summary: you’re michael’s personal assistant on the bad tour. when a snowstorm grounds your flight and leaves you both stranded, you’re forced to share the last hotel room—and its one bed. the quiet night leads to more than you ever expected. (or let yourself hope for)
pairing: bad!era Michael Jackson x reader
w/c: 9.8k
notes: & THERE WAS ONLY ONE (1) BED—smut ahead!!!
boss/employee relationship. forced proximity (or is it?), unprotected sex, they're pathetic and desperate your honor!!! michael EATS.
there is discussion of michael’s struggle with insomnia & loneliness. the story also briefly touches on his eating habits.
michael is a level 10 yearner, but so is the reader—so much vulnerability. he is a cheeky lil shit in this but still an absolute lover boy & dirty talker.
some suspension of disbelief may be required—there are probably (definitely) historical and timeline inaccuracies. also, the role of a personal assistant in this universe is very subjective but lets pretend for The Plot
disclaimer: i give absolutely no one permission to use my writing to train AI ‼️
masterlist • ao3
DENVER, COLORADO. MARCH 26, 1988.
It’s late—11:47 p.m., according to the glowing red digits on the backstage clock. The air inside the McNichols Sports Arena still hums with the leftover electricity of the final night in the city. You can practically feel it in your bones—the faint echo of applause, the way the floor still seems to vibrate even though the crowd has long since spilled out into the cold Denver night.
Normally, you would have already been on Michael’s private jet, halfway to Hartford, Connecticut—the next stop on the Bad World Tour. Tonight ran longer than usual, though. Michael stayed behind after the concert to finish a series of post-show interviews with local charities before leaving the city—something he refused to skip, no matter how exhausted he was.
You watched with a knowing smile as he pushed through his fatigue with the same gentle determination he always had when it came to causes that mattered to him. He even paused for a few fan interactions, signing posters and offering words of encouragement—giving everything he had left.
You’re exhausted yourself—the good kind. The kind that comes with pride, with the quiet satisfaction of knowing you did your job well. You’ve been Michael Jackson’s personal assistant for nearly a year now—your first job in the industry—and somehow you’d managed to keep pace with the whirlwind of the tour for the biggest star in history.
You’re good at this job, better than you had expected.
Frank DiLeo had told you more than once that you were “a natural,” and Michael himself thanked you every chance he got for keeping things running smoothly.
You still don’t quite believe it, but you love the work you’re doing—even when it pushes you to your limits. Especially when it pushes you to your limits.
You clutch your clipboard to your chest as you step toward the arena’s back exit, your coat half-buttoned, mind already shifting into travel mode.
Pushing open the heavy door, you brace for the usual bite of early spring in Colorado.
Instead, bitter cold hits you like a physical blow. The air claws at your cheeks, sharp and metallic, and the ground is already buried under a fresh layer of white. Snow pours from the sky in thick, relentless sheets, causing the entire parking lot to look blurry and unreal.
Bill stands near the SUV, talking urgently with the other security guards as you approach. Michael stands a few feet behind you, hands stuffed into his pockets. His thick winter jacket is zipped all the way up to his neck, the furry hood pulled over his head, making him look smaller than usual. A small smile graces his lips as he watches the snow swirl under the streetlights with childlike wonder.
You shuffle toward the men, your boots crunching in the snow. “Are we good to go?” You ask, breath fogging in the air.
Bill turns toward you, his expression tight. “We’re not going to the airport.”
“What? Why not?” You ask, although the reason is obvious.
”It’s a really bad storm,” he says. “Even by Colorado standards. They’ve halted all flights. Nothing’s going out tonight—private or not. They’re saying maybe noon tomorrow, once the weather clears.”
His words hit you, causing your stomach to drop.
Noon. Nearly a half a day behind schedule.
You immediately start mentally rearranging everything—rehearsal times, load-in windows, Michael’s rest schedule, the press commitments waiting in Hartford. You can practically see the calendar in your mind: the carefully-arranged blocks of time shifting, overlapping, collapsing.
You’re already calculating how early Michael will need to wake up tomorrow, how quickly you can get him fed, dressed, transported, boarded—
You sigh in reluctant acceptance. You’ll make it work, you always do, but that doesn’t stop you from cursing the weather for screwing up your plans.
You mutter under your breath, irritated: “It’s late March, for God's sake… we should be well past snowstorms and blizzards.”
Michael hears you—because of course he does—and he chuckles softly at your petulant griping. Storms don’t rattle him the way they rattle you. He steps closer, voice gentle but slightly strained. “Is everyone else already on their way?”
You nod. “They left a couple hours ago, they should be landing soon.”
The majority of the crew—the dancers, the band, technicians—had left soon after the show had ended, boarding their flights and leaving only a small group behind: Michael, Bill, a few security members, and you.
Bill nods in confirmation. “I already checked, they beat the storm. Everyone’s safe, joker. No need to worry.”
Michael exhales, slow and heavy. He’s relieved that everyone is safe, but you know him well enough by now to recognize the tension behind it. He hates being late. He hates not being there when the crew starts setting up—a control freak in the most endearing way; he’s a perfectionist, overseeing sound checks and checking lighting angles himself.
He likes to walk the stage, to feel the space. To become the Michael Jackson, not only in body, but in spirit, ready to perform his soul out for thousands of fans. Being delayed, even by a few hours, twists something tight inside him.
Bill turns to the SUV, pulling open the back door. “We’re gonna head back to the hotel. Let’s move before it gets worse.”
Michael steps aside and lets you climb in first—something he always does, a gesture that feels strangely intimate despite you reminding yourself that he’s just being polite. You slide into the middle row, and he follows, settling beside you so closely that your thighs press against each other.
The warmth inside the vehicle is immediate, the windows fogging with every breath. The wipers drag across the windshield in slow, strained arcs, barely keeping up with the onslaught of ice and snow. The moment the vehicle starts moving, the tires spin on the ice, and your body tenses immediately.
Michael notices, nudging you lightly with his elbow. “You’re jumpy.”
”I’m not,” you mutter, even though you absolutely are.
“You sure about that, girl?” He drawls out, poking you in the side, pressing hard enough for you to feel his pointy finger through your thick coat.
You swat his hand away, trying not to smile. “I grew up on the West Coast. This kind of weather isn’t natural.”
He giggles in response, his arm draping casually behind you against the car seat, around your shoulder. “Well, I’m used to it. Gary got storms like this all the time. And touring with my brothers all over the place… I’ve seen worse.”
You roll your eyes, but his teasing does settle something inside you, despite the shiver that rolls through you as he scoots closer to you—subconsciously, you tell yourself. Probably just huddling for warmth.
He’s always been flirty and touchy with you—little nudges, soft teasing, gentle brushes of his hand against yours when he hands you something.
That’s just how he is, though. He was like that with everyone—it was in his nature.
You’ve always remained professional—he’s your boss, after all. But you’ve spent so much time together—late nights and early mornings, getting to know one another, talking for hours about things that have nothing to do with schedules or checklists or responsibilities—that you like to think he’s become your friend, too.
Still, you’d be lying if you said you never thought about it—about him—like that. That you hadn’t dreamt about his damn smile, or about the way he looks at you sometimes like you’re the only person in the room.
But you love your job, and he’s Michael Jackson. You’re just… you. His employee. He’s your boss, you remind yourself again. So you push your thoughts down, ignoring your stupid feelings—burying them under professionalism and responsibility.
Another skid jolts the SUV, and you tense again. Michael leans in, voice softer now. “Hey. Stop stressin’.”
“I’m not stressing,” you lie, letting out a shaky breath.
”You are,” he insists, smiling. You can feel his warm breath against your ear as he speaks. “The next show isn’t for a few days. It’ll be alright.”
You know he’s trying to make you feel better, despite being stressed himself. He can’t stand being away from his crew while they need him. But you appreciate the comfort anyway, especially with the storm raging outside.
The drive stretches on endlessly, tires spinning occasionally on hidden ice and the wipers continuing to fight a losing battle against the snow. Finally, the SUV pulls up to the hotel—a luxury tower in the heart of downtown Denver, the same one that you had been staying at for the past week—snowdrifts already pile against the entrance. You watch as even Bill struggles to open the door against a strong gust of wind.
You shake the snow from your coat and hurry to the front desk, Michael and the security team close behind. The concierge looks frazzled as you approach him—cheeks flushed, tie crooked.
“Good evening," he says, even though it’s clearly anything but. “How can I assist you?”
You clear your throat, slipping immediately into professional mode. “Hello. We checked out this morning. We were scheduled to fly out tonight, but our flight was canceled due to the storm. We need new rooms for Mr. Jackson and his team.”
The man behind the counter winces, swallowing loudly. “I’m very sorry. Because of the concert tonight bringing in tourists—and now the weather—we’re nearly at capacity. We have very limited availability.”
Your pulse quickens. “How limited?”
”The penthouse is occupied. No suites left. Not a single one…” he says apologetically. “But perhaps I could ask another guest to give up their room for Mr. Jackson. I’m sure someone would be willing—“
Michael tunes into the conversation then, stepping forward immediately. “No. Please don’t do that.”
You knew he would never accept that. He would never take a room from a fan—he’d sooner sleep in the lobby.
The concierge nods quickly, looking relieved to avoid an awkward interaction with another guest. “We do have two standard rooms available—one with a king-sized bed, another with two queens.”
Two rooms. For all of you. You sigh—it would have to do.
”We’ll take them.” You nod, sliding the company credit card in his direction.
Keys in hand, you turn back to the group. Michael stands closer than you realized, and he catches you as you nearly bump into him, hands landing on either side of your shoulders. Snow clings to his curls, the flakes beginning to melt slowly. Tiny droplets remain on his lashes.
You force your gaze away, blushing, and gesture toward the elevators. “Let’s head up.”
The group moves as one—the four security guards flanking you and Michael on all sides. You fall into step beside him, hyperaware of his presence.
Inside the elevator, a soft chime marks your ascent to the eighth floor. It’s not as private as you would prefer—typically reserving the penthouse for Michael, or an entire floor. Not simply for comfort, but for safety. Anything to ensure his privacy and protect him from the unpredictable energy of crazy fans—
No—spirited fans. You correct yourself with a wince.
You knew better than to refer to Michael’s fans like that, even in your head. He made that rule clear on your first day—to treat his fans with love and respect.
They’re not ‘crazy’; they’re passionate, devoted, and overflowing with love. And he loves them back with equal intensity.
Admittedly, you had grown to love them, too. Even the ones who pushed boundaries from time to time. They meant well… usually. Besides, up until a few months ago, you were one of them, admiring your favorite singer and performer from the sidelines.
Still, you’re glad to have security guards there. Four of them total, including Bill. You steal a glance at them as you step off of the elevator, and your heart tightens.
They’re clearly exhausted—faces drawn, shoulders slumped, eyes heavy. They had been working since early morning; transporting Michael safely to and from the venue, managing crowd control and backstage access, keeping him safe. They should have been on a plane by now, asleep and recovering.
You swallow the guilt, knowing there was nothing you could do to change the circumstances, short of being able to control the weather.
The elevator doors glide open, spilling warm light into the hallway. Bill takes the lead with his team, assessing the two rooms quickly. “We’ll take the one with the two queens. Shifts as usual—first team, get some sleep. I’ve got point for now.”
