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「𝖊𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖆𝖆𝖑𝖞'𝖘 𝖓𝖆𝖛𝖎𝖌𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓」

hii <3 my name is aly and welcome to my navigation list. my pronouns are she/her. i am 20. i write multi-fandom fanfics. here you can find the links to:

── .✦ 𝖎𝖓𝖋𝖔𝖗𝖒𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓

── .✦ 𝖒𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙

── .✦ 𝔞𝔬3 𝔞𝔠𝔠𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱

ofheroesandvillains

Do Better - Tony Stark

Dad!Tony, daughter!reader

Words: 4.6k

Warnings: Angst, mentions of illness and death

Request: (SPOILER) Tony has a daughter but she thinks he doesn’t like her because shes a product of a one night stand? Tony forgets about her dance recital and attends Peters decatholon, and shes heartbroken and she cries and tells him its fine because hes made his choice? And she ends missing school for two weeks and Tony finds out and assumes she was doing drugs and such but she was at the hospital with her mother who doesnt have much time left? Something real angsty?

Hey everyone! Back into this whole writing business. My next fic will be a Steve/anti-hero reader if anyone is interested, but I wanted to say thank you to @queenofkings121 for requesting this. I tried to include everything so I hope you like it!

(gif not mine!)

Her mother was a dancer. Beautiful and graceful, with an elegance that seemed so effortless it left the audience in awe. It was the music that had first piqued her interest, upbeat and optimistic, haunting and bittersweet…it could captivate an audience, hold them prisoner and force them to feel the plethora of emotions communicated in each and every note.

Watching her mother on stage, drifting about like a feather in the wind, had inspired her to do the same. There was no one she loved more than her mother and dancing had long ago become her way of expressing herself, of showing her audience how to feel, so that they might one day understand how she herself felt.

She may have been a teenager, but she already knew that dancing would be her life. Her mother had never been more proud of her than the day she won her first competition, and their close bond was only strengthened each weekend they would spend rehearsing in her mother’s studio, laughing and learning together.

Keep reading

amnesia-sc

strangers | michael jackson

part one

bad! michael x childhood bsf f! reader

cw/tw: 1988 nyc, reader is an art curator, you two hadn’t spoken to each other in years, he’s avoidant, fluff, angst, joe mention

wc: 2.7k

nikki1navy

Erik Lehnsherr || short headcanons

These are dating headcanons

ildico-the-golden

a hymn for the sinners

PAIRING: priest!Baelor Targaryen x f!reader

SUMMARY: Father Baelor Targaryen has spent fifteen years believing his faith could withstand anything. Then you walked into his parish, carrying your own grief, and suddenly the hardest thing he's ever had to confess isn't to God, but to himself.

WARNING(S): priestAU/modernAU, dual POV, no use of y/n, AFAB reader, religious themes, hierophilia (priest kink), forbidden romance, slow burn, mutual pining, religious guilt, crisis of faith, loss of faith, catholic imagery, blasphemous thoughts, grief, mourning, emotional repression, yearning, unresolved sexual tension, internalized guilt, loneliness, age gap, unhealthy devotion, obsessive thoughts, explicit sexual thoughts, masturbation, praise and worship parallels, hurt/comfort, angst with romantic undertones, "they're both so painfully in love it's embarrassing" trope

WC: 21.1k (probably the longest of the parts this story will have)

A.N.: thorny dividers are mine. i think this work could be catalogued as a slow burn with sexual contents present almost since the beginning. as i warned some days ago, it might well be the slowest of burns i have ever written. i wanted to get a bit out of my comfort zone with this one, so it relies heavily on inner thoughts of both reader and Baelor. i would appreciate it a lot if you could throw some feedback my way, because i somehow feel kinda meh with this so far.

You could not have named the date of the last Mass you'd attended — it had slipped out of you somewhere between one grief and the next, uncatalogued — but you remembered the feeling of it with an accuracy that unsettled you a little: the ache of kneeling too long against unpadded wood, incense sitting as a faint film at the back of your throat, your father's hand closing warm and certain over yours during the Sign of Peace. You had been accepted there, once, entirely and without the usual preconditions. You had wanted that feeling back for longer than you would have admitted to anyone who might have thought to ask.

Father Arlan had presided over all of it for as long as you could remember him: an old, soft-spoken man with liver-spotted hands, who knew every child in the parish by name and forgot no one's saint's day. You learned of his death secondhanded, years after you'd stopped attending, from a text message that tried to cushion the news with a single mournful emoji. You cried once, briefly and uselessly, in a bathroom stall at work, and then, within the week, you noticed you had largely stopped. Grief, you had since learned, kept no fixed schedule. It arrived when it wished and left when it wished, and sometimes it left too soon, and came back, much later, for entirely the wrong person.

outoftheseine

MICHAEL JACKSON FIC RECS

a very long note: guys, GUYS. normally i stopped reading celebrity fanfiction since it kind of icks me now. however with my regrowing infatuation with michael, i would like to pay an homage to the 16 year old me. so here it is in all its glory. please don’t get annoyed that there is not much smut though. i don’t really get along with it. i want to go back and cuddle him so most of them are just fluff, comfort and angst (duh, who am i without that type of anguish) enjoy! |main masterlist

SERIES- MULTI CHAPTERS

past exposure • michael jackson x time traveller!reader

↳ by @thedailymichael (multiple eras, time travelling au)

the jackson chronicles • michael jackson x spouse!reader

↳ by @imhandicapableofmath (so domestic, married!michael, suggestive, fluff)

desire, interrupted | desire, reclaimed • michael jackson x fem!reader

↳ by @urbanfunkchild (dangerous/history era, smut, angst, soft fluff)

deerlyenchanted

LOVER YOU SHOULD COME OVER | M.J

･ ⟢ ⋮ ･ ⟢ ⋮ AUTHORS NOTE: I’m back w my daily dose of angst. Felt miserable n happy asf writing this. Reached a flow state. TBH DONT READ IF U GET IN UR FEELS FAST AS FUCK LMAOO HAPPY ENDING OR NOT? READ TILL END TO FIND OUT :) TOTAL HAPPY ENDING. posting this in the middle of the night n im running on zero sleep 4 two days so if there aree rrors will fix when sun comes up. Listened to a hella lot of frank ocean and marvin gaye n Jeff Buckley for this ngl.

･ ⟢ ⋮ SUMMARRY/CW J*E JACKSON MENTIONS, nothing else, Readers lowkey miserable but like guys theres an explanation?. Summary: When you and Michael make promises while young and You end up not holding your end of the bargain what happens to your relationship?

WORD COUNT 11.2k (long asf but worth it trusttt)

･ ⟢ ⋮ ･ ⟢ ⋮ GENRE & TYPE ANGST NO COMFORT & ONESHOT - FEM!READER!! Implied BLACK!READER

You knew what Michael wanted. He'd wanted it since the beginning of your marriage hell, even before that. He'd told you during those restless nights of his, when sleep wouldn't come and he'd end up seeking you out for comfort. He would lay beside you and talk for hours about the future, about how one day he'd move out of Hayvenhurst, buy a huge house, and fill it with a big family. A family he wanted with you more than anything.

You remembered those conversations like they happened yesterday.

It had been a hot summer day, the kind of heat that made you want to do absolutely nothing. But Michael always pushed himself. He was a perfectionist to his core, and you'd learned a long time ago that there was no stopping him once he set his mind on something. Instead, you'd learned to love that part of him.

You were sitting by the pool that afternoon, wearing one of his oversized shirts over your bathing suit. Your feet dangled in the water, kicking back and forth lazily beneath the surface. The humidity was unbearable, making strands of hair stick to your forehead and neck like glue.

The back door slid open behind you.

"Bunny? You out here?" You tilted your head back to look. Bunny. A nickname he'd given you years ago after deciding you acted like one sometimes. He stood in the doorway, glancing around until he spotted you. The second he did, he made his way over and crouched beside you.

He looked insane standing out here in the middle of summer wearing a button-down and jeans.

startingsomethin

₊ ⊹ ARROW THROUGH THE HEART

DISCLAIMERS: This is not an accurate portrayal of anyone depicted in the story. I do not know these people. It's strictly a work of fiction.

PAIRING: Michael Jackson x Fem!Reader.

GENRES: Angst (a surprise to no one.)

SUMMARY: For ten years of his life, Michael Jackson has known and loved her. An on / off again relationship which a year ago lead him waiting an the altar to commit his life to another. In what felt like forever in the shaky life he had built for himself, he finally felt stability. It's 1992 and the demand for kids was a huge deal breaker for him. The couple wasted no time in trying, but after a year of failed attempts, they worried something might be wrong. Doctors confirmed his worst fears when they announced his wife to be infertile. Desperate for children of his own, Michael jumped the gun by asking a friend to carry his child only two weeks after the diagnosis. When he brings this conversation up to his wife, emotions run high and he might have just lost the best thing that ever happened to him.

WARNINGS: Angst, infertility, heavy argument, swearing. (I think that's it.)

WORD COUNT: 8.6k (My attempt at short. Sorry.)

carmaloves

𝑯𝒖𝒔𝒃𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑴𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒂𝒍

Husband!Michael who carries you through the doors of Neverland after your wedding. You told him he didn’t have to but he said he wanted to do it like how it is in the movies.

Husband!Michael who comes home from a long day of rehearsal and flops beside you on the couch with a dramatic sigh. His whole body is sore, and he could really use a nice massage from you, but is too stubborn to ask. He keeps sighing loudly and rolling his shoulders with a groan. You side eye him, catching his gaze already on you.

"Michael," you hold his name out, "Do you want me to rub your shoulders?"

He tries to play it off cool, shrugging, "Well, if you're offering then yeah, sure. I guess that would be nice." All the while he's immediately moved to sitting in front of you, waiting patiently for your touch.

urelliee

— i thought i saw your face today.

— type: one-shot, a request by an anon avid reader!

TAGLIST: @chocoloveheart @rlm-11 @daniela75201 @fanficreader33 @uknownn111 @rebelatbay

— genre: childhood friends to lovers, angst, slow burn, music industry drama, emotional romance, second chance love

— pairing: producer!reader x multiple eras of Michael Jackson

— contains: 1970s-1990s setting. reader grows up around recording studios because of her father, an old-school music producer, and meets michael jackson as children during a studio session with quincy jones. over the years, hayvenhurst becomes her second home and she slowly becomes deeply involved in michael’s creative process during off the wall and thriller. the two share an emotionally intimate bond built on music, late-night studio sessions, quiet longing, and years of almost-confessions. emotional dialogue, artistic intimacy, unresolved tension, grief, celebrity loneliness, fear of abandonment, vulnerable michael jackson characterization, late-night phone calls, rain-soaked studio scenes, emotional dependence, almost kisses, eventual confession, soft physical intimacy, and the kind of love that survives even after people ruin it the first time.

SUMMARY: two kids who once built songs together grow into strangers haunted by each other. after a cruel fallout during thriller, reader disappears from michael jackson’s life for ten years until one song drags them back together. backstage reunions, grief, old studio memories, and unresolved love force them to confront what fame destroyed and whether love can survive being left behind.

(A/N: this took so long to write because of my terrible writer’s block. i almost went insane. i also genuinely think this is one of the most painful things i’ve written because i wanted their love to feel old. like something stitched into them before they even understood what love was. i didn’t want michael to feel untouchable here, i wanted him human. awkward, scared, prideful, lonely. the kind of person who ruins things because he’s terrified they matter too much. and reader? she loved him so deeply that losing him became part of her personality for years 😭 this fic is basically about timing, grief, ego, and the tragedy of two people loving each other correctly way too late. also yes i absolutely suffered writing the grammys balcony scene thank you for noticing.)

the first time you met michael jackson , he was hiding under your father’s studio console like a stray cat.

you were ten. he was eleven. quincy jones had dropped by with the jacksons and your dad, an old-school producer with cigarette smoke permanently stitched into his sweaters was trying to keep the boys from touching expensive equipment.

michael disappeared halfway through the session. your father found him crouched beneath the mixing desk, knees to his chest, staring at the tangled wires.

“what’re you doing down there?” your father laughed.

“listening,” michael said simply.

you remembered that answer because it sounded strange coming from a kid.

“listening to what?”

“everything,” he replied. that was the beginning of it.

hayvenhurst became your second home through the seventies.

you knew which staircase creaked. you knew janet stole candy before dinner. you knew katherine would always ask if you’d eaten. you knew michael liked sitting on the kitchen counters at two in the morning while humming unfinished melodies into a tape recorder.

he was awkward before the world sharpened him into something untouchable. before the glitter jackets, before the myths. with you, he was just michael.

skinny legs folded beneath him on the carpet. curls damp after rehearsal. hands moving wildly whenever he got excited about music. and god, he loved music more than breathing.

you’d inherited the same sickness from your father.

while other kids learned algebra, you learned how to splice tape. how to layer harmonies. how to sit in a dark booth for six hours trying to make a snare sound like heartbreak.

by seventeen, you were producing demos for older artists under your father’s name because labels didn’t trust young women with control rooms.

michael trusted you anyway, he always did. during the making of off the wall, he dragged you into every late-night session.

“listen to this bassline,” he’d say, practically vibrating.

“it’s too clean,” you would say to him, and he would always respond with, “clean is good.” yet, you would then add, “clean is boring.” he’d gasp dramatically like you stabbed him.

then two hours later he’d quietly admit you were right.

you became part of the album without anyone really knowing. tiny fingerprints hidden beneath the credits. rearranged bridges. vocal layering ideas. percussion textures.

when thriller happened, it got worse. or better? depends who was telling the story.

the studio became your entire life. you and michael lived inside those recording rooms like nocturnal animals.

half-eaten takeout. synthesizers buzzing at four a.m. quincy yelling from behind the glass. michael dancing while tracking vocals because he physically couldn’t stand still.

sometimes he’d collapse beside you afterward, sweaty and breathless. “you think people are gonna like it?”

you’d stare at him like he was insane. “michael, you made billie jean.”

“yeah, but what if it’s not enough?” that was the terrifying thing about him. nothing was ever enough. not applause, not records, not the history itself.

he chased greatness like it owed him money and somewhere along the line, you started falling in love with him quietly enough that even you didn’t notice at first.

it happened in fragments. his hand brushing yours over a soundboard, him falling asleep on your shoulder during playback, the way he always searched for your face first after finishing a take.

everybody assumed something was happening between you two. nothing ever did.

maybe that was the problem.

hayvenhurst was loud downstairs. people celebrating and phones ringing nonstop.

thriller had become something monstrous. bigger than music. bigger than michael. upstairs, his bedroom was dark except for the television glow.

you sat cross-legged on the floor flipping through recording notes while michael paced restlessly. he’d been weird for weeks. quieter, sharper around the edges. fame looked good on him publicly, but privately it was eating him alive.

“they already want another album,” he muttered. “of course they do.”

“they want something bigger than thriller.”

you snorted. “good luck with that.” he didn’t laugh. you glanced up. “you okay?”

he kept pacing. “what if i can’t do it again?”

“you will.”

“you don’t know that.”

“yeah,” you said softly. “i do.” he stopped near the window. for a second, he looked exhausted enough to collapse. then his expression hardened.

“diana says i need to stop hiding behind people.”

you blinked. “what?”

“she says i rely too much on quincy. on the engineers.” he hesitated. “on you.”

the room changed temperature instantly. “okay…”

“she thinks i need to prove i can do things alone now.”

you laughed once, disbelieving. “and what exactly does that mean?”

“nothing.”

“michael.” he rubbed his face. “it means maybe people give you too much credit sometimes.” silence. terrible silence.

he realized it immediately. you saw the regret flash across his face before pride swallowed it. “wow,” you said quietly.

“that’s not what i meant.”

“no, i think it is.”

“you know people talk,” he snapped suddenly. “they say i have handlers. they say i’m manufactured.”

“and somehow that became my fault?”

“that’s not—”

“i spent years helping you because i believed in you.”

“i know that.”

