Could you please write a Michael x singer fic she’s in a band and has been the guitarist for Michael aswell she made the famous guitar riffs in his songs .could you please make it birthday themed since it was my birthday yesterday.btw I was wondering if you could make it a bit longer since your fics are always so good.❤️❤️❤️
electric eyes - M.J. ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ໒꒱
- in which…a hidden intimacy between you two seemed to hard to contain anymore
⋆.˚ ⤷ paring : singer!michael x guitarist!fem!reader
⋆.˚ ⤷ genre/warnings : romance, slow burn, friends to lovers, celebrity romance, fluff, angst, smut, making out, etc
⋆.˚ ⤷ summary : After years of working beside Michael Jackson as both a close friend and his trusted guitarist, you’ve become one of the few people who truly understands him behind the fame. On your birthday, Michael surprises you with a deeply personal gift that forces both of you to finally confront the tension that has existed between you for years. What begins as a heartfelt reunion slowly turns into a night filled with confessions, intimacy, and a romance neither of you can ignore anymore
a/n : this was requested and this one lowk took a while bc of how long it is but i think it turned out okay igg 😪 ts is proofed btw - w.c : 4,000+
The first time you met Michael Jackson, he stared at your hands before he looked at your face.
Like he already knew exactly what your fingers could do.
You were nineteen, standing in a recording studio in Los Angeles with your guitar hanging from your shoulder and your bandmates laughing nervously behind you. Your band, Velvet Echo, had just finished recording a small EP that somehow ended up in the hands of Quincy Jones. Two weeks later, you were invited to sit in on a session for Michael’s upcoming project.
You thought it was a joke.
Then Michael Jackson walked into the studio wearing black slacks, loafers, and a red button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows.
And suddenly nobody could breathe.
He moved through the room softly, almost shyly, greeting everyone with quiet politeness before his eyes landed on you.
“The guitarist?” he asked.
Your throat tightened. “Yeah.”
Not the superstar smile the cameras got.
“I listened to your demo,” he said. “The riff in the second track… it sounded like lightning.”
That sentence followed you for years.
Because after that session, Michael started requesting you specifically.
At first it was small things.
Background guitar layers.
Studio experimentation at two in the morning while Quincy threatened exhaustion from behind the soundboard.
Then suddenly you were helping create entire sections of songs.
The sharp electric bite behind one of his biggest hits?
That haunting riff people tried to recreate in music stores for decades?
The public only saw Michael.
But inside the industry, musicians whispered your name with reverence.
Michael never let anyone diminish your contribution either.
Whenever executives referred to you as “the girl guitarist,” he corrected them immediately.
“She’s an artist,” he’d say.
And every single time he said it, your chest tightened in ways you tried very hard not to think about.
By the late eighties, your life barely resembled the one you’d started with.
Crowds screaming your band’s name.
And somehow, through all of it, Michael remained the constant thread stitched through your life.
Your friendship became something legendary to people around you.
Nobody understood it completely.
Because Michael was different with you.
He laughed louder around you than anyone else.
You knew the hidden dimples in his cheeks before the world noticed them.
You knew he liked sitting on studio floors instead of chairs during long sessions.
You knew he got embarrassed whenever you complimented his eyes directly.
And he knew everything about you too.
The fact that you hated carnations.
The fact that thunderstorms helped you sleep.
The fact that before every performance, you tapped your guitar exactly four times against your leg.
Which is why you shouldn’t have been surprised when he remembered your birthday better than anyone else.
Your manager looked horrified.
“You are not spending your birthday in a studio.”
You leaned back in the couch with a grin. “I literally spend every important day in a studio.”
The rehearsal space buzzed around you while your band prepared for another upcoming performance. Amplifiers hummed softly in the background, and one of your bandmates tested a keyboard nearby.
Your birthday had never been a huge event for you.
You preferred quieter things.
And somehow, Michael always found his way into those moments.
“Michael called earlier,” your drummer said casually.
You glanced up too quickly. “He did?”
A smirk spread across his face instantly. “Relax.”
“You looked ready to leap across the room.”
You rolled your eyes and threw a guitar pick at him.
Truthfully, you hadn’t seen Michael in nearly three weeks.
Which, for the two of you, was unusually long.
He’d been buried in meetings and rehearsals while you toured the East Coast with your band. Your schedules had collided badly lately.