Bill gives instructions to the other guard taking the first shift, and gives you a gentle pat on the shoulder. “Y’did good, kid.”
You smile back, grateful—growing warm at the praise.
Over the past few months of working so closely, Bill had become one of the few constants you relied on throughout the whirlwind of the tour, and he had quietly taken on something of a “work-dad” role—always offering advice, checking in, nudging you toward confidence as you learned the ropes of the job. His approval felt like a small victory.
You turn back to Michael, who waited patiently a few steps away, his duffel bag slung over his shoulder. You gesture toward the second room. “This one’s yours.”
He follows you inside, the door swinging shut behind him. You take in your surroundings, and you almost laugh. It’s a “standard” room, technically—but it's still a luxury hotel.
To you, a “standard” room meant a Holiday Inn room containing two double beds with stiff floral comforters (hopefully without bedbugs), and a complimentary breakfast buffet, if you were really splurging.
This room, though, was nothing like that. A king-sized bed sat against the far wall, crisp white linens tucked perfectly, pillows fluffed to maximum softness. (Bedbug-free, you’re sure.)
A small seating area faces the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooks the city—although the view tonight was nothing but swirling white. A mini-bar sits on the other side of the room, stocked with neatly arranged bottles and snacks that you know Michael won’t touch. A large-screen TV sits opposite to the bed. The carpet is thick enough that your boots sink in slightly as you step.
“I’ll call room service,” you say, completing a mental checklist as you scan the room for anything he might need—extra blankets, bottled water, towels. “Have them bring up some orange juice for you. And dinner. Don’t even try to lie to me, Michael Jackson—I know you have barely eaten today.”
You hear Michael snicker quietly at your accurate assessment and drop his duffel bag onto the floor. You continue looking around, making sure everything is perfect. You check the thermostat settings. “I’m really sorry it’s not a suite. If I could’ve—“
“Wait,” he interrupts. You turn toward him with a raised brow. “There were only two rooms. Where are you staying?”
Your stomach sinks. You’d hoped—foolishly—that you could slip away before he had a chance to ask. You hadn’t made a plan for yourself yet, wanting to get everyone else settled first.
That’s your job. That’s what you do.
You try to skirt around the question, waving dismissively. “Oh, that. Don’t worry about me. I’ll figure something out.”
Michael plants his hands on his hips, giving you a look that is so perfectly, unintentionally mother-hen that you almost laugh, biting the inside of your cheek to hold it in.
He doesn’t say anything—simply waits with an expectant look on his face that says ‘explain yourself.’
You sigh, defeated. “I was… probably going to try to crash in the lobby. Or maybe sleep in the SUV if they give me a blanket. Or I think I saw a motel next door—“
Michael’s horrified reaction is immediate. Appalled, he cuts you off, the words coming out so fast and firm they catch you off guard.
“Absolutely not.” He steps toward you, shaking his head in exasperation. Before you can sputter out a defense, he reaches forward and practically yanks your bag off your shoulder, setting it on the floor beside his own.
“That is a ridiculously stupid plan,” he continues, incredulous. “You’re not staying in a lobby. You’re not sleeping in a car. You’re not going out in this weather. Absolutely not. Over my dead body.”
You open your mouth to argue—even though you already know that you’re not winning this one. It was a dumb plan, and you knew it. (Even dumber to think he might let you get away with it.)
He cuts you off with a single look.
”You’re staying in here. With me.”
You stare at him, stunned. He crosses his arms, doubling down on his mother-hen posture. You almost giggle at how serious he looks. Michael Jackson—global superstar, beloved icon, standing there like a stern parent scolding you for trying to sleep in a car.
The spitting image of Katherine Jackson herself, right then. It would be funny if you weren’t so irritated.
”Michael,” you sigh. “I can’t just—“
”You can,” he says simply. “And you will.”
You stand in front of him, your arms now folded tightly. Your foot begins tapping in a steady rhythm that betrays your irritation. Michael mirrors you instantly—arms crossed, his own foot now tapping, chin tilted upward—determined to match your stubbornness beat for beat.
It’s ridiculous, and childish.
You narrow your eyes at him, trying to look stern, but his soft bambi-eyes make the attempt very difficult.
“You’re my boss.” You remind him, weakly. “I can’t share a room with you.”
It’s a flimsy argument and you know it. You’d spent months practically living together—working side by side, eating meals together, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder, traveling the world. You had yet to share a room, granted—but the line between professionalism and something else was already blurry.
Michael raises a single eyebrow—the cocky one that you try so hard to hate—and suddenly he looks every bit like the superstar the world views him as. “Then don’t make me play the boss card.”
“The boss card,” you repeat, deadpan.
He nods, leaning into the spiel with almost theatrical confidence. “That’s right.”
You stare at him, wholly unimpressed and unsure where he’s going with this. He stares back, absolutely delighted with himself.
”I’m your boss,” He continues, voice smooth and authoritative. “And I’m ordering you to stay in this room for the night.”
Your jaw drops, and you sputter—caught off guard by the sudden shift in his tone. He’s never ‘ordered’ you to do anything. “That—that is… so not fair, Michael.”
A wide grin stretches across his stupidly handsome face—triumphant and boyish. He knows he’s won. He knows you know he’s won. And he’s enjoying every second of it.
You roll your eyes and scoff, muttering something unflattering under your breath—something about egotistical pop stars—before crouching down to pick up your bag and shuffle toward the couch.
Michael clears his throat. “What do you think you’re doing?”
You gesture vaguely at the couch, confused. “I’m taking this.”
He looks at the piece of furniture like it personally offended him. “No, you’re not.”
”It’s fine.” You insist, not sure you have any more fight left in you. “Seriously, Michael. I’ll take the couch. You need the bed. You just performed for forty thousand people and you have a packed schedule tomorrow as soon as we land. You need to rest.”
He shakes his head immediately, having absolutely none of it. “You’ve been working all day, too.”
”That’s different.”
”It’s not.” He counters.
You glance at the couch again, helplessly. It’s… not great. Not terrible, but definitely not meant for sleeping. It’s one of those decorative pieces hotels use to make rooms look fancy, but certainly not meant for comfort.
The kind of furniture that says ‘look, we’re pretty and expensive’, but absolutely does not say ‘please relax here for eight hours’.
You wince. “I’ll be fine.”
”No.”
”Michael, please—“
He cuts you off with a decisive shake of his head.
”I’m a gentleman.” He says, voice firm. “Do you know what my mother would say to me if she found out I let you sleep on the couch? I’d never live it down. I can’t deal with all that.”
You snort—you can’t help it—because the image of Katherine Jackson scolding her grown son for poor manners is both funny and entirely believable.
Still, you can’t bring yourself to accept. “Michael, seriously, I can—“
“No.”
”But—“
”No.”
You huff, crossing your arms again. Your track record of winning arguments against him was already abysmal, and clearly tonight was no exception.
“We’ll share it.” He gestures toward the bed with yet another grin. You briefly consider smacking it away. “It’s king-sized. There’s plenty of space. It’s the only option that makes sense.”
You nod shyly, biting your lip as heat rises to your cheeks at the implication of sharing a bed with him, even for one night.
At that, he notices your hesitation—the way your arms are folded tightly, and how you can’t quite meet his eyes. Suddenly feeling guilty for pushing you, his cocky expression fades into something gentler.
“Hey,” he says quietly. “We can put up a pillow wall, I won’t touch you. It doesn’t have to be weird. I just want you to get some rest… you’ve been runnin’ around all day taking care of everything—taking care of me. Let me take care of you a little. Okay?”
Your heart flutters—traitorously—at his sincerity. You shove the feeling down. Hard.
He doesn’t mean anything by it, you remind yourself. He’s just being kind. He’s just… being Michael.
Still, it melts the last of your resistance. “Okay. Fine.” You sigh, long and resigned.
His smile returns—wide and toothy.
”But,” you add quickly, pointing a single finger at him. “You get first dibs on the shower. That’s my final offer.”
He laughs then—bright and genuine. Relieved. “Deal.”
Michael turns, disappearing into the bathroom with a skip in his step—far too pleased with himself for winning yet another argument.
You watch as the door closes behind him, shaking your head in amusement. You let out a soft laugh despite yourself. He’s impossible. Absolutely, utterly impossible. And yet… you wouldn’t trade him for anything.
You finally allow yourself a moment to relax—your body sinking onto the couch. You grunt as the cushions barely give beneath your weight. You would never admit it out loud, but the couch really is uncomfortable as hell. You wouldn’t have gotten ten minutes of sleep on it, let alone a full night. You’re very glad Michael isn’t there to witness your discomfort, it would only make him more insufferable.
Still, it’s the first time you’ve sat down all day—the relief washing over you immediately. Your shoulders throb, your legs ache, and your feet feel like they’ve fused to the insides of your winter boots that are still on—wet and cold from the snow. You toe them off one at a time and let out a relieved groan as you stretch out.
You hear the shower start—the rush of water muffled by the door—and then you hear him. Humming at first, low and gentle, before a soft melody lifts into quiet singing. He knows full well he’s supposed to rest his voice between concerts, but he just can’t help himself. Music lives in him the way oxygen lives in everyone else.
You giggle softly. You briefly consider tapping on the door, reminding him to be quiet, to save his voice, to follow his doctor’s orders. But you don’t—you love hearing him sing.
You hear him perform nearly every night and still never get tired of it. For a single moment, you let yourself pretend you have him all to yourself—his voice, his presence. Him.
You instantly scold yourself as that familiar flutter in your chest returns—He’s your boss. He’s your boss. He’s your boss.
You repeat the words like a mantra—attempting to smother the feeling before it grows into something unmanageable. Something dangerous.
You have to be okay with boundaries, with that invisible line drawn between you. Tonight is no exception, even if you’re sharing a bed with him. Because if you let yourself acknowledge your feelings, for even a moment, it will only hurt.
You don’t want to lose him—That is… your job. Yes, that’s all—your job, nothing more. Surely having him as only your boss is better than not having him at all. Right?
You shake your head, forcing your thoughts into something practical—something safe. Work. Work always helps.
You pull your clipboard out and begin flipping through the pages. The familiar columns ground you as you begin rearranging the next days’ schedule, calculating how early you and Michael will need to wake up once flights resume.
You jot down notes, arrows, reminders. You plan out when you’ll need to call the venue manager, when to check into the next hotel, and a reminder to confirm transportation. You make a note to yourself to make sure Michael eats breakfast in the morning, not to let him skip it again.
At that thought, your stomach growls, a reminder that you hadn’t eaten much today, either. Hunger hits you all at once, sharp and insistent. He was right about one thing: you had spent all day taking care of everyone else.
You reach over to the phone on the endstand and call for room service. You order orange juice for Michael—his favorite, you learned on day one—and something light for him to hopefully eat, as well as your own dinner.
You hang up the phone with a soft thanks and your gaze drifts toward the duffel bag he had dropped earlier. His coat was crumpled on the carpet beside it, having been shrugged off and dumped unceremoniously on the floor at some point during your argument.
You stand, walking toward the pile and pick it up, your fingers brushing softly over the material. It’s still warm from his body heat, his scent wafting from it. You bite your lip, about to make a dumb decision.