“do you?”

his jaw tightened. “you’ve never even put your own name on anything,” he said. “maybe that bothers you more than you admit.”

that one landed hard because it was true.

you stood slowly. “you know why i never put my name on anything?” your voice shook. “because men in this industry hear one good idea from a woman and suddenly act like she stole it from somewhere.”

“i didn’t say that.”

“you didn’t have to.”

“you’re twisting this.”

“am i?”

he looked furious now. cornered. “you think you know everything about me,” he said. “you think because you were there before all this that you somehow own part of it.”

the words hit like glass. you stared at him for a long moment then nodded once. “okay.”

his anger flickered. “okay what?”

“okay, michael.”

you grabbed your jacket from the chair. finally, panic cracked through his expression. “don’t leave like this.”

“why not?”

“because—” he stopped. because what? because he loved you? because he needed you? because neither of you knew how to exist without the other?

he didn’t say any of it.

and you were too angry to stay long enough to wait.“congratulations on thriller,” you said with a lump stuck on your throat.

then you left.

three weeks later, your family moved to the east coast.

michael called the house for months and you never answered. eventually, the calls stopped. years passed anyway. because they always do.

by 1991, michael had become impossible to describe with ordinary language. he wasn’t a man anymore, he was an event. a religion and a spectacle. somewhere in new york, you watched him from afar while building a quiet career producing records under your own name this time.

artists loved you, and critics loved you more. the industry respected you carefully now, like people handling fire. still, you never sang. you never wanted nor intended to.

until one winter morning when you walked past a man on the street wearing the same cologne michael used in 1983. you turned so fast your neck hurt.

but it wasn’t him. just some stranger disappearing into traffic and suddenly you couldn’t breathe properly.

that night, you wrote i thought i saw your face today. not intentionally about him. that’s what you told yourself, but the lyrics betrayed you.

“your shadow still knows my name.”

“funny how time don’t forget.”

“some people leave the room.”

“some people never left.”

you recorded the vocals in one take. raw and barely polished.

when the song released in early 1992, it exploded. people became obsessed with you overnight. the mysterious producer finally stepping into the spotlight herself.

interviewers asked who the song was about constantly. you always smiled. “nobody you know.” but michael jackson himself knew.

the second he heard it on the radio in the back of a limousine somewhere in tokyo, he knew. because nobody else would’ve layered harmonies like that beneath the chorus.

nobody else would’ve hidden grief inside reverb so carefully. and nobody else had ever looked at him long enough to write lyrics like those.

1993 grammys.

the best new artist. your first major public appearance. backstage smelled like hairspray, expensive fabric, and nerves.

you stood near catering pretending to care about champagne while reporters swarmed nearby. then the room shifted. that kind of shift only happened when michael entered somewhere.

people parted automatically. you looked up before you could stop yourself. and there he was. older and sharper. beautiful in a way that almost hurt to witness.

for a second neither of you moved. all the years between you suddenly felt fake. manufactured.

his eyes found yours instantly. still the same bambi eyes that you used to adore. and that ruined you a little.

he approached slowly, like you might disappear if he walked too fast. “hi,” he said softly. your throat tightened. “hi.” ten years gone and your body still remembered him immediately.

he glanced down briefly, nervous in that old familiar way. “i like your song.” you laughed quietly. “sure you do.”

his mouth twitched. “i deserved that.”

silence settled. not awkwardness, it was just heavy. crowded with ghosts. “you look good,” he said.

“thanks, you too.” that was a lie. he looked tired beneath the glamour. lonely in a way cameras would never catch.

he shoved his hands into his pockets. “i almost called you a thousand times.”

“almost?”

his eyes dropped. “i figured you hated me.”

you thought about that night constantly for years. every sentence dissected to death in your head.

but standing here now, looking at him older and quieter and painfully human beneath all the fame, hatred suddenly felt too simple.

“i tried to,” you admitted. something fragile crossed his face.

the announcer called people toward the stage area. neither of you moved.

“when i heard the song,” he said carefully, “i kept wondering if you missed me or if you missed who i used to be.”

you looked at him for a long moment then smiled sadly. “i don’t think there’s a difference.”

his eyes closed briefly like the answer wounded him or relieved him. maybe both.

somewhere beyond the curtains, the audience erupted into applause. your category approaching. the world waiting.

but for one suspended moment backstage, it was just two former kids from recording studios again. just you and michael. and the unbearable ache of almost.

the presenter was still talking when your name echoed through the auditorium. applause crashed around you and camera flashes burst like lightning.

you barely heard any of it because michael jackson was still standing in front of you, looking at you like he’d uncovered something he lost years ago beneath floorboards.

“you should go,” he murmured. his voice sounded strangely small.

you nodded automatically, but neither of you moved right away. it was ridiculous, honestly.

millions of records sold. world tours. screaming crowds. and somehow michael still looked terrified over simple things. like eye contact, like regret, or like you.

finally, he stepped aside. his hand brushed lightly against your back as you passed. the touch was brief enough to be accidental. it still nearly stopped your heart.

you lost. some nineteen-year-old with a guitar and tragic cheekbones won best new artist instead. the audience applauded politely while cameras caught your gracious smile.

you didn’t care. not really.

because the entire time the winner gave his speech, you could feel michael watching from somewhere offstage. and somehow that felt more depressing than losing.

after the ceremony, the industry dissolved into one of those massive afterparties where nobody actually relaxed. producers pretending not to network. actors pretending not to do cocaine in bathrooms. everybody pretending not to stare at michael whenever he walked by.

you escaped to the balcony for air, and los angeles glittered beneath you. all the gold lights, smog, and ghosts. the city looked exactly the same as it did when you left it.

that annoyed you. the balcony door slid open behind you. you already knew who it was.

“you disappeared fast,” michael said. you leaned against the railing without turning around. “occupational hazard.”

he laughed softly. damn. you forgot how warm his laugh used to feel. for a minute, neither of you spoke. traffic hummed below. inside, bass thudded faintly through the walls.

you finally looked at him. he’d removed the suit jacket. loosened the tie. curls falling slightly into his face now. less michael jackson. more michael.

it made your chest ache unexpectedly. “you really listened to the song?” you asked.

his expression turned almost offended. “i listened to it thirty-seven times.”

you stared. “thirty-seven?”

“probably more.”

a smile threatened at the corner of your mouth before you stopped it. he noticed anyway. he always noticed everything about you. “there you are,” he said quietly.

“what?”

“that smile.”

you looked away immediately. fuck ass territory. always dangerous with him. “don’t,” you muttered.

“don’t what?”

“talk to me like nothing happened.”

his face shifted. the softness disappeared beneath something heavier. “i know what happened.”

“do you?”

“i said terrible things.” you crossed your arms tighter against yourself. “yeah.”

he swallowed. “i was angry.”

“you were cruel.” that one hit him. you saw it physically as michael looked down at the city lights below the balcony.

“thriller scared me,” he admitted after a while.

you frowned slightly. “what?”

“everybody thinks success feels good all the time.” he gave a humorless laugh. “it doesn’t. sometimes it feels like standing in front of a train.”

you stayed quiet because nobody ever talked about michael like this publicly. they talked about genius, they talked about fame, they talked about madness, but never fear.

“people kept telling me i was untouchable,” he said softly. “and all i could think was… what happens when they realize i’m not?”

you remembered those years too well. the insomnia, the pressure, and mostly the way he kept chasing perfection until his hands shook from exhaustion.

“diana kept saying i needed to separate myself from everybody,” he continued. “make people see me as… singular.”

“so you pushed everyone away.”

his eyes flicked to yours. “mostly just you.” that hurt more than you expected because it was true.

you remembered the months after the fight vividly now. how every song on the radio sounded wrong, how studios suddenly felt cold, and how you kept reaching for the phone before remembering there was nobody left to call.

you’d lost more than a friend that night. you’d lost your home inside another person. and the worst part? you never stopped understanding him even while hating him. especially then.

“you know what the stupidest part was?” you said finally.

he shook his head slightly.

“i kept waiting for you to come after me.”

his expression cracked instantly. raw enough that you almost regretted saying it. “i wanted to.”

“you didn’t.”

“i didn’t know if i deserved to.”

“that’s a cop-out.”

“i know.” the honesty startled you. old michael would’ve defended himself for hours before admitting fault. this michael just looked tired. humane.

“my father got sick right after we moved,” you said suddenly. he blinked. “what?”

you hadn’t told anyone this part before. not interviewers, not friends, nobody. “lung cancer,” you murmured. “two years after we left california.”

michael went completely still. you stared out at the skyline because looking directly at him felt impossible now. “he died in ‘87.”

silence settled until, “why didn’t anybody tell me?”his voice sounded devastated.

you laughed quietly without humor. “would it have mattered?”

“of course, it would have!”

you looked at him finally. absolutely looked. and there it was, the guilt. real guilt. not celebrity guilt. not performance. actual grief.

“i called your old number after bad came out,” he admitted shakily. “i wanted to fix things.”

your chest tightened painfully.

“a woman answered and said your family was gone.”

“we moved around a lot after my dad got sick.”

“i tried asking people where you went.”

you stared at him. “you looked for me?”

“of course i did.” his answer came so fast it almost knocked the air from your lungs, he sounded so despaired.

like the question itself offended him. of course he looked. of course, as always. suddenly you remembered something stupid from childhood.

you were thirteen, sitting on the hayvenhurst roof together after sneaking out a window. you’d asked michael what scared him most. without hesitation, he answered: “being forgotten.”

back then, you thought he meant by the world. now you realized he only meant by people he loved. the balcony suddenly felt too small. too crowded with memory.

“i hated hearing your music after we stopped talking,” he confessed quietly. you raised an eyebrow. “that seems dramatic.”

“it was awful.”

despite yourself, you laughed. he smiled immediately at the sound like sunlight hit him directly.

“seriously,” he continued. “i’d hear songs you worked on and know exactly which parts were yours.”

“you can’t possibly know that.”

“yes i can.”

“michael-”

“the vocal stacking. the synth textures. you always leave space before the final chorus because you like tension.” your breath caught because he was right.

he stepped closer carefully. “i heard you everywhere for years.” the air changed again. you hated how easy it still was between you.

how naturally your body remembered standing close to his. you hated how one conversation threatened to unravel a decade’s worth of anger.

“you broke my heart,” you said before thinking.

his face fell instantly. and there it was finally. the truth neither of you ever said aloud. not in 1984. not now.

his voice dropped almost to a whisper. “i know.”

your eyes burned unexpectedly. damn him. damn this entire night.

“i loved you,” you admitted quietly. “and you made me feel disposable because of that stupid diana!”

michael looked like you’d struck him across the face. for a second he genuinely couldn’t speak. then finally, “you were the least disposable thing in my life.”

your breath hitched. too late. that was the tragedy of it.

he should’ve said that ten years ago in a dark bedroom at hayvenhurst before pride ruined everything.

inside, applause erupted again from another award announcement. the world kept moving always, but neither of you did.

michael stared at you with something unbearably fragile in his eyes now. not fame, and just grief.

just love with nowhere left to go. “i don’t know what happens now,” he confessed softly. you looked at him for a very long time. then answered honestly. “me neither.”

the balcony had gotten colder, or maybe it was just the conversation finally stripping everything down to the bone.

inside, somebody started laughing too loudly. glasses clinked. another celebrity made their entrance to applause that sounded rehearsed.

out here, it felt like the entire world narrowed into the space between you and michael jackson. he leaned back against the railing beside you, shoulders slumped in a way cameras never captured.

you realized something then. michael had spent so many years becoming larger than life that people forgot he actually had one. “you know what’s funny?” he murmured.

“what?”

“when we were kids, i thought success meant eventually getting everything you wanted.” you looked down at the city lights. “and?” his laugh came out hollow. “turns out you can get almost everything except the right things.”

that sentence sat heavily between you because both of you knew what he meant. you remembered watching him during the thriller era when the world practically worshipped the ground he walked on.

girls crying outside studio gates, bodyguards everywhere, and the magazines treating him like he descended from another planet. still, at three in the morning, he’d sit beside you in oversized sweaters asking impossible questions in a tiny voice.

“what if people stop loving me?” you used to answer immediately back then. ‘they won’t’

but somewhere over the years, you realized that wasn’t the point. the real tragedy was that michael never learned how to believe love could survive imperfection. one mistake, one argument, and one wound.

and suddenly he’d rather burn the entire bridge down than risk standing vulnerable on it. you understood that now because, truthfully, you weren’t much different.

“i almost wrote you letters,” you admitted quietly. he turned toward you instantly. “what?”

you shrugged slightly, embarrassed suddenly. “after we moved. sometimes i’d start writing and then…” you shook your head. “i never knew how to finish them.”

his expression softened painfully. “what’d they say?” you laughed once under your breath. “mostly angry things.”

“i probably deserved them.”

“yeah.” a small smile touched his mouth then faded again.

“i used to keep expecting you at sessions,” he confessed. “like muscle memory.”

you frowned slightly. “what do you mean?”

“i’d play something new and automatically look behind the glass for your reaction.” his eyes lowered. “every time.”

that hurt because you knew exactly what he meant. for years after leaving california, you kept instinctively reaching for the phone whenever you finished producing a track.

wanting to call michael first, wanting to hear him say: play it again. you never told anybody that. never would.

the silence stretched long enough to become intimate. scarily intimate. then michael asked quietly, “why didn’t you sing sooner?”

you looked away. “didn’t think i had anything worth saying.”

“that’s not true.”

“it was then.”

he studied your face carefully, you could feel it without even looking at him. michael always watched people intensely when he cared about them. like he was trying to memorize something before it disappeared. “that song sounded like you were finally talking,” he said softly.

your throat tightened because he understood the song better than anyone else had. critics called it haunting, romantic, and more on nostalgic.

but none of them understood what it actually was. it was grief. the specific grief of becoming strangers with someone who once knew your soul by memory.

“you know the weird part?” you said after a while. “i didn’t even realize i was writing about you until halfway through recording it.”

he smiled faintly. “i knew immediately.”

“cocky.”

“only accurate.”

you rolled your eyes automatically. and suddenly there it was again. that old rhythm between you two. easy one and instinctive.

michael noticed it too. you could tell by the way his expression shifted, softer now, almost disbelieving.

like he forgot this was possible. “i missed making you laugh,” he admitted. your chest ached.

you looked at him finally and saw it all at once: the exhaustion beneath his eyes, the loneliness tucked carefully under fame, and the unbearable pressure of existing as michael jackson every second of every day.

people thought they knew him because they knew the image. they didn’t know the real michael hated silence because his thoughts got too loud in it.

they didn’t know he loved terrible horror movies and cried whenever animals got hurt onscreen.

they didn’t know he rehearsed compliments before giving them because he worried constantly about saying the wrong thing. you knew all of it. or at least you used to. “does it ever get easier?” you asked quietly.

he understood immediately. fame, expectation, and being consumed alive by the world. his answer came after a long pause. “no.” honest. “you just get better at pretending.”

you swallowed hard. for a second he looked less like the biggest star on earth and more like the boy under the studio console all those years ago. just listening and just wanting to be understood.

inside the ballroom, slow music began drifting through the doors now. people transitioning from awards to dancing and drinking and pretending they weren’t all deeply miserable.

michael glanced toward the sound briefly. then back at you. “dance with me.”

you blinked. “what?”

“one dance.”

you stared at him like he’d lost his mind.

“absolutely not.”

“why not?”

“because this is already emotionally catastrophic enough.”

he laughed unexpectedly loud at that. real laughter with head tipping back slightly. and suddenly you were nineteen again sitting cross-legged on studio floors making him laugh between takes.

it hit both of you at the same time. the laughter faded slowly. his eyes stayed on yours afterward for too long. way too long.

your stomach twisted painfully. there were things here neither of you were saying yet. big things. scary things.

michael stepped closer before he seemed to realize he was doing it. close enough now that you caught the faint scent of his cologne beneath the cold night air. your heartbeat stumbled traitorously.

“you know,” he said softly, “all these years i kept thinking if i saw you again, i’d know exactly what to say.”