You missed him more than you liked admitting.
Not that you would ever say it aloud.
Especially because your feelings for him had become dangerous over the years.
Something impossible to remove.
You’d tried dating other people.
But somehow you always found your way back to each other in the quiet spaces between careers and chaos.
And neither of you ever crossed the line.
Though there had been moments.
Lingering stares in dark studios.
His hands resting on your waist a second too long while guiding you through choreography as a joke.
Your lips brushing his cheek after award shows.
The way he looked at you whenever you played guitar live beside him.
Like he forgot the audience existed.
It terrified you sometimes.
Because you didn’t know what would happen if either of you finally admitted the truth.
Your birthday arrived wrapped in rain.
You woke late in your apartment, the city outside gray and sleepy beneath the storm clouds. Messages flooded your answering machine from friends, family, producers, and your bandmates.
You tried not to let disappointment settle in your chest.
By evening, your band had dragged you to a restaurant downtown despite your protests. Music spilled through the crowded space while candles flickered across your table.
You laughed harder than expected.
Drank more wine than intended.
Pretended not to glance toward the entrance every five minutes.
“He’s not coming, is he?” your bassist asked gently.
You forced a shrug. “Probably not.”
But the words felt heavier than they should have.
Around ten o’clock, you finally gave up waiting.
The rain had intensified by the time you stepped outside. Your friends offered rides, but you declined, deciding to walk the few blocks home.
The cold air cleared your head a little.
Streetlights reflected across wet pavement while the city glowed gold around you.
Then headlights appeared beside the curb.
Your breath caught instantly.
The passenger window rolled down slowly.
Michael leaned toward the opening wearing a black fedora and that unmistakable soft smile.
“I know.” His grin widened. “Get in the car.”
Despite yourself, your heart fluttered violently.
“You made me think you forgot.”
You climbed into the passenger seat trying not to smile too hard.
The car smelled faintly like his cologne and rain.
Michael glanced over at you as he pulled back onto the road.
He laughed softly under his breath.
God, you missed that sound.
“You trust me?” he asked suddenly.
You blinked. “That’s a dangerous question.”
You turned toward him fully then.
The one that always made your chest ache.
Soft brown eyes beneath the city lights.
Vulnerability hidden beneath fame and glitter and impossibly bright stages.
His fingers tightened slightly around the steering wheel.
He drove for nearly forty minutes without telling you where you were going.
You watched the rain race across the windows while music played quietly through the speakers.
At some point, Michael reached over and squeezed your hand briefly.
It was such a small thing.
But warmth flooded through you instantly.
“You’re smiling,” he murmured.
You rolled your eyes, but your hand stayed tangled with his for the rest of the drive.
Eventually, the city faded behind you.
The car turned down a private road lined with trees glowing silver beneath the rain.
A large recording studio tucked away near the hills.
He parked the car and climbed out first, hurrying around to open your door before you could protest.
Rain misted across his curls while he held out his hand dramatically.
You took his hand anyway.
The studio inside was dark except for scattered candlelight.
Your footsteps echoed softly against polished floors while Michael guided you deeper into the building.
Then the main room lights flicked on.
Your guitar stood in the center of the room.
Your very first professional instrument.
The black electric you’d used when you met him all those years ago.
The same one you thought had been lost after a damaged equipment shipment during tour.
He looked suddenly nervous.
“I found it,” he said softly. “A collector had it in storage. I bought it back.”
You walked toward the instrument slowly like it might disappear.
Your fingertips brushed the strings.
Emotion climbed painfully into your throat.
“Of course I remembered.”
You turned toward him, stunned.
“This must’ve cost a fortune.”
You looked at him standing there beneath the studio lights.
Rainwater still clinging to dark curls near his forehead.
And suddenly the years between you felt unbearably small.
“You did all this for me?” you whispered.
“You’ve done so much for me.”
“You changed my music,” he continued quietly. “You changed my life.”
The room felt too warm now.
He reached for your hand slowly.
“You know my favorite part of every song?”
You shook your head faintly.
“The parts where I can hear you.”
Your breath caught sharply.
And before you could stop yourself, you kissed him.
It happened gently at first.
Like both of you were afraid the other might disappear.
Michael froze for half a second in surprise before his hands found your waist instantly.
And suddenly years of tension unraveled between you all at once.
The kiss deepened quickly.
