needy, petulant whine at the devastating loss, your hips chasing the orgasm that he ripped away from you. He coos in your ear, pressing a wet kiss against it. “Shh, baby… I’ve got you. Gonna make you feel so good.”

Michael finally shifts above you, bracing his weight on his forearms, and you feel the head of his cock nudging insistently against your slick entrance. His eyes lock onto yours, silently searching—begging—for permission. In answer, you wrap your legs around his waist and pull him closer, guiding him home.

”Baby…!” He moans out, the sound half ecstasy, half relief as he pushes forward. He enters you slowly, inch by thick inch, stretching you open. There’s a slight sting despite his earlier care—a sweet, delicious burn that makes your breath hitch. It had been too long since anyone had touched you like this—since anyone had made you feel this full, this wanted.

You’re ruined, you accept with startling clarity. No one else would ever come close. He knows it too—you can see it in the way his eyes flutter shut, in the slight tremble of his body as he holds himself back from thrusting too fast. Nothing and no one would ever compare.

A loud, broken moan spills from both of you as he finally bottoms out, buried to the hilt so deeply you can feel him in every part of you. He stays there for a long moment, perfectly still, savoring the feeling. He presses his forehead against yours, ragged breath mingling with your own.

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes again, then he begins to move—long, deep thrusts drag against every sensitive spot inside you. His hips roll with that signature, graceful rhythm he brings to the stage every night, now edged with raw desperation. His fingers dig into your hips, grip tight and bruising, making certain you will feel him for days.

You cling to him—nails scoring down the smooth skin of his back, heels digging into the small of his spine as you meet his every thrust. The lewd, wet slap of skin on skin and your shared moans fill the hotel room.

He angles his hips higher, hitting your spot again and again until you’re gasping and shaking beneath him. “M-Michael—oh, oh god I think I’m—“

”Come for me,” he begs—voice straining, his breath hitching as you begin to clench around him. His thrusts grow faster, more frantic. “I want—I need to feel you.”

At his words, your orgasm crashes over you like a blinding tidal wave. A sharp cry tears from your throat as your walls clamp hard around his member. Your vision goes white around the edges, every muscle trembling as you release. His name pours from your lips like a mantra.

He’s close too—you can feel it in the way his hips begin to stutter—but he’s holding himself back, just barely. He buries his face into the crook of your neck, a broken moan escaping him.

“W-where?” He grits out, sounding almost pathetic with need. “Please—tell me where. I’m so close—I can’t—“

”Inside,” you answer immediately, wrapping your legs tighter around him, locking your ankles behind his back. “I’m on the pill. I’m safe, I promise. Please, Michael—fill me up. Please, please, I need—“

That’s all it takes.

He buries himself inside of you with a loud cry, hips snapping forward as he comes hard. He doesn’t stop thrusting, not even for a second, grinding deep as he spills inside you, filling you with pulse after pulse of hot seed. The head of his cock presses insistently against your cervix as he paints your walls, whining your name over and over again like it’s the only word left in his vocabulary.

Even after he finishes, his hips continue moving in shallow, desperate thrusts, as if he can’t bear to stop. Soft, pathetic whimpers escape him as overstimulation takes hold—body shaking as his pleasure clouds everything else. He’s lost in you, completely and utterly gone. You hold him close through every second of it, arms wrapped tight around his trembling frame.

You stay locked together for a long moment afterward, trembling and slick with a messy blend of sweat and release. The air around you is thick, smelling like sex and the faint trace of his cologne and the shampoo you used in the shower. Your heartbeats thunder against each other in the quiet hotel room, gradually slowing as the intensity of the moment fades into something softer.

Eventually, he shifts with a shaky, reluctant sigh, as if it physically pained him to have to separate from you. He slips out of you slowly, the wet drag sending a shared shiver through both of you. You can feel the warm trickle of your combined fluids leak obscenely out of you, soaking into the sheets. Michael barely moves away—immediately settling back down against your body, skin to skin.

Soft, worshipful kisses begin to trail across your flushed, sweaty skin. He brushes his lips to your temple, to your cheeks, your jaw, and then finally your lips. He kisses you as if he can’t quite believe you’re real—willing and here with him. Each one lingers, gentle and reverent, as though he’s afraid that if he pulls away completely you might vanish, like the whole night could still be a dream.

He finally settles his head against your chest, and your hand drifts up to rest at the back of his neck, fingers slowly threading through the damp curls at his nape. You play with them absentmindedly, still trying to catch your breath. That’s when you hear it—his voice, shaky and barely above a whisper, tumbling out in a frenzied, unconscious litany: “Thank you… thank you, thank you, thank you—“

The words spill from him like a prayer he doesn’t even realize he’s saying, raw and desperate. Your chest tightens with a fierce tenderness. You don’t speak or shush him. Instead, you pull him closer, holding him gently against you.

You press slow, reassuring kisses to the top of his head: silent promises that reveal everything you can’t yet put into words: I’m not going anywhere. I’ll still be here in the morning, and every morning after that.

You love him, you realize. The thought settles over you undeniably, blooming deep and real in your chest. You don’t say it out loud, not yet—but the words echo in every gentle stroke of your fingers through his hair, in the steady rhythm of your heartbeat against his.

The world outside has ceased to exist. The snowstorm, the complicated travel plans, the endless chaos of the tour—none of it can touch you here. There is only this bed, only his warmth against yours, only the quiet certainty that everything has changed. For the better.

His whispers gradually fade into slow, even breaths, and his body grows heavier as exhaustion finally wins over, slumping fully against you. His entire weight presses you deeper into the mattress in the most comforting way imaginable. His face is tucked into the curve between your neck and breasts, warm breath fanning steadily across your skin. He succumbs to sleep completely—probably for the first time in days—safe, spent, and wrapped in your arms.

You hold him there, one hand still cradling the back of his head, and listen to the quiet rhythm of his breathing until your own eyes grow heavy. You surrender to sleep yourself, choosing to not worry about the next day and its complications. For tonight, nothing else mattered.

a/n: if you’ve read this far, thank you from the bottom of my heart! any and all feedback is greatly appreciated. please enjoy and be kind ❤️

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