“and?”

his gaze dropped briefly to your mouth before returning upward. that tiny movement nearly destroyed your composure. “turns out i still don’t know.”

your breath caught because suddenly the space between you felt incredibly fragile. one wrong movement from collapsing completely. and the terrifying part? you weren’t sure you wanted to stop it anymore.

not after ten years, not after writing songs about ghosts, and not after spending a decade pretending he didn’t still exist somewhere inside you. “michael,” you whispered carefully. the way his name sounded in your mouth visibly affected him. you saw it.

his entire expression softened into something almost aching. then, “there you are!” the balcony doors burst open. both of you jolted apart instinctively.

a producer stumbled outside holding two champagne glasses. he froze immediately upon seeing the two of you standing there together. his eyes widened with the exact expression of a man realizing he accidentally interrupted history. “oh,” he said weakly.

you stepped back fast, pulse hammering now. the moment shattered instantly. michael looked irritated enough to kill someone. you almost laughed at it.

instead, you smoothed your dress nervously. “i should go.” his attention snapped back to you immediately. “wait.” that fucking word.

you hesitated anyway. he looked suddenly unsure again, vulnerability flickering beneath the surface. “can i see you tomorrow?”

your chest tightened. because there it was. not nostalgia, not apology, and something real. more like something present. you should’ve said no probably. instead, after far too long, you answered quietly, “okay.”

you spent the entire drive home wondering if agreeing to see michael jackson again counted as bravery or self-destruction. maybe both.

los angeles blurred past the taxi window in streaks of neon and exhaustion. billboards. palm trees. strangers smoking outside clubs at one in the morning. the city looked exactly like it did the night you left it. that realization made you nauseous for reasons you couldn’t explain.

back at your hotel, you kicked your heels off immediately and sat on the edge of the bed in silence. then you laughed once into your hands. because this was insane. absolutely insane.

ten years, ten absolute years without him and all it took was one conversation for your entire nervous system to start acting like it belonged to somebody else. you hated that. do you know what was worse? you missed it.

the phone rang around two-thirty in the morning. you stared at it suspiciously before answering. “..hello?” silence. just breathing. you closed your eyes immediately. “michael.”

“how’d you know it was me?”

“you breathe dramatically into telephones.” a quiet laugh crackled through the line. that sound still traveled straight through your ribcage.

“sorry,” he murmured. “i didn’t mean to wake you.”

“i wasn’t asleep.”

“me neither.” of course not. you pictured him somewhere in a giant hotel suite unable to sit still. pacing. thinking too much. probably still halfway dressed from the party. some things never changed.

“this is probably a bad idea,” you said softly.

“calling you?”

“all of it.”

he went quiet for a second. “yeah,” he admitted. that honesty again. it kept throwing you off balance. old michael would’ve flirted around the truth. dodged it. turned things charming before they got too real. this michael sounded tired of pretending.

“i kept thinking about your dad tonight,” he said suddenly. your chest tightened. “yeah?”

“he used to yell at us for touching the mixing boards.” you snorted softly. “you did keep touching them.”

“because you did first.”

“don’t rewrite history.” he laughed under his breath again. then his voice gentled. “he believed in me before a lot of people did.”

you swallowed hard. “he believed in you more than anybody.” and it was true. your father adored michael. used to call him lightning in a bottle. used to say: “that kid’s gonna spend his whole life trying to outrun himself.”

you didn’t understand what he meant back then. you did now.

“i was scared to come to the funeral,” michael admitted quietly. your grip tightened on the receiver. “what?”

“i found out too late. by then i thought…” he exhaled shakily. “i thought seeing me would make things worse for you.” you leaned back slowly against the headboard. “you really thought i hated you that much?”

“didn’t you?”

you opened your mouth then stopped. because the answer wasn’t simple. you had hated him. for a while. hated the arrogance. hated the silence afterward. hated how easy it was for him to wound you because he knew you so well.

but underneath all of that was something uglier. you missed him so violently it turned into anger just to survive it. “i think,” you said carefully, “i hated that losing you felt worse than losing people i was actually supposed to lose.”

silence filled the phone.

the kind where you could practically hear another person breathing through memory itself. when michael finally spoke again, his voice sounded wrecked. “don’t say things like that unless you mean them.”

your heartbeat stumbled. “i do mean them.” another pause. then softly, “me too.” you covered your eyes with your hand immediately. this was scary. you needed to be cautious. because suddenly all those years apart started feeling thin and fragile. like something that could dissolve completely if either of you reached too hard.

“what are we doing?” you whispered. he answered honestly. “i don’t know.” you laughed weakly. “great.”

“i just…” he stopped himself. “what?” his voice lowered. “i don’t wanna lose you again.” and there it was. not romance, not nostalgia, just fear.

it hit you harder than any love confession could’ve because michael jackson feared almost nothing publicly. but abandonment? that haunted him.

you remembered nights in the eighties when he’d ask bizarre questions out of nowhere. “if somebody leaves once, do they usually leave again?”

you used to tease him for thinking too much. now you realized he’d been asking for reassurance all along. your throat tightened painfully. “you already lost me once,” you said quietly.

“i know.”

“and you survived it.”

“barely.” the word slipped out before he could stop it. raw and true. you stared at the dark hotel ceiling while your pulse hammered unevenly. you were in trouble because no matter how much time passed, michael still knew exactly how to reach the softest parts of you.

“what time tomorrow?” you asked finally. you heard the tiny shift in his breathing immediately. hope. “lunch?”

“that sounds terrifying.” he laughed softly. “please?” that nearly undid you because suddenly he sounded young again. not the king of pop, and not the global phenomenon. just michael.

the boy who used to sit beside you at studio pianos begging you to stay another hour. “okay,” you whispered.

“okay?”

“okay.” the relief in his exhale made your chest ache.

“i’ll send a car.”

“absolutely not.”

“why?”

“because i enjoy arriving places without causing traffic accidents.”

“that happened one time.”

“michael.”

“fine,” he grumbled dramatically.

you smiled despite yourself and he heard it. of course he always did, and it felt good for once.

“there you are again,” he murmured sleepily, and he didn’t have to finish the sentence. you closed your eyes. “goodnight, michael.” there was a pause. then, very softly, “goodnight.”

neither of you hung up immediately. just stayed there breathing into the silence like two people afraid the other might disappear again the second the line went dead. eventually, you forced yourself to pull the receiver away. the click echoed loudly in the quiet room. and suddenly the loneliness returned full force.

because now you remembered what life felt like with him inside it which somehow made the years without him hurt all over again.

the restaurant michael picked the next afternoon was hidden in malibu somewhere along the coast. private and quiet.

the kind of place celebrities used when they wanted to pretend they weren’t celebrities, you arrived first on purpose. mostly because you needed time to prepare yourself.

the ocean stretched endlessly beyond the windows, silver beneath the cloudy afternoon sky. waves crashed softly against the cliffs below.

you kept rehearsing different versions of this meeting in your head. none of them ended well. either you forgave him too easily. or you left angry again. or worse? you fell back into him completely.

which felt that you needed to be cautious of it all.

when michael jackson finally arrived, the entire room shifted subtly despite the privacy heads turned and conversations paused.

he noticed none of it as his eyes found yours immediately. always yours first. that realization still ruined you a little. he slid into the seat across from you looking strangely nervous for a man who performed in front of stadiums. “hi.”

“hi.” for a second, neither of you touched the menus. you just looked at each other properly in daylight for the first time in years. and there it was again, time folding strangely. because older michael still carried pieces of the boy you knew. still tucked his hands into his sleeves when anxious, glanced away first during serious moments, and looked at you like your reactions mattered more than anything else in the room.

“you cut your hair,” he said quietly. you blinked. “that’s your opening line?”

“i panicked.” you laughed despite yourself. his shoulders loosened instantly at the sound. you forgot how much he loved making you laugh. lunch stretched longer than either of you intended. three hours, then four.

you talked carefully at first. cautiously circling old wounds like people walking across thin ice. music, new artists, and bad producers. tour horror stories. your father. hayvenhurst.

eventually the harder things surfaced naturally. the fight, the silence afterward, all the years in between. “i kept your demos,” michael admitted at one point, staring down into his coffee.

you froze. “…what?”

“the old cassette tapes.” a small shrug. “couldn’t throw them away.” your chest tightened painfully. “michael…”

“sometimes when i couldn’t sleep, i’d play them.” you looked out toward the ocean quickly before he could see your expression break.

because suddenly you pictured him alone somewhere enormous and expensive and empty, listening to old recordings of your voice between songs. the image nearly shattered you. “why didn’t you ever hate me enough to move on?” you asked quietly.

he looked genuinely confused by the question.“because it was you?” simple as breathing.

you laughed weakly, eyes burning now. “that’s not an answer.”

“it is for me.” silence settled over the table. outside, waves rolled endlessly against the shore. you studied him carefully then.

the fame sat differently on him now than it did in the eighties, back then it looked electric. now it looked heavy. beautiful, but heavy.

and beneath all of it was still the same lonely boy who hid under recording consoles listening to the world too closely. “you know,” you said softly, “i spent years trying to convince myself i only missed the past.”

he stayed very still. “and?”

you swallowed hard. then answered honestly. “i think i just really did missed you.”

his eyes closed briefly like the confession physically hurt or healed something. maybe both. when he looked at you again, there was no performance left in his face anymore.

no celebrity shit, just michael. “i loved you for a very long time,” he said quietly. the words landed gently which somehow made them devastating.

you stared at him across the table, heartbeat loud enough to drown the ocean outside. because deep down, part of you always knew.

you knew in recording studios at two in the morning, you knew every time his eyes searched for yours first, and you knew the night everything fell apart.

the tragedy wasn’t that the love wasn’t there. the tragedy was timing. two people too young to understand that love sometimes required staying through ugly things too. your voice came out barely above a whisper. “i loved you too.”

his breath caught sharply and for a moment neither of you moved. the years between you suddenly felt visible somehow. all ten of them sitting there at the table. all the missed birthdays. unanswered calls. songs written instead of conversations.

grief had wasted so much time.

finally, michael laughed softly to himself, shaking his head. “we’re really good at making things difficult, huh?” you smiled through wet eyes. “unbelievably.”

he looked at you for a long moment afterward. then reached across the table slowly and carefully. like he was giving you every opportunity to pull away.

you didn’t. his hand slid into yours. you stared at your intertwined fingers and suddenly thought about that stupid song again.

‘i thought i saw your face today.’ all those years, you wrote about him like a ghost, someone lost and someone unreachable.

but ghosts weren’t supposed to hold your hand under cloudy california skies. ghosts weren’t supposed to look at you like surviving finally meant something.

“i can’t promise i won’t mess things up again,” michael admitted softly. you laughed quietly. “that’d actually be more concerning.” his smile widened. real.

bright enough that for one fleeting second you saw the nineteen-year-old boy from studio sessions again. the one who danced while recording vocals, the one who laughed with his entire chest, and the one you fell in love with before the world got its hands on him.

“but,” he continued carefully, thumb brushing against your knuckles, “i think maybe we wasted enough time already.” you looked at him then you squeezed his hand once.

outside, the tide kept rolling toward shore like it always had. like it always would. and for the first time in a decade, neither of you let go.

weeks passed before either of you said the word relationship. not because it wasn’t obvious. it absolutely was.

but you and michael had always existed in that strange space between friendship and something far more dangerous. labels felt too small for it. too neat.

still, suddenly he was everywhere in your life again. phone calls at two in the morning. flowers arriving at studios with ridiculous handwritten notes attached. “heard this song and hated the drum machine. call me immediately.” you laughed the first time you got one.

the assistant delivering them looked terrified. “is he always like this?” she asked carefully.

“unfortunately.” michael started showing up during your recording sessions too. sometimes quietly sitting behind the mixing desk for hours without interrupting once.

other times dramatically throwing himself onto the studio couch claiming your artist was “emotionally avoiding the bridge.” which, annoyingly, he was usually right about.

one night after a session, you found michael asleep in the corner chair with headphones half-slipping off his curls. the studio lights were low. rain tapped softly against the windows.

for a moment you just stood there looking at him because even after all these years, there was something deeply lonely about the way he slept. like resting never came naturally to him. you crouched beside him carefully. his eyes opened almost instantly. always a light sleeper.

for one disoriented second, he just stared at you softly and unguarded. then he smiled sleepily. “hey.”

your chest tightened embarrassingly fast. “you were snoring.”

“lies.”

“devastatingly loud lies.” he laughed quietly and reached for your wrist without thinking. that simple and that automatic.

his fingers wrapped loosely around your hand like muscle memory returning home. you looked down at it then back at him. “you do that a lot now.”

“what?”

“touch me.”

michael blinked slightly, almost startled by his own behavior. then his gaze softened. “sorry.”

“i didn’t say stop.” the room went quiet. oddly comforting quiet-ness. rain humming outside. tape machines buzzing softly somewhere behind you.

michael’s thumb brushed slowly against the inside of your wrist before he seemed to realize what he was doing. his eyes lifted to yours. that damn look.

that unbearable look like he still couldn’t believe you were real and here and touching him back after all those lost years.

“i think,” he said softly, “i spent so long trying not to miss you that now i don’t really know how to act normal around you.”

you laughed under your breath. “you’ve never acted normal a day in your life.”

“true.” but neither of you moved away.

instead he slowly sat forward in the chair until your knees brushed close. close enough now that you caught the warmth of his skin beneath the cold studio air. there were moments with michael where the world seemed to pause around him. this was one of them.

you remembered suddenly being seventeen in another studio entirely, watching him sing a demo under dim lights while thinking: this is gonna ruin me one day. you were right. just not in the way you expected.

“can i ask you something?” he murmured.

“depends.”

“did you ever almost come back?” your breath caught. because yes. absolutely, yes. more times than he’d ever know.

you remembered sitting in airports with plane tickets to california you never used. remembered dialing hayvenhurst numbers before hanging up.

remembered hearing man in the mirror for the first time alone in your apartment and crying so hard you got angry at yourself afterward.

“once,” you admitted quietly. his expression shifted immediately. “when?”

“1988.” he stared at you. “what happened?” you smiled sadly. “fear.” honesty hung between you. heavy and intimate.

michael nodded slowly like he understood that answer better than anybody else could. because fear had stolen years from both of you. fear of rejection, fear of vulnerability, and fear that maybe the love mattered less than the damage.

“i used to think if i saw you again,” he confessed softly, “i’d either hate you or love you worse.” you exhaled shakily. “which one is it?”

his eyes held yours completely steady. “you know which one.”

the air changed instantly and your heartbeat stumbled hard against your ribs. michael’s gaze flicked briefly to your mouth before returning upward again, slower this time. asking. always asking with you now. never assuming.

your voice came out quieter than intended. “come here.”

he inhaled sharply then moved carefully at first like he still couldn’t quite believe this was allowed.

his hand slid against your jaw gently enough to break your heart all over again. and when he kissed you it wasn’t dramatic, wasn’t cinematic, it was worse because it felt familiar like something interrupted finally finding its way back.

his mouth was warm and trembling slightly against yours, years of restrained grief and affection tucked into the softness of it. you felt him exhale shakily the second you kissed him back. like relief or like survival.

his forehead rested against yours afterward, both of you breathing unevenly in the dim studio light. “wow,” he whispered weakly.

you laughed breathlessly. “real smooth, jackson.”

“sorry, i had a better speech planned in my head.”

“i’m sure.” he smiled then. small and beautiful.

and suddenly you understood something that took both of you ten years to learn: love was never the difficult part.

staying was.

and suddenly, your lyrics meant everything real again.

you really couldn’t help but fall in love again.

urelliee

— in the name of love?

— era: pre!bad & dangerous.

— genre: angst, romance, celebrity drama, soulmates, hurt/comfort, pining, emotional infidelity, public love confession

— pairing: michael jackson x female reader

— contains: diana ross interference, mentions of mj’s previous traumas, jealousy, heartbreak, years of unresolved feelings, michael making the wrong choice, emotional manipulation, longing, public apology, tears, soulmates who can't let each other go, happy ending

SUMMARY: for years, you stood beside him while history, loyalty, and guilt pulled him away. you were the woman who understood him better than anyone. the woman he always came back to. just never the woman he chose. until one award show changed everything.