You glance around the room nervously, as if making sure no-one was watching, and bring the coat to your face, inhaling deeply.
The scent of his cologne mixed with sweat, stage smoke and something uniquely him fills your nostrils, and you close your eyes—allowing the sensation wash over you for a single, stolen moment.
Your heart flutters again, harder this time, and you quickly pull the coat away, forcing yourself to come to your senses. Your cheeks warm with embarrassment as you realize what you just did. You scold yourself again—
He’s your boss. He’s your boss. He’s your boss!
You repeat the words in your head until they lose meaning, a useless rhythm in your mind.
You walk over to the wall hook and hang the coat neatly—trying to pretend the gesture is purely professional. You’re still adjusting his coat on the hook, softly smoothing the fabric down when you hear the bathroom door open with a soft click. You jolt, jumping away from the coat hook like you had been burned.
Guilt flashes through you, even though you’re sure he didn’t see anything—that is, didn’t see you sniffing his clothes like an absolute crazy person.
But your guilt is short-lived, evaporating instantly as it is replaced by something else entirely. Something far more overwhelming.
Steam billows out into the room like a gentle fog, and Michael stands there, wearing nothing but a white towel slung low around his hips. Droplets of water make slow paths down his skin, glistening under the warm lamplight. His curls are darker when wet—a few strands falling across his forehead, the damp ends trailing along his shoulders and collarbones.
He looks like a scene from a movie—effortless, magnetic, and entirely unaware of how devastating the sight is.
Your face heats instantly—the rush of warmth so sudden it makes your cheeks sting. You nearly choke as you try not to stare, but your eyes betray you, drinking in the unexpected sight before you.
The two of you freeze in a startled standoff, like deer caught in each other’s headlights. Michael clears his throat softly, one hand adjusting his grip on the towel as his gaze flicks away, suddenly shy.
The tips of his ears are tinged pink, and he looks endearingly human—caught off guard and a little flustered at your gawking.
“Uh… my bag. I left it—“ he gestures vaguely behind you, where the duffel sits at your feet.
“Oh!” You squeak, voice embarrassingly high. You feel like an awkward teenager, nearly tripping over the bag in your scramble to move out of his way, giving him a wide berth so you don’t accidentally brush against one another.
He blushes, avoiding eye contact. He nods toward the bathroom. “I’m done, if you wanna go ahead. I can change out here.”
You manage a jerky nod, eyes fixed on the carpet as you grab your bag with stiff, robotic movements. You shuffle past him into the still-steamy bathroom.
The moment the door closes behind you, you slump against the wood, letting out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. You press your hands against your burning cheeks, heart still racing.
He’s. Your. Boss. You repeat it again and again, desperately hoping it will erase the image of him standing in front of you wearing nothing but a towel.
(It doesn’t.)
You pull open your overnight bag and pull out your pajamas—an oversized Bad Tour Crew shirt, and a pair of old sleep shorts. You groan internally, suddenly wishing you had packed something cuter, something less… practical.
You shake the thought away. It doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter. He’s your boss. You’re only sharing a bed for practical reasons. That’s it. And that's alright.
You shower quickly, letting the hot water melt away the lingering tension from your shoulders. You towel off as quickly as possible and get dressed in the oversized shirt and shorts. You take one last steadying breath, repeating your mantra once again before stepping back into the hotel room.
Michael is already settled onto the bed, now fully clothed—thank god—sitting cross-legged with the phone pressed up against his ear. He twirls the cord absent-mindedly around his fingers as he speaks, his tone soft and affectionate.
You’re pleased to find him at least picking at the food you ordered him, the orange juice sitting half-finished on the nightstand.
He looks up as you enter the room with a startled expression, his cheeks turning slightly pink as if hoping you hadn’t overheard his conversation. He wraps up the call almost immediately. “Okay, yeah. Goodnight, Mother. Love you too.”
He hangs up and offers you a sheepish smile. “That was Mother. She heard about the storm and was worried. I let her know that we’re okay. She says hello… and to thank you for everything. She adores you, you know.”
Your cheeks warm again. You had only met Katherine a handful of times, but her grace and kindness had left a deep impression. Michael had certainly inherited so much of that from her.
“Well, that's my job.” You murmur, trying to sound casual, hoping he doesn't notice your blushing. You sit on the edge of the bed and chuckle softly at the sight—he really did set up a pillow wall.
A neat line of pillows divide the bed into two clear halves like a fluffy barrier of professionalism.
”Eat,” he says, gesturing toward your food tray, and you don’t hesitate. Michael turns on the TV, flipping the channels before settling on an old Hollywood movie you don’t recognize as you dig into your food.
Neither of you speak for a while, both lost in your own thoughts, contemplating everything that had happened that evening—the concert, the storm, the canceled flights, the unexpected closeness of sharing a hotel room.
Despite that, however, the silence isn’t awkward—it’s warm and familiar. An easy quiet that can only exist between two people that had spent months learning each other’s rhythms.
You finish the last few bites of your dinner, replacing the lid and wiping your hands on a napkin. The movie continues to play quietly in the background, but neither of you are really watching it.
You’re too aware of his presence beside you, and you can sense him mulling over something—one of his legs hangs off the edge of the bed, bouncing nervously as he begins to anxiously run his palms up and down his thighs, a nervous tic you’d come to recognize.
“Michael? Everything okay over there?”
He bites his lip—deep in thought as he gathers his words. Finally he clears his throat, eyes fixed on his hands. “I just… wanted to say thank you.”
“You already thanked me,” you remind him gently. “And I was happy to do it.”
You’re about to add that it’s your job—that you’re his assistant, and that taking care of him is quite literally what you’re paid to do—when he interrupts you. Not rudely, but urgently.
”No,” he says, voice soft. “I mean… For staying with me.”
You blink, letting the words hang in the air between you. His cheeks color slightly, and he looks away, rubbing his palms together nervously. His leg bounces faster, nervous energy radiating off him in waves.
Before you can respond, he rushes to explain—words spilling out quickly like he’s afraid to lose his courage. “It’s nice. You know… to have someone here. With me.”
You soften immediately, heartstrings being tugged.
“I don’t sleep well after shows,” he murmurs. “You know that.”
You nod. You do know—his chronic insomnia was explained to you when you were hired—as if it were some small detail to be aware of when scheduling travel and appointments. But you had never talked about it with him personally, much less heard him say it out loud.
“…It’s not just the adrenaline. Or jet lag.” He hesitates. “I just… I don't like being alone after a show.”
Your chest tightens, and you try not to interrupt as he continues.
He avoids your gaze, looking down at his fidgeting hands. “I usually call my Mother. Or talk to Bill. But most nights, when they’re busy or asleep, I just… stare at the wall. For hours. Or I practice choreography. Or write. Or read. Or watch movies. Or—“ He swallows, shaking his head. “Anything to take my mind off how alone I am.”
His voice cracks a little at the end, and he winces, like he hadn’t meant to let that much vulnerability—that much honesty—slip out.
Instinctively, you shift closer, reaching across the pillows to place a hand on his arm. “Why didn’t you tell me? I’m almost always just a hotel room away.”
“You work all day.” He shrugs. “I’m not gonna bother you with something as stupid as…”
He trails off.
He really believes that, you realize. He really thinks he’s a burden.
Your heart aches, eyes stinging with sudden tears.
“It’s just nice to have you here.” He says. “Even just for the night. I know I’m your boss. I do know that. I would never expect more than… I know we’re not… I just wanted to thank you, that's all.“
You bite your lip, watching him closely as you consider his words. Suddenly, he’s not your boss, and he’s not Michael Jackson.
Right then, he’s a very lonely man pouring his heart out to you, desperate to be heard. To be seen.
“Alright,” you exhale, making a decision. “Right now, for the rest of the night; I’m not your employee, and you’re not my boss. I’m off the clock.”
He looks up, surprised at the declaration. Then, something in him melts—his shoulders relax, and the smile that spreads across his face is so genuine that it makes your heart skip a beat.
”Okay?” You grin, nudging his shoulder playfully.
”Okay.” He nods, the word coming out as a relieved chuckle. “I’m glad. Because… Well, th’truth is, I haven’t viewed you as just an employee for a while now.”
Your heart stutters. And you try—desperately—to push the feeling away, to remind yourself that he doesn’t mean anything by it, that he views you as a friend. That’s all. He needs a friend.
But right then… you swear he’s looking at you like you’re something more. Much more.
And you’re looking back at him like you wish you could be.
Outside, the storm churned on—relentless and wild. Inside, though, the room felt suspended in time. Minutes melted into an hour. Then two.
As the time slips by, your conversation drifts effortlessly from one topic to another. He tells stories about his brothers and sisters—the mischief of their early touring days, about the places he’s visited, the people he’s met.
You share quirks from your own childhood—your family, the places you lived growing up. You discuss your favorite Disney movies, and debate playfully about whether Disneyland or Disney World was better—his eyes lighting up as he insists the original park “has that special energy, you know?”
You tease him mercilessly when he gets worked up over it, and the sound of his laughter—bright and boyish—makes something warm bloom deep in your heart.
He talks about his music—lighting up as he does so. You could listen to him talk about his work for hours, his passion transforming him—getting excited, hands moving fast as he talks and voice raising an octave as he tells you about everything he’s working on, and his plans for future projects.
He makes you laugh—really laugh. The kind of laughter that shakes your shoulders and leaves you breathless. You can’t remember the last time someone made you laugh that hard.
At some point, without either of you noticing, the pillow barrier began to gradually fall apart. One pillow ended up tucked beneath your head, another propped beneath his knees. A third is kicked aside entirely, forgotten on the floor.
Without realizing, you’ve inched closer and closer, drawn together by the warmth of conversation, by the storm outside that makes the hotel room feel like its own little world.
Suddenly, your legs brush. The contact sends a quiet spark up your spine and you freeze—just for a heartbeat—but neither of you pull away.
You begin thinking. Too much—about him, about him opening up to you. About the way your heart fluttered when he said he wanted to take care of you—and how badly you wanted to let him.
You’re mid-sentence when he reaches over, lithe fingers brushing against your cheek to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
You forget what you were saying, words evaporating on your tongue as everything narrows in on the warmth of his fingertips and the softness in his eyes.
He realizes what he’s done a second too late—eyes widening and breath catching—but he doesn’t move his hand. His gaze drops to your mouth for a beat before flicking back to your eyes.
Your pulse thunders so hard you’re sure he can hear it. You stare at one another for a long, suspended moment, and in your head the familiar mantra begins again—
He’s your boss. He’s your boss. He’s your—
But the words crumble—fluttering uselessly in your mind before disappearing entirely, lost somewhere in the snowstorm outside.
And him? He looks at you as if you had personally hung the moon and stars.
He leans in—slowly, instinctively—his forehead resting against yours, your noses brush. He’s close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath fan across your lips, shaky with restraint.
“Tell me to stop.” He whispers, voice low and pained. It’s not a demand—it’s an offering.
He’s giving you out, and you should take it. You know you should. You should tell him to stop, roll over, go to sleep, and never speak of this again.
But you don’t. Instead, you lean in—choosing to throw caution to the wind. Choosing to accept the feelings you’d been trying so hard to bury. Choosing him.
You close the gap, pressing your lips against his—impossibly soft and tasting like orange juice. His hand slides to your jaw, thumb stroking gently, as if afraid you might pull away.