His fingers tightened against your hips while your hands slid into damp curls beneath his hat.
A quiet sound escaped him.
You’d imagined kissing him before.
But nothing prepared you for the reality of it.
Michael kissed like he sang.
Like he poured every hidden feeling directly into you.
When you finally pulled back for air, both of you looked stunned.
His forehead rested against yours while he laughed softly in disbelief.
You laughed breathlessly too. “Yeah.”
“That took us a very long time.”
He looked at you carefully then.
Your chest tightened painfully at the question.
Because even now, after finally crossing the line between friendship and something more, he was worried about you first.
You touched his face gently.
Relief softened his expression instantly.
Then he kissed you again.
The candles flickered around the studio while rain tapped softly against distant windows.
And somewhere between kisses and laughter and years of hidden longing finally spilling free, the world outside ceased to matter completely.
Hours passed without either of you noticing.
You sat together on the studio floor surrounded by cables and instruments, talking the way you always had.
Except now his hand rested on your thigh casually.
Now your head leaned against his shoulder naturally.
“You know,” Michael said quietly, “I used to get jealous.”
You looked up. “Jealous?”
“Whenever interviewers called you the ‘mystery guitarist.’”
You laughed softly. “Why?”
“Because they didn’t know you the way I did.”
Your stomach flipped violently.
“You say things like that too casually.”
He looked down at your intertwined hands.
“You’ve always been my favorite person.”
The confession settled deeply into your chest.
You reached over and brushed your fingers along his jaw.
His eyes closed briefly at the touch.
Then he kissed your palm.
The intimacy of it nearly ruined you.
“You have any idea,” he murmured, “how hard it was not to kiss you all these years?”
You smirked faintly. “I had suspicions.”
His gaze darkened slightly at your tone.
The air between you shifted instantly.
Michael’s fingers traced absent circles against your leg while he studied you carefully.
“You’re beautiful tonight,” he said softly.
Heat climbed your neck immediately.
“You’ve seen me a thousand times.”
The room suddenly felt very quiet.
He reached up slowly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear.
His expression softened immediately.
“We don’t have to do anything.”
That was the thing about Michael.
Despite the fame and charisma and impossible magnetism, he was unbelievably gentle with people he loved.
Your lips brushed his again carefully before he pulled you into his lap with surprising confidence.
A startled laugh escaped you.
“There she is,” he murmured against your mouth. “My fearless guitarist.”
“You bring it out of me.”
His hands slid slowly along your back while the kisses deepened again.
Years of restraint finally breaking apart.
The tension between you burned hot and dizzying, but even then Michael remained tender.
Every glance asking permission without words.
Your fingers curled against his shirt while his forehead pressed against yours again.
“You know,” he whispered breathlessly, “I used to write songs about you.”
You laughed softly in disbelief.
The honesty in his voice hit harder than expected.
And suddenly emotion overwhelmed you all over again.
Because beneath the legend, beneath the music and fame and history, he was just Michael.
The man who remembered your favorite guitar.
The man who watched your hands before your face.
The man who looked at you like you were music yourself.
You kissed him once more, slower now.
More intimate than desperate.
And eventually the night softened into whispered conversations, tangled limbs on the studio couch, and quiet affection hidden safely away from the world outside.
The physical tension between you remained undeniable, but what mattered more was the closeness itself.
The years of love finally spoken aloud without fear.
At some point near dawn, Michael pulled a blanket around both of you while you rested against his chest listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.
“Best birthday?” he asked sleepily.
His lips brushed your forehead gently.
Silence settled comfortably between you.
Then you tilted your head up slightly.
“How long were you planning that surprise?”
Michael looked suddenly guilty.
“I had to track down the guitar!”
You laughed so hard your stomach hurt.
And Michael joined immediately, his smile bright and warm in the dim studio light.
For a moment he looked impossibly young.
You realized then that this — not the stages or screaming crowds — was who he truly was beneath everything.
And maybe only a few people ever got to see it.
You were lucky enough to be one of them.
Michael looked down at you after the laughter faded.
His fingers brushed lightly across your cheek.
“I love you,” he said quietly.
Your chest ached beautifully.
Outside, the rain finally stopped.
And inside the quiet studio, wrapped together beneath dim lights and old songs and years of hidden feelings, it felt like the beginning of something neither of you wanted to lose again.
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