(A/N: okay LISTEN 😭😭😭 this story hurt my feelings while i was writing it because michael is literally his own worst enemy here. i wanted him to be frustrating in a way that's actually heartbreaking, because sometimes people don't lose the love of their life from lack of love. they lose them because they keep putting them second. also yes diana is PUBLIC ENEMY #1 in this fic i'm sorry (not sorry, i hate her guts) ✋ this is obviously fiction and heavily dramatized for the plot but i needed the yearning, the jealousy, the "choose me for once" energy. and michael's speech at the end??? yeah. that's the entire reason this story exists.)

people always talked about michael joseph jackson as if he belonged to the world, and that was precisely the problem because nobody ever stopped to ask whether the world deserved him or whether michael knew how to belong to himself.

you met him during a time when he was already fractured in ways most people couldn’t perceive. While everyone else saw the records, roaring crowds, and his diamond gloves with moonwalks along the seemingly impossible levels of fame, you witnessed the cracks beneath the surface.

you saw the man hiding beneath it all, the one who endured his father’s abuse and believed that love could only be earned through suffering because his mom always condoned his father’s abuse and mostly the one who couldn’t tell the difference between loyalty and sacrifice. that was exactly his tragedy. he would hand pieces of himself away until there was almost nothing left then apologize for not having more to give.

the first thing he ever said to you was strange, and of course it was. normal conversations never interested him.

he looked at you during a party neither of you wanted to attend and asked, “do you think people can miss somebody before they’ve met them?” you stared at him. “that’s a weird question.” he smiled. “that wasn’t an answer.”

you should’ve known then. you should’ve known you were doomed because nobody had ever looked lonely the way michael did. he was not even when surrounded by thousands, especially not then.

the relationship happened slowly. not because either of you lacked feelings, but because both of you understood exactly how complicated they were.

he wasn’t easy to love, and unfortunately that man was a disaster. beautiful, very gentle, brilliant, and funny. but emotionally? a complete catastrophe.

he loved with his entire soul and then panicked whenever somebody tried loving him back.

he’d call you at three in the morning because he couldn’t sleep then disappear for three days because the conversation meant too much. he wanted closeness, and maybe needed it. but intimacy terrified him so much to the point where you became the only person capable of navigating those contradictions.

you were the only person who understood that michael wasn’t difficult because he didn’t care, in fact, he was difficult because he cared too much. and for a while, everything worked out despite the struggles.

until diana came. the thing about diana wasn’t that michael loved her, of course he loved her. it was so obvious from the start. the point being was that diana existed inside his life like gravity.

everything bent toward her including him. maybe especially him.

it wasn’t romance of some sort, not was friendship. it also wasn’t mentorship. it was something that had rooted itself so deeply inside michael’s identity that he couldn’t separate where her influence ended and where he began and diana knew. that was the part that made your stomach twist.

some people possess power and never use it and others possess power and forget they have it. though, diana possessed power and exercised it effortlessly like breathing.

she’d enter a room and michael’s attention would shift before she even spoke not because she demanded it. he offered it freely like muscle memory.

the first time it hurt was small, it was almost insignificant.

it was at a charity event with you and michael laughing together. his hand resting against your lower back, his bambi eyes shining bright and happily.

then diana arrived and it was like somebody flipped a switch. his body physically turned toward her, focus followed, and energy followed. everything followed.

you watched yourself disappear in real time not because he stopped loving you, but because he forgot to choose you. there was a big difference and somehow that’s more pathetic because intentional cruelty can be confronted. unintentional neglect leaves you arguing with ghosts.

your friends had reassured you that, “you’re imagining things.” or that, “he didn’t mean it.” or that it was, “that’s just diana.”

you grew to hate those words. as if those words explained every wound. every disappointment, those multiple occasions that somehow became hers, and every moment michael abandoned before realizing he’d left.

you began noticing a few repeated moments, patterns nobody else wanted to acknowledge. diana would appear and michael would orbit. you would become invisible in a way you would never have imagined. again and again.

it wasn’t dramatic, maybe that would’ve been easier. it was death by a thousand shards of glass. it was those small and constant moments. moments that accumulated until one day you woke up exhausted.

you weren’t competing with another woman, you were competing with his story. and unsurprisingly, his story was winning.

the worst argument happened in private, and of course it was private. the worst heartbreaks always do. nobody remembers them except the people they destroy.

you’d been together at neverland and the sun was setting. everything should’ve felt beautiful, and instead it felt like standing on the edge of a cliff. because diana had called and michael was leaving again.

you don’t even remember what started the fight. only how it ended and the feeling of standing in the middle of neverland while the sun disappeared behind the hills, watching the man you loved more than anything look everywhere except at you.

it had probably started over something small. it kind of always did. a phone call with you, those damned canceled diners, and another promises postponed. another moment that somehow became about someone else. it was always her, it always came back to her somehow.

the argument had been building for years anyway and this was just the first time neither of you could stop it. “why is it always her?” the words left your mouth before you could soften them.

michael froze and his shoulders tensed along with his gaze dropping immediately and somehow that hurt more than if he’d yelled back because he already knew.

you saw it on his face that he knew exactly what you were talking about: he just didn’t know how to fix it.

“look at me.” only to be faced with silence, “michael.” still nothing. your chest tightened. “why is it always her?”

he swallowed and looked away. that absolutely told you everything.

you laughed, except it didn’t sound like laughter. it sounded wounded. “so much for words.” your eyes burned. “wow.”

“don’t do this right now, please-” he finally looked up, though you wished he hadn’t because there was guilt in his eyes. there was so much guilt, in fact, that guilt was worse than denial. guilt meant he knew.

you stared at him as his jaw clenched. “make me choose.” the world suddenly went quiet. you actually had to pause because for a second you couldn’t believe what you’d heard. then your expression shattered. “make you choose?” you repeated softly. pathetically soft. “that’s what you think this is?”

“you’re misunderstanding what this is.”

“then what did you mean?”

he opened his mouth then soon pursed it. nothing came out and suddenly you were exhausted. just tired, so unbelievably tired. “i’m not asking you to stop loving her.” your voice cracked. “do you understand that?”

he stared at you.

“i have never asked that.” another breath. “i have never once asked you to stop caring about her.”

“i know.”

“no, michael. i don’t think you do.” your eyes filled. “because if you understood me, we wouldn’t be standing here, and i wouldn’t have been so insecure with this whole thing we have going on.”

he looked devastated, and for once, you didn’t feel any guilt nor remorse. great. “everybody says she’s important to you.” you laughed bitterly. “every single one.” another step backward. “nobody ever asks what it’s like to be the person standing next to that.”

his face fell yet you kept going because this was years worth of heartbreak pouring out at once. “do you know what it’s like?” your voice shook. “to walk into a room and immediately wonder if i’m about to lose you again? and also to watch your attention disappear the second she walks through a door?”

“to spend entire nights pretending i’m okay because i know if i say something, i’ll be the bad guy?”

he looked sick but you didn’t stop. not anymore. not again.

“the worst part is that i know you love me.” his eyes widened. you laughed again with that same horrible sound. “because if you didn’t, this would’ve been easy.” a tear stripped down your cheek. “if you didn’t love me, i could leave. and if you didn’t love me, i could hate you. but you do love us.”

your voice broke. “you love me and somehow i’m still standing here begging for scraps.”

“you’re not—”

“stop.”

and he did stop immediately.

“don’t tell me what i’m feeling.” you wiped your face angrily. “i’ve spent years understanding you.” your chest hurt. “i just wish you’d spend five minutes understanding me.” the silence afterward felt uncomfortable. finally, you asked again. quieter this time. more broken in fact.

“why is it always her?”

michael looked down and his hands trembled.

then came his whisper, “because she was there before everyone else.” the words landed like a gunshot and for a second you just stared.

and you wished he could have added more context, but there wasn’t and somehow that was the answer.

the sound of a heart finally understanding its own death. “and what happens when somebody comes after?” his face crumpled. you stepped closer. “what happens when someone loves you after?”

your voice rose. “what happens when somebody stays?” another step. “what happens when somebody chooses you every single day?”

“what happens when somebody gives you every piece of themselves?” tears blurred your vision. “what happens then?”

he couldn’t answer because there wasn’t one. and that was the pathetic part of it all. there never had been.

“you know what breaks my heart?” you whispered. his eyes squeezed shut. “if she called right now…” your voice cracked. “…you’d leave with no thought behind for us.”

his silence was immediate and instinctive and you nodded slowly because there it was. there was your answer.

“see?” you laughed through tears. “we both know i’m right.”

“it’s not like that.”

“then tell me i’m wrong.” nothing. your heart shattered right there. “you always come back.”

he looked up desperate and hopeful because he thought that meant something.

you saw it happen and somehow that hurt too.“that’s what makes this so cruel.” his expression collapsed. “i know you’ll call tomorrow.” your voice softened. “i know you’ll apologize.” tears slid down your face. “i know you’ll cry.”

“i know you’ll mean every word.” you shook your head. “and somehow that doesn’t fix anything anymore.”

“please.” his voice was barely audible.

you almost broke right then because you loved him. if you didn’t love him, this would’ve been survivable.

“i feel stupid.” your voice trembled. “because every time you walk away, i tell myself it’ll be the last time.”

he stared at you completely shattered.

“and every time you come back…” you swallowed. “…i let you in again.” his eyes filled with tears and you hated that they did because now you wanted to comfort him even now.

even while your own heart was breaking, you were still worried about his. you were still choosing him. and he still wasn’t choosing you.

“i don’t think diana is the villain.” he blinked and was surprised. “i think the villain is the fact that you know exactly how much this hurts me…” your voice broke. “…and you still can’t stop.” he physically flinched. that’s great. let him drown in his own sorrows. let him feel one fraction of what you’d been carrying.

“you make me feel loved.” your words came out small and fragile. “and you make me feel abandoned.” his face crumpled with your words.

“i don’t know how both things can be true.”

you looked at him. the person you’d spent years loving and the person you’d have followed anywhere. “i would’ve followed you anywhere.” a sad smile appeared then gone just as quickly. “that’s the embarrassing part.”

his eyes closed. “you never even had to ask.”

then came the final wound. the one neither of you would ever forget. “i think if you had to choose between losing me…” his breathing stopped. “…and disappointing her…” tears blurred everything. “…you already made that choice years ago.”

the uncomfortable feeling afterward felt endless and for the first time since you’d known him, michael jackson had absolutely nothing to say.

his face fell. because for the first time he understood that you weren’t asking him to stop loving diana. you were asking whether there would ever be room for anyone else. whether your future was permanently trapped inside somebody else’s shadow.

and michael couldn’t answer because deep down? he didn’t know and that was what destroyed you. not the uncertainty, rather the realization that he genuinely didn’t know.

months passed, then maybe years. you left. not dramatically nor angrily. you were just tired of being the escape route for his complications with diana. you can survive heartbreak and you can mostly survive betrayal. what you can’t survive forever is being somebody’s almost.

he stopped calling as often, stopped showing up, and stopped reaching for your hand. the silence between you became something living and something you grew accustomed with.

people assumed you'd broken up, and the truth was worse. there had never been anything official to end. just two people destroying themselves over a love neither could let go of.

you kept working, and he kept performing. the world kept turning and neither of you moved on. everyone could see it. maybe especially him. because every woman he stood beside wasn't you.

every room he entered felt emptier than it should, every award became heavier, achievements tasted wrong. he had chosen comfort over courage and it haunted him.

and that’s what you’d become, almost the love of his life.

you were always an almost. the person he wanted. almost. the future he dreamed about. almost. everything important. except chosen.

michael tried moving forward and the world assumed he succeeded. the world was wrong because success never fixed what was missing. awards didn’t fix it, stadiums didn’t fix it, and applause didn’t fix it. nothing unfortunately did.

he kept collecting achievements and somehow feeling poorer because grief does something worse.

it doesn’t always arrive when you lose someone, sometimes it arrives years later when you realize exactly what you lost and exactly why.

michael eventually reached a conclusion that terrified him. the greatest love of his life hadn’t left because she stopped loving him. she left because he never gave her a reason to stay. that realization haunted him like a ghost because regret is heavier than heartbreak.

heartbreak says it ended, regret says it didn’t have to, which brings us to the award show.

by 1996, the regret had become unbearable. you knew it, and he knew it. the entire industry knew it. nobody talked about it though. until the grammy awards, maybe where the night everything exploded. you'd been asked to present one of the biggest awards of the evening. the album of the year, cameras adored you, and the audience adored you. yet somewhere in the front rows you noticed where michael sat with diana. of course. you saw them before the show started.

your heart dropped to the floor when his eyes found yours immediately and they stayed there for far too long.

another speech and another headline, instead they witnessed a confession.

the night history finally cracked open. the audience expected another michael jackson victory.

you stood on stage presenting the award. elegant, composed, and very much untouchable. those years had sharpened you and made you stronger and harder to reach.

michael saw it immediately and for the first time in his life, it frightened him because you no longer looked like somebody waiting. you looked like somebody capable of leaving forever.

the winner was announced. his name echoed through the auditorium, and it was your voice that announced his win. the applause began and people stood. those haunting flashes of hollywood cameras flashed but michael couldn’t hear any of it.

because all he could see and hear was you, standing there, holding and presenting the award. the woman he’d spent years loving and years losing.

he walked toward the stage, past celebrities, past cameras, and past diana. past the gravitational force that had dictated so much of his life.

later, newspapers would obsess over that detail. the way he never looked at her. not once.

because for the first time since you’d met him, michael wasn’t being pulled by old loyalties. he was making a choice and he reached you, accepted the award. then stopped.

the audience sensed it immediately that something was happening. something bigger than music ever was, than fame, more than entertainment.

michael turned toward the microphone. his hands shook and it was not from nerves. from truth.

“all my life,” he began softly, “people have told me who i belong to.” followed up with silence that swallowed the room. “my family.” another breath, “my fans.” and another, “the world.” his eyes found yours. “and for a long time, i believed them.”

you didn’t (couldn’t) move, and neither could anyone else.

“i spent years giving pieces of myself away because i thought that was what love was.” his voice cracked. “i thought all love meant was having an obligation.” the room remained seemingly still. “i thought loyalty meant abandoning myself.”

tears filled his soft eyes. “i thought being grateful meant never leaving rooms i had already outgrown.” you saw it right then. the exhaustion from so many events, the regret, and mostly the weight he’d carried for decades.

michael looked like a man setting down something enormous, and it was something he’d been dragging behind him his entire life. then, he looked directly at you, and in an instant, the entire world around both of you vanished. “she loved me when i had nothing to offer except myself.” his voice broke completely. “and i was so busy giving myself to everybody else…”

his breath hitched, and you couldn’t help but feel pitiful for him. “…that i forgot to give myself to her.”

the audience was crying now openly; because some truths are too human to resist and some regrets are universal.

michael stepped closer, and his eyes never left yours. “the biggest mistake of my life wasn’t trusting the wrong people.” another step came. “it wasn’t fame.” and another, “it wasn’t success.” he swallowed.

“it was making the woman i loved feel like she was standing second in a story where she should’ve been first.” and right there? you felt your heart shatter then heal. all at once. and then finally, he said the thing he’d been terrified of for years.

not because it was difficult, but because it was irreversible. “i love you.” the room inhaled as he spoke: “i have loved you for years.” his voice grew stronger and steadier.