He pulls back for the briefest second—just long enough to take a shaky breath—before kissing you again like he physically cannot stop himself, as if months of careful restraint have finally snapped and he would rather drown in you than come up for air.
He kisses you deeply—a soft, needy sound escaping from his throat as his lips move against yours, hungry and insistent—tongue sliding in to taste you fully.
His hand moves to cradle the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair as he pulls you in. The other trails down your side, mapping the curve of your waist. You melt into the sensation, hands sliding up his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heart beneath your palm.
“I meant what I said earlier…” He grunts out between heated kisses, voice rough and low against you. “I haven’t seen you as just an employee for a long time now.”
His lips trail down, pressing warm, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw before moving to the sensitive skin of your neck. “I want more with you… so much more.”
A helpless moan escapes from your lips as he bites a sensitive spot behind your ear, soothing it instantly with his tongue.
He’s half on top of you now—your hands sliding under his shirt, palms gliding along the smooth, warm expanse of his broad back, feeling every flex of lean muscle as he moves over you.
He groans when you touch him, the sound vibrating against your throat and sending shockwaves straight to your core.
“Tell me you feel the same,” he begs, voice strained from months of longing, of holding himself back. “God, please… I need to hear it, baby.”
You nod furiously, heart hammering in your chest. “I’ve been trying to ignore it for months,” you respond breathlessly. “How much I wanted—want you. I couldn’t stop it.”
You can feel his smile curve against your skin before he kisses you again. He moves so he’s fully on top of you, his weight a warm, delicious pressure that sinks you deeper into the soft mattress.
His large, warm hands caress your sides, your waist, your hips—any inch of skin he can reach, while he rolls his hips against you, grinding his unmistakable hardness right against your core.
The friction drags an involuntary moan from your throat as heat pools low in your belly. He knows it, too—rocking against you again in a slow and deliberate circle.
”Michael,” you whimper, the single word trembling with need.
He doesn’t hesitate, his fingers finding the hem of your shirt and pulling upward. You lift your arms to help him and he pulls it the rest of the way off—flinging it carelessly across the hotel room.
The cool air hits your bare skin for barely a second before his mouth is on you, hot and eager as he captures one nipple between his lips. He sucks gently, tongue swirling around the sensitive peak before trading it for the opposite side.
He kisses and licks his way down your torso, worshipping and memorizing every inch, before reaching your sleep shorts.
His palms possessively squeeze the soft curves of your hips before hooking his fingers into the waistband and dragging your shorts and panties down your legs in one smooth motion, leaving you completely bare beneath him.
He settles himself between your thighs, pressing slow, worshipful kisses on your sensitive skin, working his way closer and closer to your dripping center. Your glistening cunt is fully bared to his gaze, and the intense, raw hunger in his expression makes your breath hitch.
Shyness washes over you suddenly. You try to close your legs instinctively, but his large hands wrap firmly around your thighs, holding them open. “You don’t have to—“ you start, voice small.
He cuts you off, voice low and rough with want. “Please, baby…. Please let me taste you. I need it, honey.”
The sweet endearment sends a sharp, involuntary spasm straight through you, fresh heat flooding between your legs. He looks up at you then, eyes desperate and pleading, silently asking for permission. You nod, unable to deny him—or yourself—any longer.
That’s all he needs before diving in—a hungry, animalistic groan escaping as he tastes you for the first time. His tongue drags slowly up and down your slick folds, savoring every last drop of your arousal before circling your clit with devastating precision.
The wet heat of his mouth is overwhelming—soft lips sucking gently, tongue exploring every sensitive inch as if he’d been starving for your exact taste. He moans against you, unable to help it, the deep vibration traveling through your body and pulling a broken cry from your lips.
Your hand flies to the top of his head and threads into his hair, gripping the damp curls as your hips rock helplessly against his face.
He keeps you spread wide with a bruising grip while he devours you with slow, relentless devotion. Every lick, every suck, every gentle graze of his teeth builds your pleasure higher, coiling tight until the world narrows to nothing except for the feeling of his mouth on you and the sounds he’s making—like he could stay there forever.
And you would let him.
You can hear how embarrassingly wet you are as he slides one hand down, teasing your entrance before slipping a single finger deep inside you. The wet, obscene sound of it fills the room, and it doesn’t take much effort for him to add a second one, curling them against that perfect spot inside of you.
You clench around them instantly, arching off of the mattress with a loud cry.
You couldn’t hold back the sounds spilling from your lips if you tried—his name nothing more than a broken echo that grows louder and louder with every stroke of his fingers.
Your mind is blissfully empty except for one repetitive thought: Michael, Michael, Michael.
It had never felt like this with anyone else—the way he touched you, the way he tasted you as if trying to memorize you—you’re absolutely sure he had ruined you for anyone else.
He pulls his mouth away just long enough to look up at you, the bottom half of his face glistening with your slick, fingers continuing to thrust in and out at a steady pace.
“Come for me, baby,” he practically begs, voice hoarse and desperate. “I want—I need you to fall apart for me.”
You’re so close, teetering right on the edge, but not quite there yet.
”Look at me.” He commands. You obey instantly, watching as he leans back down, wrapping his lips around your clit, sucking firmly while his fingers keep that perfect, effortless rhythm. He looks up, meeting your gaze with dark, wide eyes. At that, the coil inside you snaps.
You cry out his name, thighs trembling uncontrollably as your walls clamp tightly around his fingers. He doesn’t stop for a single second—doesn’t even consider slowing down as he works you through every pulsing aftershock, drawing your orgasm out of you until you’re shaking and gasping for breath.
It’s not long before it becomes too much, inching into overstimulation. You push against his shoulder and he pulls away finally—pupils blown and eyes glassy. He looks completely drunk—instantly addicted to you.
”You taste so good,” he slurs, voice completely wrecked. He withdraws his fingers from your fluttering heat and lifts them toward you, like an offering of sweet wine.
Without hesitation, you grab his wrist and wrap your lips around the wet digits, tasting yourself on his skin.
Michael lets out a deep, guttural moan at the sight, his hips twitching pathetically against the bed. You can only imagine how hard he has become—his cock straining painfully inside his clothes as he watches you suck his fingers clean.
You shoot up, grabbing the collar of his sleep-shirt and yanking him upward toward you, crashing your lips against his. The taste of yourself lingers on his tongue, tangy and intimate—intoxicating. It sends another rush of heat through your body.
You want more. You want everything—every touch, every sound, every piece of himself he’s willing to give you.
Your fingers fist tighter into the fabric before you tug it over his head, throwing it somewhere into the abyss. You’re on him instantly—pressing your mouth against his bare skin, trailing hot, wet kisses down the column of his neck and across his sharp collarbones. You can feel his pulse racing under your lips, his whole body trembling with barely-held restraint.
“Don’t stop,” He pleads, voice husky and ragged, tilting his head back to give you more access. He moans softly when you begin to nip at the sensitive skin. “God—I’ve waited so long for this, girl… dreamt about it. I’ve been so damn patient. You have no idea what you do to me.”
”Show me,” you respond, placing a kiss at the center of his chest, right above his heart. “I need more, Michael. Please—“
He pulls back enough to cradle your face in his hands, eyes burning with sincerity.
“I’ll give you everything,” he promises. “Anything—everything you want, mama.”
In one fluid motion he pushes his pajama bottoms down his hips. His cock springs free, slapping heavily against his toned abdomen. He’s thicker than you would have imagined, given his lean frame—flushed dark, the tip glistening with precum. The sight makes your mouth water and your core clench with fresh need.
You reach for him eagerly, fingers wrapping around the warm, velvety base. He hisses sharply through his teeth at the contact, and he gently pulls your hand away, lacing his fingers with yours.
”Not yet,” he rasps, squeezing your hand. “I swear to god, I’ll bust if you touch me like that right now… and I’m not done with you yet.”
”But… I want to taste you,” you admit softly, feeling shy and girlish. “I want to make you feel good too.”
He shakes his head, a smile curling his lips. “I want that too, more than anything. And I’ll let you… next time.”
Next time.
The promise settles warmly in your chest and makes your heart skip a beat. You know what that means—there will be conversations tomorrow, heavy ones. Things between you and him will never go back to the way they were. You should care. A smart, professional person who values her career should care deeply.
But you don’t.
You’re so utterly consumed by him—by the pleasure humming through your veins, by the way he’s looking at you like you’re everything he’s ever wanted.
Consequences be damned. You’ve been good. You’ve been patient. You’ve done everything right for so long. And he—Michael Jackson himself—wants you just as badly as you want him.
You nod, surrendering to him completely.
A wolfish grin spreads across his face as he reaches down and slides his fingers through your soaked folds and pushes them back inside of you. A third finger joins soon after, stretching you open with slow, careful thrusts. Pleasure sparks through your body as he once again curls them perfectly against your g-spot.
His mouth stays close to your ear, whispering praises between the soft kisses along your neck. “That’s it, pretty girl. Let me hear those sounds. You’re so beautiful like this.”
His thumb brushes against your clit in steady rhythm with his fingers. “So wet for me… only for me. Just like that, yeah? Right there?”
His dark, expressive eyes lock onto yours as he pumps three fingers deep inside of you, hitting that perfect spot over and over again. Your second climax of the night builds fast, your breath coming out in short, needy gasps.
You’re right on the edge when he abruptly pulls his fingers out—popping them into his own mouth this time, sucking on them greedily.
You let out a needy, petulant whine at the devastating loss, your hips chasing the orgasm that he ripped away from you. He coos in your ear, pressing a wet kiss against it. “Shh, baby… I’ve got you. Gonna make you feel so good.”
Michael finally shifts above you, bracing his weight on his forearms, and you feel the head of his cock nudging insistently against your slick entrance. His eyes lock onto yours, silently searching—begging—for permission.
In answer, you wrap your legs around his waist and pull him closer, guiding him home.
”Baby…!” He moans out, the sound half ecstasy, half relief as he pushes forward. He enters you slowly, inch by thick inch, stretching you open.
There’s a slight sting despite his earlier care—a sweet, delicious burn that makes your breath hitch. It had been too long since anyone had touched you like this—since anyone had made you feel this full, this wanted.
You’re ruined, you accept with startling clarity. No one else would ever come close. He knows it too—you can see it in the way his eyes flutter shut, in the slight tremble of his body as he holds himself back from thrusting too fast. Nothing and no one would ever compare.
A loud, broken moan spills from both of you as he finally bottoms out, buried to the hilt so deeply you can feel him in every part of you. He stays there for a long moment, perfectly still, savoring the feeling. He presses his forehead against yours, ragged breath mingling with your own.
He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes again, then he begins to move—long, deep thrusts drag against every sensitive spot inside you. His hips roll with that signature, graceful rhythm he brings to the stage every night, now edged with raw desperation.
His fingers dig into your hips, grip tight and bruising, making certain you will feel him for days.
You cling to him—nails scoring down the smooth skin of his back, heels digging into the small of his spine as you meet his every thrust. The lewd, wet slap of skin on skin and your shared moans fill the hotel room.
He angles his hips higher, hitting your spot again and again until you’re gasping and shaking beneath him. “M-Michael—oh, oh god I think I’m—“
”Come for me,” he begs—voice straining, his breath hitching as you begin to clench around him. His thrusts grow faster, more frantic. “I want—I need to feel you.”
At his words, your orgasm crashes over you like a blinding tidal wave.
A sharp cry tears from your throat as your walls clamp hard around his member. Your vision goes white around the edges, every muscle trembling as you release. His name pours from your lips like a mantra.
He’s close too—you can feel it in the way his hips begin to stutter—but he’s holding himself back, just barely. He buries his face into the crook of your neck, a broken moan escaping him.
“W-where?” He grits out, sounding almost pathetic with need. “Please—tell me where. I’m so close—I can’t—“
”Inside,” you answer immediately, wrapping your legs tighter around him, locking your ankles behind his back. “I’m on the pill. I’m safe, I promise. Please, Michael—fill me up. Please, please, I need—“
That’s all it takes.
He buries himself inside of you with a loud cry, hips snapping forward as he comes hard. He doesn’t stop thrusting, not even for a second, grinding deep as he spills inside you, filling you with pulse after pulse of hot seed. The head of his cock presses insistently against your cervix as he paints your walls, whining your name over and over again like it’s the only word left in his vocabulary.
Even after he finishes, his hips continue moving in shallow, desperate thrusts, as if he can’t bear to stop. Soft, pathetic whimpers escape him as overstimulation takes hold—body shaking as his pleasure clouds everything else. He’s lost in you, completely and utterly gone. You hold him close through every second of it, arms wrapped tight around his trembling frame.
You stay locked together for a long moment afterward, trembling and slick with a messy blend of sweat and release. The air around you is thick, smelling like sex and the faint trace of his cologne and the shampoo you used in the shower.
Your heartbeats thunder against each other in the quiet hotel room, gradually slowing as the intensity of the moment fades into something softer.
Eventually, he shifts with a shaky, reluctant sigh, as if it physically pained him to have to separate from you. He slips out of you slowly, the wet drag sending a shared shiver through both of you. You can feel the warm trickle of your combined fluids leak obscenely out of you, soaking into the sheets.
Michael barely moves away—immediately settling back down against your body, skin to skin.
Soft, worshipful kisses begin to trail across your flushed, sweaty skin. He brushes his lips to your temple, to your cheeks, your jaw, and then finally your lips.
He kisses you as if he can’t quite believe you’re real—willing and here with him. Each one lingers, gentle and reverent, as though he’s afraid that if he pulls away completely you might vanish, like the whole night could still be a dream.
He finally settles his head against your chest, and your hand drifts up to rest at the back of his neck, fingers slowly threading through the damp curls at his nape. You play with them absentmindedly, still trying to catch your breath.
That’s when you hear it—his voice, shaky and barely above a whisper, tumbling out in a frenzied, unconscious litany:
“Thank you… thank you, thank you, thank you—“
The words spill from him like a prayer he doesn’t even realize he’s saying, raw and desperate. Your chest tightens with a fierce tenderness. You don’t speak or shush him. Instead, you pull him closer, holding him gently against you.
You press slow, reassuring kisses to the top of his head: silent promises that reveal everything you can’t yet put into words:
I’m not going anywhere. I’ll still be here in the morning, and every morning after that.
You love him, you realize. The thought settles over you undeniably, blooming deep and real in your chest. You don’t say it out loud, not yet—but the words echo in every gentle stroke of your fingers through his hair, in the steady rhythm of your heartbeat against his.
The world outside has ceased to exist.
The snowstorm, the complicated travel plans, the endless chaos of the tour—none of it can touch you here. There is only this bed, only his warmth against yours, only the quiet certainty that everything has changed. For the better.
His whispers gradually fade into slow, even breaths, and his body grows heavier as exhaustion finally wins over, slumping fully against you. His entire weight presses you deeper into the mattress in the most comforting way imaginable. His face is tucked into the curve between your neck and breasts, warm breath fanning steadily across your skin.
He succumbs to sleep completely—probably for the first time in days—safe, spent, and wrapped in your arms.
You hold him there, one hand still cradling the back of his head, and listen to the quiet rhythm of his breathing until your own eyes grow heavy. You surrender to sleep yourself, choosing to not worry about the next day and its complications.
For tonight, nothing else mattered.
a/n: if you’ve read this far, thank you from the bottom of my heart! any and all feedback is greatly appreciated. please enjoy and be kind ❤️
But what lies just beyond the mysterious, endless vast of stars is a beauty waiting to be discovered.
For one ragtag bunch, mystery often devolved into chaos. Still, the title of being the universe's unlikely heroes, clumsily, of course, delivered them success nonetheless.
Beeping and sharp metallic clangs transpired on the captain's ship.
Chatter from the crew followed as they spoke about today's mission frantically, as they fixed up the ship's mechanics.
A circular platform lifted into the cockpit, a mechanical whir echoing, as a white silhouetted man with hints of color arose.
“Good morning, captain.”
Minor domo, swiveled to the man robotically.
An adorable, fuzzy, orange ball of fur flew to his shoulder. The alien companion was something of a mix between monkey and butterfly.
“We’re going in.”
The captain eyed the dark planet just outside the ship intently, his heart set on healing it entirely.
🛸༄˖°. ☄︎
“Captain, I'm sorry, but this ship is in no condition to go into battle.” Major domo spoke metalically.
He wasn't wrong; the vessel was badly injured in a previous battle. With dents visible, exposed wiring, and makeshift welded plates that were dying for a replacement were basically crumbling.
Captain EO noticed, squinting at the poorly duct-taped work given to one of the plates. Sighing, without giving thought to whom done it.
“Hooter…” he narrowed his eyes at the elephant-like alien, causing hooter to toot his trunk in shame.
“We have to get the Evangeline. Without it, we fail its people—our people, our universe. I'm not gonna let our chance to stop evil slip away because of minor spaceship inconveniences. We can do this.”
🛸༄˖°. ☄︎
The Evangeline.
A beautiful, breathtaking ancient relic that served as the key to healing the depressing, dark, desolate planet.
It was once placed in the core of its planet for centuries, giving its people not only light, but a soil of endless prosperity—rendering abundant nutrition in their harvest, curing illnesses, and sustaining life.
But just shy of a year ago, the planet’s soul was ripped out by the evil tyrant, known as Kolum. Taking not only the heart of their planet, but also their beloved princess, who was soon to be queen. Her people believed she embodied the Evangeline, never failing to look out for her people. She was kind, spoke out when others couldn't, and always put the kingdom before her own.
Until she disappeared. Along with the light.
🛸༄˖°. ☄︎
“If our endless operations and spying are correct, getting the Evangeline should work out just as planned—Kolum’s powerful, yeah, but no intellectual. Fortunately for him, though, we’ll have to be the brains.”
Captain EO grinned at his crew as he flipped on the ship’s switch, causing rumbling, but soon smooth sailing.
The ship blasted through the constellations, heading straight towards the soulless planet.
The crew was determined, never looking back.
“Captain… there's something weird out there!” Idy and Ody, a fuzzy two-headed alien, shouted.
Hooter covered his eyes with his ears, frightened.
A black ship, jetting toward them, only came faster and faster.
“We can outrun it.” He pulled on his flight controller, lifting the ship to dodge the speeding craft.
“That was close!” Hooter spoke, peaking one of his ears off his eye.
EO gave a breathy laugh at the close encounter, before his relief turned to panic. His control board was short-circuiting now, as he noticed a coolant leak, and the joystick stayed stuck in an upright position.
“Get to your stations now!” he shouted as the crew obeyed, Fuzzball fluttered off his shoulder quickly.
The black ship soon followed their jagged movements, EO’s ship going in and out of power.
They rocketed into the dark planet, hitting multiple meteorites before crashing into a cave.
🛸༄˖°. ☄︎
The ship was battered, barely still intact.
The crew slowly rose back up. Rubble and scrap covered them, as they coughed, dusting themselves off.
Captain EO helped his crew take the rocks off them when he was able to extract himself beneath. He grabbed his white cape that managed to escape untouched.
“…we shouldn't be too far from the kingdom, we can't save the ship, but we can save its people now that we're here.”
“Captain. I told you the ship was not ready.” Major domo shook his head.
“I know. And I should've listened, I'm sorry. I didn't want to let this opportunity fly away from us. I couldn't bear to see another day where the Evangelians struggle at the hands of a ruler who wouldn't recognize peace if you placed it right in his hands.” He sighed, lowering his head.
“He's right. We can't let this go on, if we're able to save them we can't just let it happen. The ship is the least of our worries compared to the dictatorship happening here.” Idy spoke, placing a fuzzy hand on the captain's shoulder as Ody nodded.
Captain EO gave a warm smile to the loving touch, raising his head up now.
“Alright, let's not stand here, and let's go change the world.”
Before they could, the sudden movements of black armored men surrounded them, pointing with long piercing metal sticks that if merely touched, would puncture and electrucute.
“Get them.”
The crew looked around, and they were everywhere at every corner. One of the jet colored members grabbed Fuzzball, causing a sequel to escape the creature's lips.
The captain’s eyes widened, about to reach for his laser blaster before they pointed the sharp metal directly at him.
“Come with us. Or face consequences.”
🛸༄˖°. ☄︎
They locked up just about everyone, throwing them in cellars.
Everyone except EO, of course.
Kolum specifically wanted to see the captain, and the captain only. He sat on a large throne, the chair coated in a deep red. His minions were terrified of him, giving him the fifth wine he requested angrily because they couldn't get one to his liking.
He sat with the Evangeline near him, a minion coming up to him shakily as they bowed their head to give the bitter-tasting liquid.
Soon armoured guards walked in, having a strong grip on EO as they presented him.
Kolum shooed away the minion hastily, taking the drink and sipping on it.
“That's better,” He gave a laugh to the terrified servant.
“Y'know if this drink failed, I think I would've had you killed.” The wicked man pointed a finger at the captain, a sharp smile appearing on his face.
“Maybe that little team of yours, too. But then I would've had to deal with this stubborn girl… always begging to save a worthless soul.” He gestured toward the left of him, another deep red throne, medium-sized. Empty.
He looked to the left of him, scrunching his face up in anger. Twitching his face, before shouting loudly at a guard to fetch the girl, he was referring to.
In a similar grip to Captain EO’s appearance, guards ushered her in, as she hit one of them in defiance.
A black choker adorned her neck, and a black leather corsage evening gown pulled on her curves.
EO looked at the woman, her eyes familiar.
It was you.
The princess, destined to be queen.
The guards sat you down forcefully on your throne. The captain's eyes never left your every move. Though your eyes—he had never seen your brown eyes so blue. The black eyeliner failing to hide the glossiness of your sadness.
“As I was saying… I don't think I'll let you persuade me into keeping them alive… yes, I've heard all about ‘Captain EO’ saving the day and whatnot.” Kolum spoke, gesturing at you.
You looked at the man standing in front of you. Of course, you knew him. Never meeting EO closely, but he was always in relation to laws and saving planets. Even helping your planet by signing on to your refugee relief movement, which helped so many.
You gave a sorrowful sigh before speaking, “I have heard their ship crashed. This in no way means they meant to intrude on our affairs. Let them move along. I'm sure with all your threatening, they've got the message.”
Kolum shook his head at your words. “You're supposed to be my queen. Act like it. Enough with opposing my orders. Agree. And shut up.”