“and if history remembers me for anything…” he reached for your hand. “…i hope it remembers that eventually i found the courage to choose you.”

the applause was deafening but it sounded distant because michael was crying, and so were you.

somewhere in the audience, diana ross sat and watched. she wasn’t angry or furious; she was simply witnessing something she had never anticipated. for perhaps the first time in Michael’s life, he was not following the path of familiarity; he was finally walking in his own heart, guided by his own instincts. and somehow that was far more shocking than any declaration of love.

because the real confession wasn’t that michael loved you, everybody already knew that. the confession was that after all these years he loved you more than he feared disappointing everyone else. and for michael? that was the bravest thing he had ever done.

sweeterners

DOMESTIC BLISS. 𝗺𝗶𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗲𝗹 𝗷𝗮𝗰𝗸𝘀𝗼𝗻

❛ mature era!michael jackson 𝑥 𝑓 nanny!reader ❜ ╱ summary. some instances in which michael and you function as a couple . . . which you guys aren't. just a really, really good team.

warnings. no real warnings, it's just mainly fluff. and tbh i can't tell if this is actually domestic or not, but oh well i just really wanted to write the following scenarios. prince being prince. hints at michael's obsession for you. age gap - twenty years. not proofread. series m.list main m.list

michael who made an extreme emphasis on his desire to be present in his children's lives and not have them be raised by nannie's. but soon after blanket's birth he knew he needed a little extra help with a newborn and two little ones running around.

the interview process was long and tedious and happened over a few weeks as michael personally reviewed over applications, made the phone calls to let which applicants will be getting interviewed where and when, and conducted the interviews process with various questions;

"during times of stress how do you handle the chaos of the children?"

"what was the reason for leaving the last family you works for, and what made you interested in caring for my family?"

"do you have any formal education in child care, child education, or child development?"

"are you ready to take on not just my children's schedules but my own, and what that entails?"

he wants the best for his children and you just happen to be that. you're one of two of the last applicant who progressed to the very last interview, and watching the other applicant go first and leave with an unreadable expression only worsened your worries. and when you think everything is going good your nerves are on edge and heart pounding against your chest when michael rose from his seat across from you and extending his hand out to you. placing trembling hands on the edge of the conference desk to push your seat out and away so you can also stand, wiping your sweaty hand on your slacks before extending it to meet michael's firm grip, "congratulations, you're hired."

you didn't formally meet the children until your second day, you're first day was just you getting acclimated. already having signed every form of paper possible upon getting hired, all michael requested of you for your first day was to show up to neverland ranch at 7 a.m sharp. giving you a proper tour of neverland ranch before returning back to the house and to his office to go over the kids routine.

michael's eyes follow where your body bends to reach inside of the bag you brought with you, eyes widening just a bit when you pull out a dark green journal and pen. flipping the journal open and clicking the pen to jot down the small bit of what he had said about their schedules before he went silent, only the sounds of pen on paper filling the office.

when there's nothing more left to write down you peer your gaze up just a bit, but michael's eyes are trained on the journal in your lap, mouth slightly agape. "you can continue, mr. jackson."

the sound of your voice pulls his eyes back up to meet your own, licking his lips, "right," he continues, coughing lightly, "'nd it's michael, no formalities."

and he gets amused when you give him a curt nod before moving your pen to the very top of the page and write something down, probably something along the lines of no use of formalities.

only further getting amused by you when just before you leave you pull a container full of various cookies out, "i don't know what they're favorite is so i just made small batches of chocolate chip, snickerdoodle, and sugar cookies with sprinkles," you explain, fingers gripped around the nice container you bought specifically for this, not wanting to hand michael jackson a tupperware container.

hand it over, feeling uneasy when all he does is start at the container now in his hands, "you and the other staff can have some too of course, they're not just for the children," rambling on.

when michael looks up there's a small smile on his face, "thank you, we 'ppreciate it. they're are going t'love them for dessert."

introductions with the children go well, michael makes them thank you for the cookies, and it really doesn't take too long for them to warm up to you. it only took prince a few hours to approach you to ask if you would play with him, and if there's one thing about childcare that you will never get over is their small voices when they're still a little shy, which didn't last long with prince once he got comfortable with you.

and with blanket it took no time. the five of you sat around the dinning table as the kids ate their breakfast, with prince and paris sat next to each other, paris next to michael who is at the head of the table, you were in the seat right in front of paris while blanket was in his father arms, already having had a bottle. when michael was nursing his glass of orange juice that's when you feel it, a chubby hand lightly against your forearm.

taking blanket's smaller hand in yours, the natural movement he's making seem like the two of you are shaking hands. "hi, blanket," you muse, grinning when the infant begins to coo and show off his gummy smile. his arms now fully trying to reach you.

"he's tryin' t'escspe my arms, d'you wan' him?" the question has you thinking for a second, but you do agree.

"yeah, i'll take him." opening your arms and reaching out to grab the infant. blanket instantly settling within your arms, resting his head onto your shoulder, his cheek squishing adorably against it that has michael bringing a finger to sooth at his other chubby cheek.

however, it's paris that takes some time to fully warm up to you. she still interacted with you, but she never sought you out like how prince would take your hand in his and guide you off somewhere, most likely somewhere with an elaborate toy set up or the makeshift fort he built. or how blanket started to naturally cling to you whenever you were around. but paris seemed to always longingly stare at you whenever you interacted with her brothers. you always tried to include her, making the space for her to join in welcome as you remember michael telling you that paris is interested in whatever prince has.

you didn't take it personally, you figured it would take time since during the first meeting she had clung to michael's leg, using it to hide and peek from as she'd like. and you related to her, being a shy yourself during childhood, knowing that within time and gentleness that she will hopefully get more comfortable around you.

and that she did. a few weeks into caring for them it was quiet time. blanket was down for afternoon nap and this was the time where you'd put on a movie for the kids, usually a disney one and they could choose from watching the movie, a quiet activity, or to take a nap as well. prince had insisted on watching tarzan just end up curled asleep on the couch before jane and tarzan even meet, while paris chose to do a quiet activity of coloring.

taking this time you'd often journal in the very same dark green journal about anything and everything, a habit you carried for middle school, through high school, through college, and now through adulthood. you used to journal right before bed when you were younger, but the hours of being a nanny are from the start of the morning to the end of night, so you often opt for any free time you have to do so.

"wha's that?" a small voice asks.

feeling startled you look you see paris standing in front of you, trying to peer into the journal on your lap, "oh, it's just my journal," you respond, showing her the outside of the cover that's a little worn at the edges and the inside of the lined pages where you write.

her eyes sparkle with curiosity as you show the journal off, "is it for coloring?"

you're eyebrows furrow as you look at it, flipping through its ages, "it can be," you don't see why it couldn't be, "but i use it to write."

it's then that paris moves from in front of you to now sit squished against your side, "'nd write what?"

the question makes you smile, remembering how michael and her were sat at the dinning table just being dinner with sheets of blank paper and different colored crayons as she practiced writing her name. "i write anything," you begin, moving the journal from your lap into hers and allowing her to flip through the pages, "mainly about how i'm feeling."

"oh," it comes out quiet, like she's thinking about something.

and as you watch her an idea comes to mind, "y'know, i could get you a journal like mine."

your words instantly has paris's head turning to look at you, eyes wide like saucers, "really?" she exclaims.

chuckling at her excitement and the fact that she's still at the age where r's still sound like w's as you nod, "really, and we could practice your writing in it too," you solidify.

that's when paris's arms shoot and wrap around your torso, hugging you and squeezing her eyes shut, "than' you."

the moment tugs at your heart, wrapping your arms around to embrace her, "you're welcome, sweet girl."

and when you left that night you returned the next morning with baby pink journal, a few pack of stickers, and a glitter pen set.

it's truly fate on how well you and michael work together. falling into an easy rhythm within no time between the two of you and the children. you'd arrive at neverland every morning at 6, which gives you just enough time to say your hello's to the rest of the staff around the house before the children need to be woken up. you've developed routine of swigging by the kitchen to see what the chef is cooking for breakfast and snag a small bite of whatever is available, usually fruit when the chef's back is turned. and more times than not it leaves you and michael enough time to do a debrief of what the day entails, which is something that isn't really needed since you stay a little later on sunday nights to go over the next week, but still happens regardless. and through time it developed from that, figuring which one was going to wake which child up to random small talk, you're often the person who catches michael up on whatever sitcom show is airing on tv while he's tells you something from the news.

just outside the kid's bedrooms michael and you play rock paper scissors, the both of you hitting your open palms with your first as you whisper the words. and when you go for your safety, the reliable rock, while michael just had to go for paper you groan, throwing your head back.

looking back at him he's grinning at the way your shoulders are slightly slouched, "out of three?" you attempt, wiggling your eyebrows at the father.

an airy chuckle passes from his lips, "i've woken the lil' dragon everyday this week, by time i've gotten to wake the princess."

you and michael started referring to prince as little dragon when it comes to waking him up in the morning. he's stubborn, and it's hard to get the boy up and out of bed without persistent gentle pats and rubs to the head or back and encouraging words. you two try to hold off on turning the lights on in the kids room to get the up, finding it too abrupt, so more times than not the only light is either from the hallway or the raising sun through the curtains. while little miss paris is a dream to wake up, all it takes is a warm hand circling her back that gets her up and stretching in bed.

everyone knows that michael captures everything when it comes to his kids. from home videos, sports events, recital, anything, he finds it worthy of being caught on film.

and that includes the hard days. blanket had come down with cold that had only made abnormally fussy, and you would be lying if you said you weren't relieved when michael returned home. because entertaining prince and paris while maintaining blanket's symptoms and staying on top of his doses and still making sure that the two old kids don't get too close to blanket as siblings do so they don't fall sick as well.

michael took over for the evening essentially, he was with blanket for a little bit before you thought about how if anyone can get sick from being in close proximity to blanket it should probably be you, so you two swapped while he wore down the older kids and got them settled for the night.

while he was handling bath and bed time you were able to give blanket some purée that michael request the chef to make in batches and a bottle along with a night dose of medication. and instead of retreating back to couch that you've been on for most of the day, you retreated to blanket's nursery. sighing when you're tired body hits the rocking chair, instantly getting into the subconscious movement of rocking the infant to sleep. and in doing so you're own eyelids get heavy with each blink.

unknowingly michael had been looking for you after putting both prince and paris to bed. it takes him returning to the hallway where the kid's rooms reside to notice you and blanket in the rocker, watching the gentle movements of the rubs you're giving blanket's back. he doesn't fully know how to process how or what he's thinking, and to be honest michael hasn't been able to form a full solid opinion on you since the day you met. not that that's bad, you just seem too good to be true, and the way at which you deeply care for his children only confuses him more. knowing what it means for them to reach their development milestones along with ensuring that they are healthily expressing themselves both identity wise and emotionally. and it doesn't help that you're smart, one of the old family you nannied for during high school being generous enough to fund you going to school for psychology, and beautiful, your go to outfit being jeans with either a loose t-shirt or sweater it's effortless but pull it off too well and often more times than not you opt to have your curls up and away from blanket's strong grip.

and he knows it isn't right to develop a crush? or a deep admiration for his nanny, it gets in the way of you being able to do you job and it gets in the way of michael being able to form coherent thoughts around you, not to mention that he's twenty years your senior. he's kept it at bay since you started working, but he can't help but have the reason of why you split with your previous family you worked for loom over her head, the reason being that the kids you cared for just got too old for a nanny, entering adolescence. and although it was a mutual decision between you and the family, he doesn't think he could ever come to the conclusion that him and his children won't need you.

pulling himself out of his thoughts he retreats and returns with his camcorder. catching the sweet moment as a forever memory, just in case there is every a time you decide to leave, maybe to leave to pursue further education (although michael would happily fund it and keep you employed at the same time) or to start your own family (which he secretly dreads), for the kids to have moments they can look back on with you in them.

you who start staying later than you need to. masking it in the disguise of wanting to help michael with whatever chore is left, which is true, but you also selfishly enjoy the alone time with michael. the nights where you stay and help pick up toys and put them back and arrange them, which sometimes turn into small fights between you and michael when either one of you throw a stuffed animal at each other and quickly turn your backs before the other turns around. or the quieter nights spent listening to the jazz station on the radio as michael washes the dishes while you dry them. it's chores that you and michael really don't have to do, he has cleaners.

prince can pursued anyone, including his father and you. which is exactly how sleepovers became a special occasion.

the hard bargaining wasn't even getting his father to say yes, it was michael having to tell blanket that you may have something you'd want to do for yourself or with friends instead of having a sleepover with them.

which was a hard pill to swallow for both, but prince still being young ran from his father and straight to you. collapsing into you arms with tears brimming in his eyes, "please have a sleepover with us," his small voice messing up the pronouncement of a few words from pushing his face into your sweater, smoothing a gentle hand through the boy's hair to regulate him.

upon looking up to search for michael, he's already there, a hand on his hip, "he wan's y'to stay 'nd have a sleepover, but i told him that y'may have plans," he explains, walking over and trying to pull the boy from off of you, but he clings to your waist.

looking down at only the peek of blonde hair, you frown then smile, looking back at michael, "'m free friday night so i really don't mind."

"you really don-"

"'s alright, michael. and besides, haven't you been wanting to build that jumbo fort, prince?"

the mention of a fort and his name has prince pulling himself back from where he hides his face against your stomach, hands still crumpled in the material of your sweater. "yeah," it's quiet and meek as he nods his head.

you hand falls from his head down to his rosy cheek to wipe his tears streaks, "then no more cryin', we've get to look forward to friday."

which is exactly how you spent a friday night building the biggest fort you have every built with michael and the kids, the night entailing movies and ice cream and books and flashlight shows.

michael who has selfish thoughts whenever you're around. often during mealtimes when the five of you intertwine hands to bless the food.

he knows it's wrong to fantasize about the five of you being a real family whenever you arrive extra early just because you promised the kids special pancakes.

michael shuffles into the kitchen, expected to see the chef, which he does, but they're off to the side chopping fruits while you're the one at the stove. the sound of your name falling softly from michael's tongue has you looking up.

and he knows he's beyond gone when the wide smile that spreads across your face gives him butterflies, because it shouldn't.

"want a pancake?" you ask, as michael moves closer, turning your head back to pan to pay attention.

"wha' are you doin' this for?" he's close enough to you for you to feel his breath on your neck and for him to smell the faint scent of your perfume mixing with the scent of your hair products.

"for the kids," of course it is he thinks, peering down into the pan to see various sizes of pancake shapes, "gonna turn them into designs, like a monkey or somethin'" you explain, flipping the pancakes once their tops get all bubbly.

and when that's done you turn your head again, as best you can with michael close in your proximity, he might as well be glued to your back. "d'you want a pancake?" asking the father again as the two of you lock eyes.

"yeah, i'll take a pancake."

your head swiftly nods and once again focuses back on the pancakes. hearing shuffles of michael's feet and no longer feeling the presence of his body close to yours, "gonna go wake up the kids for breakfas'."

michael who secretly refers to paris and you as his girls.

all three of his children are blessings, but there was nothing more exciting than to find out he was having a daughter. and now with you in their lives he's thankful to have such a positive and strong woman figure in their lives.

lingering around in the mornings, body pressed against the bathroom doorframe as he watches you do paris's hair for the day as she sits on the bathroom counter. he can do his daughter's hair, but mostly just in simple plates and ponytails, while you can do the more detailed hairstyles.

and he loves nothing more than to come home and notice that the two of you has a dress up day. either by the colorful marks on your face and the precise blends of color on paris's or by paris running into her father's arms right when he steps through the door to show off her nails that you painted while he later notices the messy marks of nail polish on your nails and the surrounding skin at dinner.

michael who keeps a polaroid of you and the kids in his wallet. one taken on blanket's first birthday that he cherishes whenever he's away. often tracing a too large finger over your faces, missing the cheerful chaos of the kids and you no matter he's at a buzzing event or a quiet hotel.

the four of you are all wearing tiny birthday hats for blanket's birthday party. the birthday sits calmly in your lap while michael attempts to direct the old two around.

"no, prince, on her other side," his voice already defeated as the young boy keeps wanting to pose his own way.

"i wanna d'it like this though," prince pouts, moving to stand right behind where you sit on the floor and throw his small arms over your neck and hook his chin over your shoulder.

"let him be," you muse through a small grin that you shoot michael, the two of you know that prince is going to win the battle either way.

"okay, paris," just when he starts paris settles against your side, removing a secure hand around blanket's belly and using it to wrap around paris and pull he snug under your arm, "good, good," clicking his fingers together to get blanket's attention facing forward.

"everyone say happy first birthday, blanket."

and when it's said and the four of you are all smiling at the end, there's a click, that encases the memory forever.

©sweeterners 2026.

Chapter Three: Can't Turn Back Now | 𝖍𝖆𝖚𝖓𝖙𝖊𝖉 𝖘𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘

── .✦ Avengers x Reader (Platonic), Peter Parker x Reader (soon)

── .✦ Reader pronouns: They/them [GN! Reader]

── .✦ Chapter Summary: As Peter prepares to move to the Avengers Tower, he keeps having weird dreams and seeing a specific tarot card.

ɴᴀᴠɪɢᴀᴛɪᴏɴ | ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ | ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴛᴡᴏ | ʜᴀᴜɴᴛᴇᴅ ꜱᴇʀɪᴇꜱ

The weekend passed by in the blink of an eye. Peter Parker had never been more excited for anything in the world. After Tony Stark left his apartment, he immediately celebrated in his room and called Ned to tell his best friend that the e-mail was not a scam. Thank goodness.

Peter spent his entire weekend preparing for his first day and moving into the Avengers Tower. The day after Tony Stark visited his apartment, Ned came over since they had originally planned to start building the LEGO Death Star together. While they were building it, the two teenagers went through every possible conversation that Peter might have on his first day. Ned claims it's a precaution in case Peter fumbles in front of the Avengers.

“Pretend I’m Captain America,” Ned insisted as he looked at the instructions for building the LEGO. “Come on, what would you say if you met him first?”

“I’m not going to pretend you’re Captain America.” Peter grimaced. He knows well enough that even if he practiced, he would still be nervous and probably stammer in front of the Captain.

Ned continues to list on every Avenger. It took them the entire day to finish the Death Star because of the constant what-ifs Ned was creating in his head.

thedailymichael

˗ˏˋ PAST EXPOSURE ˎˊ˗

synopsis. In the fresh modern age of 2026, the last thing you'd expect was to get thrown in a Back to the Future plot. You and your totally basic life go haywire during a moment of curiosity when you decide to test out a stubborn retro camera with mixed up dates. What happens when it wasn't just any old camera? What if it had taken you back to the 20th century? And what will you do when you find the chance to change his fate?

starring. multiple eras!michael jackson x time traveller!reader

content warnings. death, sexual content later in the story, tobacco, alcohol, mental and physical abuse, michael's childhood, and many more content labels yet to come! muahaha

MASTERLIST

(total episode count has not been determined yet)

—episode 1 | Say cheese!

—episode 2 | This is far out!

—episode 3 | Oh, dear child...

—episode 4 | Funky 21st century girl!

—episode 5 | ...

—episode 6 | ...

—episode 7 | ...

—episode 8 | ...

—episode 9 | ...

—episode 10 | ...

—episode 11 | ...

—episode 12 | ...

—episode 13 | ...

—episode 14 | ...

—episode 15 | ...

—episode 16 | ...

—episode 17 | ...

(Further episodes will be decided later on.)

If you would like to be tagged for this series or for my general taglist, please let me know!

©thedailymichael 2026. All works posted under my name belong to me. Please do not copy, claim, republish, or translate my work anywhere else.

piecredheart

No Tomorrow

Summary: Michael isn’t doing well while getting ready for his This Is It Tour. So You Were Called To Help Him But You And Michael Have Been Broken Up.

A/N: Wanted To Write Some Angst. Please Follow, Like, Reblog. My Request Are Open. I Will Start To Answer And Post Request Starting Next Week.

Everyone could see that Michael wasn’t doing well. Backstage, people whispered their concerns whenever he wasn’t around. They watched him forget lyrics he had sung thousands of times and stumble over dance moves he had created himself. Everyone knew the tour should be canceled. Everyone except Michael. No matter what anyone said, he refused to stop.So they called the one person they thought he might actually listen to. You.

At first, you wanted nothing to do with it. You and Michael hadn’t ended on bad terms, but the breakup had hurt more than either of you would ever admit. You had both tried to move on, and reopening old wounds wasn’t something you were eager to do.

But after hearing how badly his health was declining, you couldn’t ignore it. So you found yourself standing outside his front door and you knocked.

A few moments later, the door opened. Michael stood there staring at you clearly caught off guard. “Oh… Y/n” a small smile appeared on his face, “I didn’t know you were coming.” “I know,” you replied awkwardly. “I should’ve called first but I wasn’t sure you’d answer.”His smile faltered slightly “Yeah… probably not.”

He stepped aside and let you in, “Do you want something to drink? Coffee? Tea?”You shook your head, “No, thank you.” The two of you stood there in uncomfortable silence.

Finally, you crossed your arms, “Michael, I think you know why I’m here.” His shoulders immediately tensed.“Y/n…” “I’m hearing you’re not sleeping.” “Y/n please—” “I’m hearing you’re taking things you shouldn’t be taking.” His jaw tightened. “Y/n, please.” “And I’m hearing you’re running yourself into the ground.” “Enough.” His voice wasn’t angry it just sounded tired. You hated how tired he sounded.

“I don’t need a lecture.” “I didn’t come here to lecture you.” “Then why did you come?” The question hung in the air.

Because I was worried, because I still cared, because I never stopped loving you, and yet you couldn’t say any of that. Instead, you sighed. “I just wanted to see if it was true, Michael looked away.

The silence stretched then, surprisingly, he was the one who broke it. “So… how are you?”, You laughed softly. “Seriously?” He shrugged. “I haven’t seen you in months.” The tension eased slightly.

“I’m doing as well as I can.” “Yeah?” “Yeah.” He nodded. “Good.” “And you?” A humorless laugh escaped him. “I’m getting by.” You studied him. The dark circles under his eyes, the weight he’d lost, the exhaustion he was trying so hard to hide. He wasn’t getting by not even close.

Before you could stop yourself another question slipped out, “Michael… what really happened between us?” His expression immediately fell. “Y/n…” “No.” You shook your head. “I know the excuse you gave me.” “It wasn’t an excuse.” “You said you were protecting me.”“Because I was.” “It sure didn’t feel like it.” His eyes filled with pain. You hated how mad you sounded but you still wanted answers.

“I thought I meant enough to you for the truth.”“You do.” “Then tell me”, your voice cracked. “Did you find someone else?”, His head snapped up. “No.” “Did Lisa call?” “No.” “Were you listening to people telling you what to do?” “Y/n.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “No.” The room became painfully quiet.

When you looked at him again, he looked seconds away from crying. “I loved you too much”, you froze. Michael swallowed hard, “You had a career, a future, a life.” “And?” “And everything around me was falling apart.” His eyes watered. “I didn’t want you getting dragged down with me.”

“Michael…” “I thought if I let you go, you’d have a chance at a normal life.” A bitter laugh escaped you. “A normal life?” You shook your head, “You breaking up with me destroyed my normal life.” His face crumpled. For the first time, you saw just how much guilt he had been carrying. Slowly you walked over and wrapped your arms around him. For a second, he stood frozen then he hugged you back, tightly, like he was afraid you’d disappear. “I knew you’d hate me,” he whispered.“I don’t hate you.” “I still listen to your songs.” You felt tears sting your eyes. “I still look at your pictures.” His voice broke.

“I missed you every day”, you squeezed him tighter.“Michael…” “Please don’t hate me.” You pulled back enough to look at him. “I could never hate you.” The relief on his face was heartbreaking. “But you hurt me.”His gaze dropped. “I know.” “I couldn’t get out of bed for days.” “I’m sorry.” “I still care about you.” His eyes met yours again. “That’s why I’m here.” You gently grabbed his hand. “Because I care enough to ask you to stop this tour.”

Immediately, he shook his head, “ I can’t Y/n-“ “You are Michael Jackson you could moonwalk but not stop a tour.” He laughed despite himself. “There he is.” “You know exactly what I mean.”

The two of you spent the next few hours talking. Catching up with things you both have been doing, laughing at old memories, all in all remembering. It almost felt normal again then a sleepy voice interrupted.

“Daddy?”, you turned. The kids stood in the hallway and you can see Paris rubbing her eyes. “Daddy… why is Momma here?”, your heart melted. Even though you weren’t their biological mother, they had always treated you like you were.

You knelt down immediately, “Hi, babies.” The children ran into your arms. “Momma!” You hugged all three tightly you’d missed them.

“Are you staying for breakfast?” Prince asked. You glanced at Michael and spoke up, “Only if your dad says it’s okay.” Three pairs of eyes including yourself immediately turned toward him. “Dad!” Michael laughed. “Okay, okay. She can stay.” The kids cheered. For the first time that day and Michael genuinely smiled.

Later, after breakfast, you found yourselves alone in the kitchen. “You still let them call me Mom?” you asked quietly. Michael looked confused “Well… you basically are.” Your eyes softened “If that bothers you” “It doesn’t.”, you smiled. “They’re my babies.” A gentle silence followed.

“I missed them.” “They missed you too.” You looked down. “I was scared to visit as childish as it sounds.” Michael frowned. “Why?” “I thought you didn’t want to see me.” His answer came instantly. “Y/n”, you looked up. “I always want to see you.” The sincerity in his eyes stole your breath away. And somehow after months apart it felt like nothing had changed.

You spent the entire day there. Playing with the kids, helping with dinner, tucking them into bed. By night time the house grew quiet again and it was just you and Michael again. “I should probably go”, Michael nodded reluctantly. “Thank you for coming.” You smiled softly.

“Please take care of yourself.” “I’ll try.” “No, really” You touched his arm. “I hate watching you do this to yourself.” Michael looked away, “If you’re that worried…” He hesitated. “Come to rehearsals.” You blinked. “Huh?” “Come with me.” A small smile appeared on his face. “Make sure I’m okay.” You couldn’t help smiling back. “I think I’d like that.” And so you did.

You went to rehearsals. You reminded Michael to eat while being him food, Made him rest when you can see rehearsals getting to him. You also made him laugh every night when you dropped him off at home. Whenever he got frustrated or pushed himself too hard, you were there. And everyone backstage was grateful. Even with you helping him during rehearsals you still begged him to cancel the tour. And he still refused even on the last night.

You stood outside his front door. “You did great today.”Michael smiled. “Thank you.” “But I still think you’re pushing yourself too hard.” “I know.” “Just please take a small break not just for me”, You glanced toward where the kids slept upstairs. “But for them.” His expression softened. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”“You promise?” “I promise.” You both smiled.

Then neither of you thought heck it wasn’t even planned. You both just simply leaned forward at the same time. With a kiss that was long overdue. And it was like you both never broken it up. The was still warm, familiar, like you both were home. When you finally pulled apart, you both started laughing like nervous teenagers. Blushing and smiling unable to stop looking at each other. Then you kissed again just because you could.

“See you tomorrow, Mike.” “Get home safe, Y/N.” Years later, you still thought about that night.

Maybe you should’ve pushed harder or maybe you should’ve stayed. Or you should’ve spent every night reminding him he wasn’t alone. You like to think that things would’ve been different or not.

There was no way to know. All you could do now was hold onto the memories, cherish the love you shared, and hope that one day, somehow, somewhere, you’d see him again. And when that day came, you’d tell him everything you never got the chance to say.

hcwait

spotlight.ᐟ 　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　( michael jackson )

❛ thriller era!michael jackson 𝑥 popstar!reader ❜ ╱ 𝒸hapter one.

ⓘ media rivalry, lots of banter & passive aggressive flirting if you squint, michael is a shmuck (for now) ➥ navigation.

january 1983 — los angeles, california

the first article appeared three days after christmas. you ignored it. the second showed up a week later. you ignored that one too. by the time january arrived, they were impossible to avoid.

❝ the new princess of pop.❞

❝ the female answer to michael jackson.❞

❝ is thriller’s biggest competition already here?❞

you stared at the magazine cover sitting on your kitchen counter while your makeup artist flipped through another one nearby.

“they’re getting bold now.”

you snorted. “they’re getting stupid.”

the cover featured a photo of you from the christmas gala and directly beside it was michael jackson. the editors had intentionally placed the pictures next to each other. your smile & his smile, your recent hit climbing the charts & his album currently taking over the entire world. it wasn’t subtle in the slightest. instead, it was bait.

“have you even met him?” your stylist asked.

you grabbed your coffee as you debated if you really wanted to talk about him in your own free time, when you have to be bombarded with him everywhere else.

“once.”

“what was he like?”

you thought about the shrine auditorium and the way he’d looked at you. the strange tension that had existed for all of thirty seconds.

“dramatic.”

your stylist cackled at your aloof answer.

“well, according to these magazines, you two are about to start world war three.”

the american music awards were somehow louder than every nightmare you’d imagined.

camera flashes erupted from every direction the second you stepped backstage, reporters shouting over one another while publicists rushed around with clipboards pressed tightly against their chests. assistants hurried past carrying garment bags. executives shook hands and exchanged smiles that never quite reached their eyes.

the entire building felt alive, you had attended industry events before but nothing like this. this was different because this was your first real award season.

your first time standing shoulder-to-shoulder with artists you’d spent years watching from your living room television. people whose posters hung on bedroom walls, people whose records filled your collection, people who suddenly treated you like you belonged beside them—it was exciting yet terrifying.

unfortunately for you, michael jackson was everywhere. his face decorated promotional banners hanging from the ceilings as his songs drifted through speakers between commercial breaks. his name seemed to echo from every corner of the venue. it was impossible to take three steps without hearing it.

“michael!”

“michael, over here!”

“one more picture, michael!”

you rolled your eyes hard.

the man had somehow become the center of gravity, the entire room revolved around him. part of you hated how much it irritated you, the other part hated that the magazines weren’t helping.

for weeks they’d been comparing the two of you. every article, every interview, every headline, basically calling you ‘the female michael jackson.’

you were beginning to despise all of them because every time you opened a magazine, there he was. every time you saw his face, you wanted to prove them wrong or perhaps prove them right, you honestly weren’t sure anymore.

hours later, you found yourself accepting the best new artist award and surviving what felt like a hundred interviews, you finally found a moment to breathe.

the trophy felt heavier than expected in your hands. you were studying the engraved plaque with a proud grin, tears almost wanting to well in your eyes. that’s when a voice appeared beside you.

“congratulations.”

you immediately recognized it, i mean who wouldn’t. you turned to the familiar tabloid king.

michael stood beside you holding one of his own awards beneath his arm. perfect curls, perfectly tailored suit and his perfect smile, you already hated it.

“thank you.” you said in your most perfect poised voice, well, as poised as you could be.

“big night for you.” he continued.

you forced a polite smile, “i could say the same.”

“well,” michael adjusted his grip on the trophy. “some people have been saying that.

you blinked as he blinked, both smiling yet neither smiling.

“i’m sure they have,” you sneered. “must be exciting.”

“it is.” he was annoying casual, it made your blood boil.

“that’s good.” you matched his energy.

“thank you.”

“you’re welcome.”

you let the silence sit and consume the both of you for a good minute. or two. almost three. the air somehow became heavier but neither of you looked away nor did either of you back down—it was ridiculous.

you’d spoken maybe twenty words to each other, yet somehow it already felt like a competition.

michael finally nodded, “see you around.”

“you probably will.” another smile, this time with just enough teeth to qualify as one.

then he went on his way. you watched him disappear into the crowd of executives and photographers.

what an asshole.

across the room, michael glanced over his shoulder one final time. his eyes landed on you for half a second before he looked away again.

what an asshole.

the interviews got worse as the night went on. though, it started simple.

“you’ve had an incredible year. how does it feel being one of the biggest breakout stars in music right now?”

you smiled, “it’s exciting. i’m grateful people are connecting with the music.”

that was the easiest question of the night, then came along the next reporter.

“there’s been a lot of comparisons between you and michael jackson recently. what do you think about that?”

and there it was. despite all, you kept your smile in place.

“i think michael is incredibly talented.”

the reporter leaned forward, “but?”

“there is no but.”

a few journalists laughed as the reporter who spoke got awfully quiet, you considered that a victory.

unfortunately, it didn’t stop there. there was yet another microphone accompanied with a camera shoved in your face.

“do you see him as competition?”