Captain EO’s jaw clenched at his words. How could he say that to a queen? He looked at Kolum with a stare that burned.
“Don't speak to me that way. This is still my home, my planet—and whether you like it or not, my people still believe in love and hope. I'd make a better king than you ever would, you man-child!” you barked back.
A large hand came across your face, putting you on the ground now as Kolum held up the Evangeline threatening to destroy it.
“I told you to shut up! I'll put you in the cellar for as long as I want now, I was being generous to you. But you just have to go and ruin it with that mouth of yours. You never learn!”
His grip on the Evangeline still rough, as he brought it back down to his lap.
EO wanted so badly to obliterate this boy, but the guards stopped him from moving any further as he tried to stop his violent action toward you.
You held your cheek as you stayed on the ground, tears falling.
“I'm bored. Put him in the cellar, her too.” He sighed, drinking from his chalice before snapping his fingers to escort them out.
🛸༄˖°. ☄︎
Still separated from his group, he was thrown into a dimly lit space, a stoney architecture, and lasers just outside.
He rested his head on the wall. Disappointed in himself. Playing different outcomes in his head of how this could've been avoided.
But also thinking about what happened right in front of him, and how he couldn't save you.
He heard shuffling just next to him and sniffling.
He crawled the other hard side of the wall where the noise was.
“Princess?”
“Er—queen— is that you?”
In your cell just next to him, you quieted your sniffling. Not wanting to be noticed at all in this moment.
“…please, if it's you just know I'm going to get us out of this—”
“I failed.” you croaked.
“I failed my people. I do not deserve that title, please do not call me that.”
He touched the wall that blocked him from seeing you, shaking his head at your words.
“That's not true—you earned every bit of that title. Please don't lose hope…none of this is your fault. He violated planet codes and corrupted the politicians to put him in power. Nobody is stopping it because they're scared of him. But you're not. You go against him in every way, and you never stop fighting for your people. Don't lose that, it's why you're queen in the first place. That title can never be taken from you because it's who you are.
“I'm gonna bring the light back, and you're gonna be the heart of this planet again, I promise.” His voice unwavered with determination.
You hesitated before speaking, taking all of his words in thoroughly. It was almost as if he lifted this bit of sorrowful weight off you.
“…Bring my people back their Evangeline.” You whispered.
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: Fluff (A small break from the all angst I throw at you guys.)
SUMMARY: The life of a childhood star had always been extremely isolating. Michael Jackson knew that better than most. Other than his brothers, he never felt like he found anyone that could relate to him on a deeper level. That is until he met her in 1970. Only a year younger, a child actor who became a star within her own right. After the Jackson 5 were booked as guest stars on her TV show, the two became thick as thieves incredibly quick. Time moved, the years passed, but they always stayed close. One day, they saw each other in a new light, a spark bloomed and they started a relationship. Two years after, Michael is giving a promo interview for his latest album, Bad, when the interviewer brings out an old black and white photograph of two goofy kids smiling at a camera and Michael is suddenly transported back in the past.
WARNINGS: None.
WORD COUNT: 8.9k.
Seconds ticked by at a merciless pace and the clicking tile of the flooring under his feet was enough to drive him crazy. He tried to reamin in high spirits, but if he were honest with himself, he really didn't want to be here.
Curls combed and styled to perfection, half the inky coils pulled back, exposing his ears while the remainder was purposefully in the way it fell across the back of his neck to rest on the top of his shoulders.
A black leather jacket and red buttoned shirt beneath showed that he was physically ready for whatever was thrown his way, but apperances can be deceiving. While he looked the part and played the part, nerves inched beneath the surface, clawing at his skin and reminding him that his life was anything but normal.
Michael didn't like interviews.
In fact, he would goes as far as to say he actually hated them.
What, with the odd remarks and prying questions. It felt invasive and no, he didn't want to sit down and explain his creative process to a bunch of people that didn't understand and he absolutely didn't want to talk about his family dymanic anymore.
Being in the limelight from the age of five does a lot to a person, teaches them to grow far quicker than should ever be forced upon a child, but it also makes a person wise. By now, Michael was clued into the social structures and the climate in which he existed and despite what the media claimed, he knew their games.
He didn't want to this, but his team had insisted and feeling as though he seemingly no choice had a choice in the matter, Michael had reluctantly agreed to one singular interview just to keep the suits off his back.
The world was set ablaze with the release of Bad. Something in which Michael had been beyond proud of, even if it did bring more attention to him with the new evolution now descended on a global scale. Shedding himself of the boy next door imagery, this was his chance to dive into something darker, gritter.
While he hadn't exactly outsold the sheer magnitude of Thriller, it would be a lie to say his latest album hadn't been well recieved. Number one across the globe, with dedicated fans finding more of an excuse to dress like him now that he had a signature look that expanded way beyond the sparkly socks and single glove motif the world now associated with his name.
Everyone wanted a piece of him. TV stations begging for a single perfomance, talented music artists longing for a feature and a hoard of media outlets were now understandably insistent with their requests to interview a tyrant of the indsutry. He wanted to shake his head and sigh in disappointment, but part of him understood that this was their way of making a living too.
With well thought our research, Michael inevitably landed on doing an interview with Ebony/Jet and while he couldn't say he exactly was fully looking forward to it without lying to himself, he had accepted woild happen regardless of his preconceived notions.
Already debating in his head how the conversation would play out, he found himself hoping more than not that this particular interviewer focused more on his career than his private life. He never did want to dive in too deep to the things that kept him grounded in moments where life got loud.
A new album, an upcoming tour, 128 shows, with the first set to begin in just a weeks time in Japan. His first solo tour away from the machine that became the Jacksons. That should be enough of a conversation topic as far as Michael was concerned.
Still, he knew how the media could be and so keeping up his gaurd was ultimately be the wises choice.
As he approached the door, leading to the room where he would spent the next short period of his life, the temptation to run back down the hallway and never returned had never felt more appealing. But like most rough patches in his life, Michael knew he would make it through.
The air in the room changed the moment he entered, the interviewer ― a well dressed black man called Darryl, who Michael had met earlier that morning greeted him with an easy smile, one that didn't totally diminish the flame of anxiety, but certainly eased it.
Once pleasantries were exchanged and after Michael found himself seated opposite the man who had every opportunity to go off course and ask questions he hadn't agreed to, the cameras began to roll and the interview began.
In a shocking turn of events, Michael was disarmingly surprised to find that for once, he was actually being treated as an artist rather than a test subject. Being asked well thought out questions about the title of his album and as well as the music video (or short films as he insisted) from the title track, to which Darryl actually paralleled the piece of work to his own life rather than prying into that of Michael.
While his gaurd was still up, he felt comfortable. So comfortable in fact, he hadn't needed any particular prompting while talking about the intimate technique that went into the creation of I Just Can't Stop Loving You.
There had been no harsh poking or prodding into his life and yet somehow, Michael had been almost too giddy to admit the recording process the second the topic of conversation had been brought up.
"You make some very strong sensuous remarks to a women that you're lying next to." Darryl stated rather than asked.
Before he even got to his question, Michael found himself cutting in, face completely void of emotion as he spoke. "I was in a bed when I was doing that-"
"Really?" Darryl asked, surprise etched into every letter he spoke.
"also, yeah. I was laying in a bed..." His laugh starting to bubble to the surface. "cover and everything when I did that rap. In the dark."
Feeling more human that he had in a while, Michael felt the tense muscles of his body start to relax. The interview he hadn't wanted to participate in, no longer felt like a death sentence.
For around fifteen minutes, the conversation weaved in and out the creativity of the Bad album, the thought process behind Man In The Mirror and where he was when he wrote Liberian Girl and We Are The World. None of it felt too heavy or invasive and while a few topics, such as the question regarding his regret in joining the music industry, felt more complex, they weren't pushed upon and so Michael answered honestly.
With the interview winding down and the thought of freedom fresh in his mind, Michael answered the last few questions with a kindness and grace he hoped would be reciprocated.
Seeing this as his last opportunity, Darryl cleared his throat, leaning forward in his chair to speak directly to the star before they shared their goodbyes.
"Now, I'm always slightly hesitant to ask artists about their personal lives for so many reasons." He confessed with an air of sincerity to his tone. "Mainly because I think the public often forgets there are real human beings behind the headlines, so I don't want to pry too much into your private life today, Michael. What I am deeply fascinated by happens to be longevity."
Michael would be lying if he said that hadn't surprised him. Round, doe-eyes widened for a fraction of a second before he responded with a nod, not entirely sure where this conversation was heading, but open to seeing the path it would inevitably lead him down.
"You live in an industry where everything seems to burns out so fast, somehow, you've managed to find a stable relationship with a particular Hollywood starlet that predates most of this madness."
There it was.
He hadn't said her name in so many words, but then again, he didn't have to. The insinuation was evident and hung heavy in the air.
Shifting his posture slightly, the only sign that Michael's familiar, protective gaurd had suddenly slipped back into place. His fingers toyed with the silver belt buckle on his sleeve, a nervous habit he'd picked up since he started wearing the leather.
It wasn't that he didn't want to talk about her. He did, but in a way, she was his sanctuary. In a world that demanded pieces of him, she had never asked for anything other than his heart and he had willingly reached into his chest cavity just to hand it over with a glorious smile.
Maybe it was down to her being a star in her own right. She could relate to him in ways others could. A child actor who had later gone on to dominate the big screen. She knew the demands of the fame and never judged him when he struggled. Somehow, she moved through Hollywood with a confidence only those that belonged there knew how and he was completely devoted to her.
Their realtionship wasn't a secret.
No, absolutely not.
They loved each other openly and enjoy showing each other off, whether that be on red carpets or charity galas. They'd walk hand in hand, smiling bright or laughing loud at dumb comments the other person had made on a whim simply because they knew it would provoke a reaction.
What they shared was special and while they didn't mind people seeing them out in the world as a couple, that didn't mean they had been compelled to feed the tablod beast. Protective over the love they shared, they would never give a tell all to any interviewers. The ones that would all too calmly ask invasive questions just to embarrass them globally.
Bracing himself, Michael prepared for the usual topics: proposal, marriage, kids.
None of it came.
"How did a young boy from Gary, Indiana, actually cross paths with such a promising actress?"
"Oh, boy." He almost laughed, genuinely taken by surprise. "You're going way back now. You know, so many people think we met at some crazy after party a few years ago, but we've known each other most of our lives actually."
A crazy fact to state, but out of the twenty nine years he had been on the earth, he had known her for eighteen. Growing up in the limelight had felt so isolating, but having someone who knew first hand what it was like had been a small mercy.
Those soul shattering moments, stuck in his bedroom where he felt so completely alone were eased within the perimetes of knowing her because he had always known that no matter how hard things became, there was always someone on the other end of the phone who could sympathise and offer a love that hadn't existed until she entered his life.
"When I was eleven, she was ten, I don't know if you remember the sitcom Family Affair." Michael spoke, a soft smile curved against the corners of his mouth. "It was huge back then and she was the youngest person in the cast. The baby of the group."
She hadn't came out the gate swinging like so many people had assumed. As a baby and into her toddler years, she'd been brought to auditions and starred in small commercials or indie movies no one had ever heard of. It wasn't until the age of eight she'd been cast in Family Affair that the trajectory of her life completely changed.
Going from nothing to a whole nation knowing your name so young had been a difficult situation to navigate. Something she and Michael had spoken at in length over the years.
"Yeah, of course I remember." Darryl nodded, smiling in a calm manner. "She was quite the star, even as a child."
"Wasn't she?" At ease, Michael leaned back against his chair, not noticing the way his eyes glazed over in complete adoration. "Well, as it story goes, she was a massive Jackson 5 fan back then. Apparently, she used to blast our records in the dressing room and drive the directors crazy between takes because she'd be singing our songs at the top of her lungs. I don't know how true that is, but that's what I've been told."
"So, she was one of your biggest fans then?"
"Yeah, I guess you could say that." Not much had changed. She still cheered the loudest for everything he did and at that realisation, Michael felt his grin widening. "The writers of the show came up with this crazy plan to create a special episode guest starring the Jackson 5. They thought it would be funny to see her reaction."
Eye lighting up at the memory, his voice raised an octave higher in the exciment of recounting the tale so freely. "They reached out to Motown. Barry Gordy thought it was a great promotional offer for the group. My father had doubts, but was quickly swayed by the paycheck."
Hands neatly folded over a small file in his hands, Darryl leaned in. "So that's how it happened?"
"Yeah." Michael nodded, shoulders rising in a small shrug. "It's so funny to think back now. I'm not even sure that episode exists anymore, but that's how it happened."
"So you met her on set?"
"I met her backstage while people were arranging the sets." He clarified. "I was eleven and so terrified. I'm shy, you know and there were all these big important people in the industry around us. I'd never acted until then and we had lines to memorise. God, I remember feeling so nervous."
Eighteen years on and he could still feel the familiar sensation of sweaty palms, slick as he carelessly wiped them on his patterned pants. So desprate to make a good first impression, Michael had been uncharactasically quiet the second he stepped into the studio knowing the importance of the show. He hadn't wanted to mess up. The same couldn't be said for his siblings who treated the whole thing like a mini vacation of sorts.
"My brothers and I were standing by the catering table, I think and I know they were goofing off because Jackie got in trouble for throwing a grape at Jermine, but instead of reaching him, it hit one of the extras." Michael chuckled at the memory. "Then suddenly, she was there. Charging over like she owned the place."
"A little diva in the making?" Genuinely curious, Darryl's eyes widened the more he learned.
"No. Of course not. She just knew her place, is all." Shaking his head, onyx optics glazed like they were practically looking into the past. "I remember she walked right past my brothers, came straight over to me and said, 'You're Michael, right?' She was so giddy. The next thing I knew, she was asking me to play hide and seek. That was it, really. The start of everything."
"The confidence of a future Oscar winner. No fear, it seems."
"Absolutely none. I was so envious of that..." his voice trailed off at the ends, memories of the girl he loved, so young and sure of the world, clouding his memory. "but a few years later, one of the suits in production told me she'd freaked out when she learned we were there." Michael chuckled, dimples on full display for the world to see. "I always thought that was cute."
Although he wished he had gotten the opportunity to see her jumping around, screaming just knowing he would be in close proximity, the picture painted had been enough ammunition for him to tease her for life. Any time he caught his love in a moment of weakness, he would use that incident to his advantage.
"We became friends real quick after that." He continued, hands falling in his lap. "On set, between takes, the two of us would run off and play games in the rafters of the sound stage or steal candy from catering. Sometimes we talked until someone was sent to find us and we'd get scolded for pushing back the schedule."
"What was it like?" Darryl questioned. "I imagine being in the industry so young felt pretty isolating and suddenly, you have a friend your own age who seems to understand you."
Michael couldn't help but reflect on the course of their realtionship. Before they dated, before he could call her his, there was always a part of him that felt particularly entranced with her and it wasn't her beauty, though God, she really was a vision. It was the way she made him feel like the lone island of isolation had been a temporary slip of his imagination.
For a long time, he struggled.
A lonely child who grew into a lonely adult, but all that faded into nothing the moment she was around and smiled at him. Finally, he knew exactly what it felt like to be understood so purely, any doubt he had about not being enough became obsolete.
"It felt like a gift, really, it's the only way I can describe it." Michael explained easily. "That week we were on set was the most fun I had."
"You were so young, so busy, how did you stay so close?"
"We stayed in touch. Not as frequently at first, we were both so young, but we tried and she would come to shows if we were in the area and hangout at the hotels to play games afterwards." He explained, no longer feeling like he was in an interview at all as he spoke so freely about the person to change hus world. His expression softened and Michael felt his defences lower. "Then as we got a little older, in our teens, letters and late night phone calls really became our thing."
"She was a constant in my life and it was so nice to have someone who truly understood me. She'd been working in the indsutry since infancy, so she knew what it was like to not have a childhood." The words continued to flow with no distractions. "Living as we did, you really start to value the relationships you develop with people your own age because they're so hard to find."
The path that lead them from friends to something more was still freshly arched in his brain. Despite the years he'd been able to call her his girlfriend, the novelty had never exactly worn off. If anything, he only felt all the more lucky that she still seemed so hopelessly in love with him, he could see it every morning when she latched herself onto him and tempted him with pleas to stay in bed rather than handle real life obligations.
"A few years ago, we just looked at each other and realised things had shifted." Michael laughed softly, unprovoked heat rising to the apples of his cheeks as the telling words fell from his lips. "I wanted all of her and I don't know, I guess I'm just really lucky that she wanted me too." Hands covering his face, Michael waited for a moment for the shyness to pass before revealing himself to the camera lens once again. "Oh God, I sound like a cliché, but that's what she does to me. She's my best friend. I couldn't imagine a life without her."
"It's a really beautiful story."
Darryl admitted freely and for once, Michael was taken back that a moment of rare vunerability he had decided to share hadn't been turned into something ugly.
"I only brought it up because I actually have a small surprise for you. While researching for this interview, our team was digging through some old archival files from that television network, looking for promotional still from that episode."
"Oh no." Michael tried to hide his discomfort with a small, humourless chuckle. "Is this where you so show some goofy photo of me messing up on set?"
"No, not at all." Darrel shook his head and then reached down for the file sprawled methodically in his lap. "We actually stumbled across an image they had never been published, a picture the set photographer took during your very first day filming."
After a few seconds of careful maneuvering, the sound of crinkled plastic and sharp snap of heavy photo paper, with a slight twist of his hand, Darryl presented Michael with the one thing that had the capability of stealing the breath from his lungs.
A man who had the means to buy anything he could ever possibly want and starring back at him, an art form in black and white, was something no amount of money could purchase. Priceless in a way only incredibly special items were.
Void of color, yet screaming with a childhood whimsy, like a rainbow of emotion. His own smiling face, teeth bright and on display, a sparkle in his eye that only appeared on very rare occasions. His full, lush afro stood tall and while it usually reminded him of a time where he was overworked and underappreciated, he realise he had immediately skipped the sorrowful emotion he usually felt in regards to his younger self.
Because there, perched right behind him, on an old sofa Michael confidently recalled to be a hideous shade of vibrate orange now washed in grey, showing an equally as wide smile was the little girl who bulldozed her way into his life at the age of ten, stole his heart and never looked back.
"Oh God." Michael gasped, hand clasped over his mouth and adoring eyes fixated on the image presented to him. "I... I've never seen this. I mean, I know― I knew there were photos from my time on the show, but never one of us together. Look how small we were."
Unable to tear his gaze from the photograph, he leaned in closer, not wanting to miss a single detail. Their miniature forms so at ease with one another, even on the very first day of work, like it had always been so easy.
They were so young and he couldn't remember every conversation they shared, how she smelt that day or what had moment provoked this picture to be captured, but whatever it was, Michael had never been more grateful.
Her hair was combed to perfection, the stylist on the show had actually taken the time to work with her rather than against her, but Michael hadn't seen that particular style on her since she was twelve. The overalls they'd forced her into for her characters costume he could recall to be a vivid violet, but the real nostalgia kicker wasn't what she was wearing or how she looked so innocent with her eyes crickled from the weight of her grin.
What he couldn't help but fixate on was the simple way her arms had wrapped around his waist, her chin resting so carelessly against over his shoulder like she was already comfortable being so close. A trust that still lingered and held true all these years later.
"She used to creep up on me like that." Michael hummed absentmindly, like he hadn't even realise he'd spoken at all, taking the photo gently between his thumb and pointer finger, he smiled easy. "Whenever I got nervous before a scene, she'd hug me just like that."
Suddenly realising he was no longer alone and there was a camera rolling, catching his every movement and every stray emotion he hadn't expected to show, Michael carefully cleared his throat and shared a small, awkward grin.
"Can I keep this?" He asked softly. "Can I take it back with me? She'll lose her mind."
"It's yours." Darryl nodded with a small smile, reaching over to shake the stars hand as things began to wind down. "Consider it a thank you for the interview."
"Of course." Michael laughed, shaking the interviewers hand with genuine gratitude. "Thank you so much."
The unmistakeable thud of the heavy Cadillac limousine reached Michael's ears as he slid into the backseat, the car pulled away from the studio lot merging right into a puddle of screeching traffic and the air around him felt entirely too humid for him to breath. In the seat beside him, Bill, Michael's long trusted head of security was speaking openly to the driver and while the voices were loud enough to echoed around the large vehicle, Michael wasn't paying any real attention to the words said.
The interview was finally over and he was on his way back to the hotel for the rest of the day. While he wished more than anything he could have returned to the comfort of his own home, the journey from New York back to LA wouldn't make much sense until tomorrow. Lucky for him, it wasn't entirely bad news because he knew the that deep on the top floor, somewhere lounging around in the luxurious suite he would've otherwise found entirely too dull to enjoy, Michael would find the women he loved.
While busy in her own right and sporting a successful career of her own, she had a little time off before production on her next movie picked up and she'd chosen to spend as much time with Michael as she possibly could. Even if that meant flying to different cities around the globe. Michael had been elated when she told him. He hated going too long without having her close by.
The dark tint of the car windows created a safe environment, one free from prying eyes and excitable fans, but it also clouded the world in a dark hue. Usually, when he thought about it for too long, that fact would lull him into a deep sadness. This time, his somber mood had been replaced. The nostalgia from the black and white photograph now held securely between his long fingers still weighed on his mind. The moment he starred down at the reflection of his childhood self, the distinct hum of the limousine faded into the distance and the world around him changed to a rumbled echo of a life he had reluctantly waved goodbye to years prior.
Eleven years old and already so much on his plate. The guest spot, on a tv show he would watch on occasion with his entire family should he be lucky enough to have time away from rehearsals, was now another thing he had to be nervous it. Standing inside the impressive soundstage doors, Michael couldn't remember the last time he had felt so microscopic, unless, of course, he counted the times he was being threatened with Joseph's peering lens.
Groups of serious looking adults moved around like they owned the place and despite staying realitvely close to his brothers, Michael was terrified. Not in a manner that made him want to run and hide, but the kind of fear that twists in your gut and makes you nauseous. He wasn't sure if he was going to hurl or just go mute the second someone with any form of authority spoke a single word towards him.