“i see everybody as competition.”

the crowd reacted immediately. someone behind a camera muttered, “that’s a headline.”

damn it. the twisting of narratives had just began.

somewhere across the venue, michael wasn’t having much better luck. as you were walking down, you caught part of one of his interviews.

“there’s a lot of buzz surrounding her right now. any thoughts?”

michael adjusted his jacket, like he didn’t even want to acknowledge the question. “she seems very nice.”

the interviewer laughed.

“that’s not exactly what we asked.”

“that’s my answer.”

“do you think she could reach your level of success?”

of course the reporter had some nerve, throw one artist under the bus to get something out of another.

michael displayed a polite smile.

“i think people should focus on her accomplishments instead of comparing her to someone else.”

he caught the crowds attention, accompanied with collective “ooohs”

“so you’re saying she isn’t competition?”

michael’s annoying smile widened.

“i didn’t say that.”

you narrowed your eyes as you listened in.

asshole.

later, near the exit, a reporter cornered you. “last question.”

you immediately knew it wasn’t.

“if you and michael jackson released albums on the same day, who would sell more records?”

the cameras leaned closer. you smiled—almost the same ignorant one that michael had.

“i guess we’ll find out.”

the reporters erupted and across the room, michael looked up just in time to hear it.

his eyebrow lifted in suspicion, but all you could do was smile wider.

tomorrow’s headlines were going to be unbearable & you couldn’t wait.

tags: @gorgystarr, @daphne020708, @floralsightings, @swe3tyann, @18lkpeters, @ovohanna24, @valky4e, @justfaefaeee, @xxxercess, @sorasomi, @bbyjjunie, @1eliana123-blog, @rosiiee3, @iluvbeingdelulu4evaaa, @liyahhsnuckhere, @mochimommy2002, @cyb3rsw1rls, @kyumiiee, @ch3rrybl0ssomtree, @scknights, @lavendernightsky, @iris-xoxo-juhu, @bouncylikebouncyball, @aisheteruyosblog, @lotuspetalss, @nata-de-coconuts, @passionsmoon, @slugstarzz, @michaeljacksonsonlylady, @inbredfawn, @popzeenat, @luv4kook, @its-jennarose, @ilovvesleepp, @daemontargaryenwhore

softformj

In Your Corner (Chapter 1: The Staredown)

Pairing: Michael Jackson x fem!reader Chapter: 1/8 Tags: slow burn, strangers to friends to lovers, romance, hurt/comfort, mutual pining, mutual admiration, angst with a happy ending, idiots in love, he fell first but she fell harder, reader is a female boxer

Summary: He first sees you on a grainy television screen in the middle of the night. A rising boxer with sharp footwork, unreadable expressions, and fists that speak louder than words ever could. What begins as quiet admiration slowly turns into something neither of you expected. Somewhere between sold-out arenas, championship fights, late-night phone calls, bruised knuckles, recording studios, and the loneliness of fame, an unlikely friendship begins to take shape. One that gradually blurs into something far more for both of you. Over time, Michael Jackson becomes the one person you can always find in your corner.

Author's Note: A small disclaimer regarding the reader in this story: The reader who is a female boxer in this fic is not imagined as overly muscular or masculine-looking, nor is she intended to resemble the exaggerated stereotype people often associate with female fighters. I personally imagine her with a slimmer, feminine build, while still naturally carrying visible athleticism through toned arms, shoulders, thighs and back due to years of professional training. One of the main reasons I wanted to pair her with Michael specifically is because this story revolves heavily around mutual admiration for discipline, artistry, and dedication toward one’s craft. Their connection is built far more on understanding each other’s work ethic, pressure, loneliness, and passion than purely physical attraction. I also personally believe Michael was someone who appreciated beauty in many different forms and did not hold narrow-minded prejudices toward women’s bodies. In this story, his admiration for her includes both her femininity and her strength, and neither of those things cancel the other out. Inspiration for the reader's body:

Chapter 1: The Staredown The studio had gone quiet nearly twenty minutes ago, though the tape machine still rolled softly somewhere behind Michael, filling the room with the low hiss of unfinished work for Michael’s newest album. A half-produced demo drifted through the speakers in uneven fragments, basslines layered beneath scattered harmonies, bits of melody he still wasn’t satisfied with no matter how many times he replayed them.

The floor around the couch near the mixing console had long since disappeared beneath loose sheets of paper. Some pages were covered in rushed lyrics scratched out halfway through, others filled with isolated words, rhythms, little sounds he’d written down before they could disappear from his head entirely.

Michael leaned back against the cushions with a tired sigh, rubbing both hands over his face before glancing toward the clock on the wall.

10:47 PM.

Late enough for the rest of the house to have gone quiet hours ago, but still early enough for him to convince himself he had time to keep working.

He reached for the television remote beside him almost absentmindedly while keeping the notebook balanced against one knee, his pencil still moving lazily across the page.

“Need a break…” he murmured quietly to himself.

The television flickered alive.

Commercials.

Static.

A news segment.

Some late-night sitcom rerun he barely registered before flipping past it again.

Michael wasn’t really paying attention at first. His mind still lingered on the demo behind him, occasionally drifting back long enough for him to scribble down another lyric idea before it slipped away. He changed channels one after another without looking up properly until the sudden eruption of a crowd through the speakers finally caught his attention.

He paused.

“…Boxing?”

Only then did he glance toward the screen.

Two women stood beneath the harsh white lights of a crowded arena while a referee spoke between them at the center of the ring. Michael shifted slightly against the couch, mild curiosity surfacing almost immediately. Women’s boxing wasn’t exactly something he came across often on television, especially not as a live main event this late into the evening.

One fighter seemed determined to turn the entire pre-match moment into a performance. She paced aggressively in place, shoulders loose with exaggerated confidence while cameras followed her every movement. Even from the television screen, Michael could tell she was talking constantly, throwing comments toward the woman standing across from her.

Toward you.

In contrast, you barely moved at all.

The referee motioned for the staredown, and the arena noise seemed to swell immediately in anticipation.

Your opponent stepped forward first, clearly trying to intimidate you for the crowd’s entertainment. She smirked when you didn’t react, leaning closer to say something that made sections of the audience laugh loudly. When your expression remained unchanged, she became even more theatrical about it, waving a glove dismissively near your face and grinning toward the cameras as if waiting for you to finally snap back.

You never did.

Michael found himself lowering the notebook slightly.

There was something unexpectedly compelling about the way you held yourself. Not stiff, not emotionless, simply composed in a way that made the other woman’s behavior look increasingly childish the harder she tried to provoke you.

The cameras kept searching your face for irritation, embarrassment, anger. Anything they could magnify into drama.

They found nothing.

The longer you refused to give a reaction, the more frustrated your opponent visibly became, and Michael realized after a moment that he’d stopped writing altogether.

“Hm.”

The staredown finally ended when the referee stepped between you both again, but before returning to your corner, you extended your glove toward your opponent first in a quiet gesture of respect.

For half a second, Michael actually thought she might accept it.

Instead, she brushed your hand aside carelessly with a scoff dramatic enough to earn another loud reaction from the crowd.

Michael frowned faintly at the screen.

Again, the cameras cut toward you, almost expectantly.

You simply lowered your hand and walked calmly back toward your corner as though none of it had mattered enough to acknowledge.

That was the moment his interest sharpened properly.

“And in the black corner tonight,” the commentator announced over the roaring crowd, “rising contender Y/N L/N.”

Michael repeated your name softly under his breath without meaning to.

“Y/N…”

He didn’t recognize it.

Not surprising, really. Outside of hearing famous athletes mentioned around celebrities every now and then, he barely followed boxing at all, and women’s matches rarely received the kind of attention men’s fights did.

Still, he found himself settling more comfortably into the couch instead of changing the channel.

The opening bell rang.

Your opponent came at you aggressively almost immediately, throwing heavy punches with more emotion than control, still trying to overwhelm you the same way she had before the match began.

You avoided the first clean hit with such little wasted movement that Michael noticed it instantly.

Your footwork was unbelievably precise.

Every step looked balanced before it even happened, your body shifting smoothly into position as though each movement had already been rehearsed a thousand times beforehand. Even under pressure, nothing about the way you fought appeared frantic or careless.

Michael watched you slip beneath another punch before answering with a sharp counter that landed cleanly enough for the entire arena to erupt.

Your opponent stumbled slightly before regaining balance, frustration already beginning to show through her movements.

Michael leaned forward, notebook forgotten beside him now.

The longer the match continued, the more fascinated he became by the contrast between the two of you. Your opponent fought louder with every passing round, growing sloppier each time she failed to break through your defense. Meanwhile, you remained composed throughout every exchange, never chasing flashy moments for the audience even when the crowd clearly wanted them.

What struck Michael most was how disciplined everything about you felt.

Nothing seemed accidental.

Even the way you repositioned your feet between combinations reminded him strangely of watching dancers rehearse difficult choreography for hours until every movement became instinctive through repetition alone.

It was obvious you had trained endlessly for this.

Nobody moved that naturally without years of obsessive practice behind it.

Michael understood that kind of dedication immediately.

By the third round, he barely noticed the commentators anymore despite their growing excitement.

Instead, he found himself studying the rhythm of your movements. You were stronger than he expected at first glance, but it was your control that held his attention most. Your opponent struggled to land anything clean while you seemed to find openings almost effortlessly, timing every counter with an accuracy that looked almost frustrating to fight against.

And even after taking solid punches yourself, you never lost composure.

By the final round, the entire atmosphere inside the arena had shifted.

The same audience that had laughed during the staredown earlier now erupted every time you landed another clean combination, fully behind you by that point whether they had expected to be or not.

At some point, Michael had entirely forgotten about the demo still looping softly behind him in the studio.

Forgotten the notebook.

Forgotten the time.

The final exchange happened quickly enough that he instinctively sat up straighter against the couch.

Your combination landed hard, forcing the referee to step in almost immediately afterward.

The arena exploded.

Your opponent immediately started arguing the decision while cameras flashed wildly around the ring, but you didn’t react to any of it. The referee lifted your arm while the crowd roared around you, and after a brief nod in acknowledgment, you simply returned to your corner to speak with your team.

Michael stayed staring at the television for several seconds after the match ended.

Only then did he realize how thirsty he suddenly felt.

He pushed himself up from the couch and wandered toward the small fridge tucked into the corner of the studio while highlights from the fight replayed behind him on the television. He grabbed a glass bottle of orange juice, twisting the cap open before taking a long sip as commentators excitedly replayed your counters and footwork from earlier rounds.

By the time he returned to the couch, the broadcast had shifted to post-fight analysis. Analysts discussed your growing reputation while footage from the staredown played again on-screen.

Michael noticed himself watching that part twice.

A few minutes later, the screen cut to a press room backstage.

You now sat behind a long table in front of a wall covered in sponsor logos and flashing cameras. Someone had cleaned you up slightly since the match, though signs of exhaustion still lingered beneath the harsh lighting. Your hair remained damp from sweat near your temples, and faint bruising had already begun surfacing along one side of your jaw.

Reporters immediately started talking over each other.

Questions about your rise in rankings.

Your record.

Women’s boxing finally drawing larger crowds.

Then one reporter leaned forward slightly.

“Y/N, people are already talking about the staredown before the fight. Your opponent was clearly trying to provoke you, especially after refusing your handshake. Were you angry?”

You adjusted the microphone slightly before answering.

“No.”

The reporter blinked, almost surprised by how matter-of-fact your answer sounded.

“Not at all?”

You shook your head once.

“I don’t really care what people say before a fight.”

“Why not?”

For the first time since the interview had begun, something faintly amused seemed to cross your face.

Not enough to become a smile.

Just enough to soften your expression slightly.

“Because if somebody has something to prove,” you said calmly, “the ring’s there for a reason.”

Soft laughter moved through parts of the room while camera flashes continued going off around you.

Michael lowered the orange juice bottle slowly, eyes still fixed on the television screen.

The room behind you remained noisy with overlapping reporters and constant camera shutters, but you yourself seemed strangely detached from all of it, answering each question with the same measured calm you had carried through the fight. Michael found himself lingering in front of the television even after the interview shifted toward statistics and commentary, waiting almost unconsciously for you to speak again.

You never did.

Eventually the broadcast moved on entirely, cutting back toward analysts replaying highlights from the match while discussing your growing popularity and the unusually strong ratings the fight had apparently pulled in. Michael barely listened to any of it.

Instead, his thoughts kept circling back toward the staredown at the beginning of the match.

The handshake.

The way you had refused to let yourself get dragged into a performance for the cameras even when the entire arena had practically been waiting for you to lose your composure.

Most people in entertainment spent their lives trying desperately to hold attention.

You had somehow managed to command an entire room by refusing to give people anything at all.

That was what stayed with him.

A few hundred miles away, long after the arena had emptied and the cameras finally disappeared, you stood beneath the steaming water of your hotel shower with one hand braced quietly against the tiled wall while exhaustion slowly settled into your body now that the adrenaline had finally begun wearing off.

Your shoulder burned.

Your ribs weren’t much better.

A dark bruise had already started surfacing along the side of your jaw where one of the cleaner punches had landed during the third round, and when you finally glanced toward the fogged-up bathroom mirror afterward, you inspected the swelling with the same detached focus you always gave post-fight injuries.

Nothing serious. Nothing unusual. Just another fight.

Outside the hotel windows, the city still glowed restlessly beneath the night sky, traffic lights flickering endlessly against distant buildings while muffled sounds from the street drifted upward every now and then. Inside the room, however, the silence felt almost disorienting after hours spent beneath arena lights and surrounded by thousands of screaming people.

No reporters trying to dissect every expression on your face.

No crowds calling your name while cameras followed close behind.

No opponent trying to provoke you into becoming entertainment for strangers.

Just quiet.

You changed into an oversized shirt, too tired to care about anything beyond finally getting some sleep, and collapsed onto the bed without even bothering to dry your hair.

Within minutes, exhaustion pulled you under completely.

—

Over the next few weeks, Michael kept running into you everywhere.

At least, that was what it started feeling like.

It began innocently enough. A replay of one of your older matches airing late at night while he worked in the studio again. Then a magazine article left folded open in the living room downstairs that he found himself reading far longer than intended.

Before long, curiosity had quietly turned into active searching.

Which, in 1982, required considerably more effort than simply typing your name somewhere.

One afternoon, Michael sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the television while an old recorded match played from a VHS tape Bill had managed to track down for him through one of the sports broadcasting contacts around Los Angeles. The quality was grainier than the live broadcast he’d first seen, colors slightly washed with age, but it didn’t matter much.

He was too busy watching your footwork again.

“You’re watchin’ boxing now?”

Jackie’s voice came from somewhere behind him, thick with amusement.

Michael barely glanced up. “Mm-hm.”

Jackie laughed almost immediately after realizing what was actually playing on the screen.

“Nah, hold on. Female boxing?”

That finally earned him a look.

Michael reached for the remote and lowered the volume slightly while Jackie wandered further into the room, staring openly at the television with growing confusion.

“What?” Michael muttered defensively. “She’s good.”

Jackie folded his arms, still watching you move around the ring on-screen before slowly turning back toward his brother with an expression that immediately made Michael regret answering at all.

“You got a crush or somethin’?”

Michael scoffed quickly. “No.”

The answer came just a little too fast.

Jackie grinned immediately.

“Oh, you definitely got a crush.”

“I do not.”

“You got tapes and everything!”

Michael instinctively glanced toward the small stack of VHS tapes near the television before immediately looking away again, which only made Jackie laugh harder.

“They’re research,” Michael insisted.

Jackie blinked.

“…Research for what?”

Michael opened his mouth automatically, ready to defend himself again, only to pause when he realized he didn’t actually have a proper explanation prepared.

Jackie burst out laughing.

“Man, you are gone already.”

Michael grabbed the nearest pillow and threw it at him without much force, earning another round of laughter before Jackie finally disappeared out of the room still shaking his head.

A few days later, Bill showed up at Hayvenhurst carrying another tape beneath one arm while Michael sat at the piano absentmindedly picking through unfinished melodies.

“Found another one for you,” Bill said casually as he handed it over. “Regional title fight from last year. Interview afterward too.”

Michael looked up immediately.

“Really?”

Bill nodded. “Had to make a few calls for this one. Sports stations don’t exactly keep these things organized.”

Michael took the tape from him almost carefully, already glancing down at the handwritten label across the front.

Bill noticed the growing collection stacked near the television and raised an eyebrow slightly, though he seemed smart enough not to comment on it directly.

Probably because by then, Michael himself had already stopped pretending the interest was casual.

He had started recognizing patterns in the way you fought.

The way exhaustion subtly changed your posture during later rounds.

The small habits you had before matches. Adjusting your wraps, rolling tension from your shoulders, pacing quietly through corners while reporters talked around you.

And strangely enough, the more interviews he watched, the more intrigued he became by the contrast between your public image and the occasional glimpses beneath it.

Because every now and then, usually during moments when you forgot cameras were still rolling, something softer surfaced briefly before disappearing again.

A small smile directed toward one of your trainers off-screen.

A shake of the head after a sarcastic comment somebody made nearby.

Small things most people probably wouldn’t have noticed at all.

Michael noticed them every single time.

Over time, Michael’s curiosity stopped feeling accidental.

At first, he had told himself he was simply interested in the discipline behind boxing, in the same way he admired dancers or musicians who dedicated themselves completely to perfecting their craft. But the more footage Bill managed to track down for him, the more obvious it became that his attention had very little to do with boxing itself.

It was you.

Always you.

He noticed how little your interviews ever revealed despite reporters constantly trying to pry into your private life. Nearly every article written about you seemed to circle around the same frustration: that nobody actually knew anything about you beyond what happened inside the ring.

No public relationships.

No dramatic scandals.

No gossip worth printing.

Even your interviews rarely lasted longer than a few minutes before shifting back toward training, upcoming fights, or women’s boxing itself whenever reporters attempted to push elsewhere.

One interview in particular stayed with Michael longer than most.

The interviewer had asked about your childhood after mentioning rumors about your family struggling financially when you were younger. The question itself had sounded almost opportunistic, as though he expected the audience to be rewarded with some tragic story they could consume.

You had looked at him quietly for a moment before answering.

“My childhood doesn’t really have anything to do with the fight tonight.”

The interviewer laughed awkwardly, clearly still hoping for more.

“But surely people are curious-”

“They’re paying to watch me box,” you interrupted calmly. “Not to hear about my private life.”

Then you had redirected the conversation back toward training camp without another word.

Michael remembered staring at the television afterward with the faintest smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

You never gave people what they wanted from you.

And strangely enough, that only seemed to make people want more.

Eventually, admiration stopped feeling distant enough anymore.

One afternoon, after replaying another interview Bill had brought over earlier that week, Michael finally leaned back against the couch and said what had apparently been building in his head for days.

“I wanna call her.”

Bill looked up from where he sat nearby flipping through paperwork.

“…The boxer?”

Michael frowned slightly. “She got a name, Bill.”

Bill tried –and failed– to hide his amusement.

“Right. Sorry. Y/N.”

Michael ignored the look on his face entirely.

“I just…” He hesitated briefly, trying to explain something he himself didn’t fully understand yet. “I wanna tell her I think she’s great. And that I’m a fan of hers.”

Bill stared at him for another second before nodding slowly. “Alright.”

Actually getting in contact with you turned out to be considerably more difficult than either of them expected.

No direct line.

No public number.

No manager who was willing to casually pass along calls. Not even for Michael Jackson.

Every attempt somehow ended the same way: politely blocked before reaching you at all.

Michael found it oddly frustrating.

And, somehow, completely unsurprising.

“She really doesn’t let anybody in, huh?” Bill muttered one afternoon after another failed attempt through a promoter.

Michael sat curled sideways against the couch watching one of your older interviews play silently on the television.

“No,” he answered quietly, almost sounding amused by it. “She doesn’t.”

And honestly, the more difficult you became to reach, the more determined he found himself growing.

By then, work on the album had intensified enough that most days blurred together completely. The demos were finally finished, recording sessions stretching endlessly between Westlake and Hayvenhurst while discussions about the album title continued almost daily.

Michael still wasn’t entirely sure about Thriller.

Some days he liked it.

Other days he didn’t.

Everything about the project had become bigger than expected, with schedules tightening constantly as producers, executives, choreographers, musicians, and engineers pulled him in different directions from morning until well past midnight.

Which was exactly why Bill looked so confused when Michael abruptly announced he wanted an entire evening cleared a few weeks later.

“You’re cancelling the session?”

“Just movin’ it.”

Bill blinked. “Michael, Quincy’s gonna kill me.”

“He won’t kill you.”

“He might.”

Michael barely looked up while adjusting the baseball cap lower over his curls in front of the mirror.

Your upcoming fight happened to be in California.

Close enough that he could go without attracting too much attention if they were careful.

And despite how absurdly busy he already was, despite rehearsals, recording schedules, interviews, and endless label meetings surrounding the album, he couldn’t stop thinking about seeing you fight in person.

Television suddenly didn’t feel like enough anymore.

The arena was already packed by the time Michael and Bill arrived.

Disguised or not, moving through crowds still required caution. Michael kept his head lowered beneath the cap while large sunglasses and a scarf obscured most of his face, hands shoved into his jacket pockets as Bill guided them carefully toward their seats.

Even then, he could feel people occasionally glancing his way, lingering just a little too long before dismissing the possibility entirely.

Nobody expected Michael Jackson to be sitting at a women’s boxing match.

That alone helped.

The atmosphere inside the arena felt entirely different in person than it did through television speakers. Louder. Rougher. Hotter beneath the overhead lights. The crowd buzzed constantly with overlapping conversations and cigarette smoke lingering heavily through parts of the venue.

Then you entered the arena.

And somehow, despite the noise surrounding you, Michael noticed the exact same thing he had the first night he saw you on television.

You carried yourself like somebody entirely untouched by the spectacle around you.

No dramatic gestures.

No exaggerated confidence for cameras.

Just quiet focus.

The fight itself ended up even more brutal than your previous match.

Your opponent fought defensively from the start, clearly aware of your reputation by then, but it hardly mattered. Michael watched from only a few rows back while you slowly dismantled her round by round with the same relentless precision he had become so fascinated by over the past weeks.

You moved beautifully.

Not beautifully in a delicate sense. Beautifully in the way highly perfected things often were.

Every pivot looked intentional, every counter timed perfectly.

Even your recovery between exchanges carried an odd sort of grace that reminded him painfully of rehearsals, of bodies trained so thoroughly they stopped hesitating altogether.

By the later rounds, Michael realized he wasn’t even pretending to casually watch anymore.

He was completely invested.

When the final bell rang and your hand was raised once again, he felt strangely proud despite the fact that you had absolutely no idea he existed somewhere in the audience.

Backstage access, however, proved significantly harder than getting into the arena itself.

“You realize they’re not just gonna let you walk in there,” Bill muttered while Michael continued watching security near the restricted hallway.

Michael frowned slightly. “I know.”

But he also wasn’t exactly used to hearing no very often.

Especially not after deciding he wanted something.

As soon as Bill had found a staff member and delayed the request, attitudes shifted remarkably fast.

Still, even while being escorted backstage, Michael found himself unexpectedly nervous for the first time all evening.

Because after weeks spent watching you through television screens and grainy VHS recordings, he was finally about to meet you in person.

Backstage felt strangely chaotic compared to the sharp focus of the ring.

People moved constantly through the narrow hallways carrying equipment, towels, paperwork, bottles of water. Trainers shouted over one another somewhere nearby while reporters still lingered around certain corners hoping to squeeze out final comments before fighters disappeared for the night.

And somehow, in the middle of all of it, word had already spread.

Michael Jackson was backstage.

More specifically, Michael Jackson had personally requested to meet you.

Michael could feel the curiosity following him as he and Bill were escorted deeper into the restricted area. A few people tried very hard not to stare and failed completely. Others openly paused mid-conversation to look at him passing through the hallway.

“Can’t believe she got Michael Jackson coming to see her,” someone muttered nearby, not quite quietly enough.

Michael adjusted the sleeves of his jacket slightly, suddenly aware again of the nervous energy sitting uncomfortably beneath his skin.

Which felt ridiculous.

He performed in front of stadiums full of people.

He dealt with executives, interviewers, screaming fans, award shows.

And yet standing outside your dressing room somehow made him more aware of his hands than any of those things ever did.

He kept fiddling with his rings absentmindedly while Bill knocked lightly against the half-open door.

One of your trainers looked up first, confusion flashing briefly across his face before realization hit almost immediately.

“Oh–”

Another person standing nearby physically straightened in surprise.

Michael almost regretted coming for half a second.

Then your voice drifted from somewhere further inside the room.

“It’s fine. Let them in.”

The dressing room itself was quieter than the hallway outside, though traces of the fight still lingered everywhere. Athletic tape, water bottles, towels tossed across chairs, the faint lingering smell of sweat and antiseptic hanging in the warm air.

You sat near one of the mirrors with a small ice pack resting against the side of your jaw, still wearing parts of your fight gear while someone from your team cleaned a cut near your eyebrow.

For the first time since seeing you on television weeks ago, Michael was close enough to notice details cameras had never properly captured.

The faint scattering of freckles across your cheeks.

The slight tiredness around your eyes beneath the harsh dressing room lights.

The way your voice softened almost automatically when one of your trainers leaned over to quietly ask whether your ribs needed additional wrapping before the flight home.

You thanked him gently before finally looking back toward Michael fully.

There was a brief pause.

Not awkward exactly.

More like surprise carefully hidden beneath composure.

Michael suddenly became very aware of how absurd this entire situation probably looked from your perspective.

“Hi,” he said first, offering a small nervous smile. “I’m Michael.”

Bill visibly fought the urge to laugh beside him.

You blinked once before standing carefully from the chair, the ice pack still loosely held in one hand.

“I know.”

Something about the answer made Michael smile a little wider despite himself.

One of the people standing further back in the room looked genuinely stunned.

“You’re a fan?” another trainer asked incredulously, clearly directed toward Michael rather than you.

Michael glanced toward you immediately.

“Yeah,” he answered simply. “Big fan.”

For the first time since he’d entered the room, your composure cracked just slightly into visible surprise.

Not dramatic surprise.

Just enough that he could tell you genuinely hadn’t expected that answer.

“That’s…” You hesitated briefly, clearly trying to process it. “I didn’t think somebody like you would even know who I was.”

Michael shrugged lightly. “I saw one of your fights on TV a few weeks ago.”

“And now he got a whole tape collection,” Bill added helpfully from beside him.

Michael shot him a look.

You actually laughed softly at that. Not loudly, not enough to fully lose your composure, but enough for something warmer to briefly surface beneath your usual guardedness.

“I’m honored,” you said.

And somehow the fact that you said it so calmly felt stranger to Michael than if you’d reacted the way most people usually did around him.

You weren’t nervous.

At least not visibly.

You looked at him the same way you seemed to look at most things: steady, observant, difficult to read.

“I’m a fan too, actually,” you admitted after a moment.

Michael’s eyebrows lifted slightly.

“Yeah?”

You nodded once.

“My brothers used to play Off the Wall constantly when it first came out.” A faint smile touched the corner of your mouth again. “Especially Rock with You. My mom loved that one.”

Michael smiled immediately at that.

“She did?”

“Used to dance around the kitchen to it while cooking.” You glanced downward briefly, almost amused by the memory. “Drove all of us crazy because she’d sing it completely off-key.”

The room laughed softly.

You seemed to realize a second later you’d revealed slightly more personal information than intended because your expression settled back into composure almost immediately afterward.

Still, Michael noticed.

And for some reason, he liked knowing that tiny detail more than he probably should have.

“You mind signing somethin’ for me?” he asked suddenly.

That earned you a visibly surprised look.

“For you?”

Michael nodded seriously.

“You’re really good.” Before you could answer, Bill was already reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket with the efficiency of somebody who had clearly done this hundreds of times before.

You watched in mild disbelief as he produced a marker almost instantly.

“…Does he always carry those around?”

“Pretty much,” Bill answered dryly.

A quiet laugh escaped you at that while you reached down beside your chair, picking up one of your boxing gloves from the bench nearby. The leather was still warm from the fight, the wrist wraps partially hanging loose from where you’d undone them earlier.

“You sure you want this?” you asked while uncapping the marker.

Michael looked at the glove like it was something considerably more valuable than it probably should have been.

“Yeah.”

You signed carefully across the white leather near the wrist before handing it back to him, watching him inspect the signature with an oddly sincere amount of appreciation.

Then you tilted your head slightly.

“Can I get one too?”

Michael blinked. “You want my autograph?”

“You’re Michael Jackson,” you replied matter-of-factly. “It’d be weird if I didn’t.”

Bill instinctively reached into his jacket again before pausing.

“…I don’t actually have an album on me.”

Michael glanced around briefly before his eyes landed on the second glove still resting beside you.

Without missing a beat, he reached for it.

“This okay?”

You looked genuinely amused now. “Sure.”

Bill handed him the marker while several people in the room watched the entire exchange with expressions ranging from entertained to completely bewildered by the surrealness of what they were witnessing.

Michael rested the glove carefully against his knee before signing his name across the leather in smooth black ink, concentrating far more than necessary while doing it.

When he handed it back, your fingers brushed briefly against his.

“Thank you,” you said.

Michael smiled lightly. “Thank you.”

By the time both autographs were exchanged, the atmosphere in the room had relaxed noticeably.

Michael found himself asking questions almost without thinking.

Not celebrity questions. Not interview questions. Actual questions.

“How long do you train before fights?”

You leaned lightly back against the table behind you. “Depends who I’m fighting.”

“But like… every day?”

“Mostly.”

“How long?”

“A few hours minimum.”

Michael frowned slightly, genuinely trying to picture it.

“And your footwork,” he continued. “How long does it take to get that fast?”

You blinked at him.

Not because of the question itself, but because he sounded sincerely invested in the answer.

“A long time,” you admitted. “Years.”

“You practice the same movements over and over?”

“Basically.”

Michael nodded slowly, clearly understanding that concept immediately.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I figured.”

While he spoke, you noticed his hands again.

He kept fidgeting absentmindedly with the rings on his fingers, sleeves shifting just enough every now and then for pale patches of skin near his wrists to briefly show beneath the fabric.

Vitiligo.

You recognized it immediately, though you pretended not to notice.

Something about the constant movement of his hands contrasted strangely with the calmness in his voice, as though nervous energy sat permanently beneath his skin no matter how softly he spoke.

Which surprised you more than anything else that night.

Because this was Michael Jackson.

And yet standing here talking to you, he somehow seemed more nervous than you were.

Eventually, someone from your team quietly reminded you about an upcoming flight, and the conversation finally began slowing naturally.

Michael seemed reluctant to leave despite himself.

“So…” He hesitated slightly before glancing toward you again. “Could I maybe get a number to call you sometime?”

Bill looked upward briefly like he was trying not to smile too obviously.

You studied Michael for another second, perhaps weighing the request more carefully than most people would have expected.

Then, surprisingly:

“Sure.”

Bill already had something to write with ready before either of you could ask.

You took the paper, scribbling the number down quickly before handing it back toward Michael.

Your fingers brushed briefly during the exchange.

And for some deeply irritating reason, Michael felt the contact all the way up his arm.

You extended your hand again properly afterward.

“It was nice meeting you, Michael.”

He looked down at your hand for half a second before taking it.

Your grip was firm from years of training, the rough callouses along your palm catching slightly against his skin in a way that made it immediately obvious how much time you spent fighting, wrapping your hands, hitting bags, living inside gyms. Your hand was warmer than he expected too, despite the lingering coldness from the ice pack you’d been holding earlier.

And somehow the simple handshake sent a strange nervous warmth through him that he couldn’t explain even to himself.

“You too,” he answered quietly.

Then, after the briefest hesitation:

“I’ll call you soon.”

Thank you for reading! it's my first time sharing a fic on tumblr, so I hope I did it right and it gets posted correctly. I would love it if you left comments ❤️ Posted the full story on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/85173961/chapters/224908181 -Lila

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