It was times like this he wished he had Jermaine's easy confidence or Marlon's charming ability to make anyone automatically swoon. Jackie and Tito could happily engage in conversations and all the while, Michael found himself struggling to swallow his own saliva. So much like his mother, his shyness was a plague in someways, especially with all the high expectations that fell on his shoulders being the voice of the group.
Standing beside the catering table, Michael had no appetite or desire to force any snack down, but he had simply found himself far to anxious to spilt from the group. To his left, Tito laughed an obnoxious sound, so loud it bounced off walls and reverberated back to them, like some demented boomerang as Marlon egged on their eldest brother, Jackie into throwing a grape as Jermaine as retaliation to some narcissistic comment he'd made only seconds before.
Lining up his aim, keeping one eye closed and squintting through the other, Jackie made a bold attempt at ensuring he'd acquired the right target before launching the small, round fruit at Jermaine. But nothing ever really goes according to plan. Despite his best intentions, the grape veered off course and landed right between the eyes of some young actress, gasping at the unexpected hit and turning towards the small group with her eyes narrowed and steam practically coming from her ears.
Their best efforts were put to rest when four of the Jackson brothers failed to hide their humoured chuckles as they leaned into one another and hid their mischievous smirks behind their plams. Michael's round eyes widened in horror and he tried his best to utter out some form of an apology for something he had entirely no part in, but his brain refused to cooperate and words failed to come.
"Boys, seriously." Some important show runner complained, sighing with his head in hand. "Stop messing around. We have a show to run and funny business like that doesn't fly around here."
His voice hadn't been particularly loud and he hadn't threatened them in any way. Still, the silence that suddenly fell across the room felt heavy and Michael found himself looking towards his well polished shoes in hopes of avoiding catching anyone eye.
"Well done, genius." Jermaine shoved his oldest brother, a scowl set into a semi permanent fixture on his face. "You got us in trouble already."
"Me!?" Jackie gasped, face screwed up like he was getting ready to argue his case, but as he became aware of his settings and trained his big brown eyes to look around to assess the situation, he spotted a crowd of prying eyes trained on them and thought better of it. Holding his hands out in surrender, he nodded in acceptance. "My bad."
Then and there, Michael wanted nothing more than to shirk down to the size of an ant and hide from the judgmental glares. Their first day on set and in less than an hour, they'd already caused a disturbance.
Usually, Michael would have been front and center. Nothing made him happier than playing pranks on another person, especially if that person happened to be Jermaine. He took great delight in watching the vein in his neck bulging as he tried to repress his anger. However, this enviroment was entirely different.
The people here didn't seen to have time for any light hearted fun and Michael knew that if he had been the cause of any trouble and news reached their father, he would never hear the end of it and the last thing he wanted was to be on the receiving end of his belt again and so instead of participating in his brothers antics, Michael stayed silent and decided before he stepped a toe out of line, he would first need to be wise and evaluate his surroundings.
So caught up in his casual observations, he didn't notice a bundle of sunshine barrelling towards them, until the sound of the vinyl flooring under small feet squeaked loud and brought his attention back. Catching sight of biggest smile he ever could recall witnessing. Michael knew her name before she'd stopped in front of him. He'd watched her on TV for the past few years and despite knowing so many in the indsutry, this felt different because finally, this was someone his own age.
Seemingly ignorant to the other brothers, she stopped right before him, excitable and bouncing on the balls of her feet. He could see the way her eyes glamed and for some curious reason, he felt himself relaxing with the realisation she was aiming her happy grin towards him.
"You're Michael, right?" Her voice bright and airy and almost immediately she introduced herself, like he didn't already know who she was. "They take forever setting up things around here... you wanna play hide and seek?"
No 'it's nice to meet you' or 'welcome.' And while it was a particular uncommon greeting for him these days, he'd be lying it he said it wasn't nice to being treated like a kid for once.
Eyeing her from head to toe, it was clear that just like himself and his brothers, she had already been to the hair and makeup deparment and she was already dressed in her costume for this particular episode. They were ready to shoot whenever the director spoke a call of action and even though he wanted a friend more than anything, Michael knew he couldn't mess up.
"Er..." Looking towards the set, he watched as production members worked hard to bring the set to life. His eyes then flickered towards his brothers, who were staring at him with full formed smirk before he settled his gaze back towards the girl. "are we allowed to do that? I don't wanna get in trouble."
It wasn't that he didn't want to play with her. The idea was actually extremely appealing and he would love nothing more than to run around for the next hour or two in a child-like ploy to play as many games as they could think of, but he knew there were certain rules and expectations he was required to follow and he couldn't be seen failing before he'd really began.
"Oh, sure." She laughed, tucking her hands deep into the pockets of her violet overalls. "I mess around like this all the time. They usually send someone for me when it's time to start shooting."
"Yeah, but... you're the star here." It felt weird to say that outloud. People were usually saying that kind of thing to him.
"No, I'm not." She giggled and turned towards his brothers. "Can he play with me, please?"
"Sure." Marlon grinned, stepping forward to throw a casual arm around the little girls shoulders. "Don't be mean, Mike."
"Yeah, go play with the poor girl." Tito encouraged through a small laugh. "She's probably dying of boredom."
"I am." She confirmed with a small sigh, her tiny brows furrowed and lip pushed out into a small pout. "Everyone around here is a dinosaur."
"Hey." Jackie complained, rolling his eyes towards the ceiling. "I'm here."
"Point proven." She huffed and Michael couldn't help but laugh at that. If it were possible, her eyes glowed brighter and she stepped closer, causing Marlon's arm to fall limp at his side. "Come on, I'll show you all the good hiding spots."
Contemplating for only a moment or two, Michael tilted his head to the side and then returned a toothy grin and nodded. "Okay. Sure, sounds fun."
Like she was scared he might change his mind, she wasted no time in lurching forward, taking his hand in her own and pulling him with her as she ran through the set like she owed the place. On some level, Michael thought she probably felt that way. She was practically raised within the perimeters of these walls.
Michael wasn't stupid, he noticed the loud cackled of his brothers and felt the shove on his back as he passed Jermaine. He even managed a small, "shut up" when Tito quietly teased him for having found himself a girlfriend. Heat rose to the apples of his cheeks, but he tried not to pay any mind to it and if she noticed, her acting classes were seriously worth the money because she never showed it.
True to her word, she really did show him all the best hiding spots. From the hidden stoage closet in her dressing room to the small gap between set walls that they could both creep into if they turned their bodies just right.
Time seemed limitless and in a smooth move, the spark of youth fell back into his system like it had never left. Michael found himself laughing and smiling far more frequently, running out of breath as they chased each other around and feeling completely comfortable with someone who had been nothing more than a stranger earlier that day.
He couldn't help but wonder to himself, 'is this what it feels like to have a friend?' Every voice in his head screamed at him yes and Michael felt a warm sense of pride hit all at once.
The fun and games eventually came to a close and they found themselves sitting in a breathless heap in the rafters, entirely oblivious of the dangerous structure they carelessly threw their bodies towards as they shared a pack of Jolly Ranchers.
"I'm really happy you're here." She spoke, picking out the particular flavour she had noticed Micharl gravitating towards and handing it over easily. "This week is going to be so much fun."
"You think?" Michael asked, unwrapping the annoying plastic before placing the candy in his mouth and relishing in the tangy flavour. "I'm scared I'll mess up."
"It's no biggie if you do." Shurgging her shoulder, her innocent gaze settled on his face and she smiled like she couldn't stop when he was looking at her. "I miss up all the time. They'll just do another take."
"They won't be mad?" He questioned, eyebrows pinched together.
"Nah." She seemed so sure as she shook her head. "Once, Jeremy took twenty one takes just to ask for some milk."
Her giggle was infectious and without realising it, Michael found himself laughing along side with her?"
"Really?"
Jeremy was the older actor who played her father in the show. From what he's seen on TV, he had always came across like a stern, no nonsense man and Michael could hardly imagine him messing up in such a way. Then again, he supposed that's why he was so good at his job.
"Yeah." Picking out a cherry flavoured candy for herself, she nodded and leaned against his shoulder. "It was so funny. The whole crew kept laughing."
"Even the scary bald guy I saw earlier?" The one who's scolded Marlon, he had wanted to add, but decided against it.
"Lenny?" She questioned and giggled. "Yeah... he seems tough, but he's real easy to get on side. I'll teach you, don't worry."
And for some reason, Michael believed her.
A few more minutes of playful giggles, Michael sharing a few of his brothers embarrassing moments just to watch the way her face lit up in amusement, they almost forgot there was work to be done.
It wasn't until a little later when creaking footsteps grew nearer that the two children looked to their left, finding a rather tall man crouching down to avoid hitting his head off the ceiling.
"There you two are." He sighed in relief. "You're due on set, kids. You're holding everyone up and you..." he turned his gaze towards the small girl, his lips settled into a firm line, but his tone wasn't harsh nor cruel. "what did I tell you about playing up here? It isn't safe."
"Sorry, Elijah." She pouted, though she didn't seem sorry at all and offered Michael a playful wink before following the older man down a familiar path and walked side by side with her brand new friend.
Elijah, Michael would come to learn, was her on set teacher and somehow, they'd become close. Over the years, she struggled to make any friends and much like him, the isolation became overwhelming. Elijah had been the only person who genuinely tried to reach out to her.
The only person until Michael came along, of course.
The week was marked a new beginning for so many different reasons: a start to an acting career Michael had been unsure of, a new found respect for people in the tv industry and a full fledged friendship he knew he would carry with him for life.
In almost no time at all, she's become an extremely important foundation of his life. What Michael hadn't expected was to find that working on a TV show meant a lot of waiting around. Between scenes, the two of them would find ways to entertain themselves, running off into the dark, labyrinthine corridors of the studio lot and hiding in between dusty rows of old prop stage closets where Michael had once tripped over an old, rusty sword, which prompted them into a ruthless game of pirates.
In their own world, tucked away from managers, producers and Joseph, they felt like kids again. Neither of them expected anything from the other and so they both let the guards down and played until Elijah was inevitable sent to retrieve them from whatever mischievous corner of the studio they had escaped into.
Naturally, his brothers hadn't allowed Michael to hear the end of it. The Jackson 5 dressing room had been full of ruthless teasing for a week straight and though, usually it would be enough to annoy him into giving his siblings the silent treatment, Michael had been having too much fun to take any of it to heart.
"Look at, Mike, man." Marlon chuckled one day, nudging his elbow into Jackie's arm. "Can't keep his eyes on the script because he's so in love."
From where he sat opposite them, Jermaine laughed along, tossing a small, blue bouncy ball in the air and then catching it in his palm. "Oh, definitely. Mike's got himself a little girlfriend. Mother will be so proud."
Michael just rolled his eyes and pretended to reread his lines, even though he knew them entirely by heart. He wouldn't given them the satisfaction of rising to the taunts and he certainly wouldn't bring her name up in fear they would use it as ammunition to ambush the girl once they caught her on set.
By the time they'd wrapped their episode, he'd been hit with an overwhelming wave of sadness knowing he would have to go back to the harsh reality of performer and inevitability, he would be forced to leave her behind. He didn't want to, but when did Michael ever really get any say over what happened in his life?
Arms wrapped tight around one another, they cried as they changed sottowful goodbyes and even was they promised each other they would try and stay in contact, Michael couldn't help but feel like his childhood was once again being stripped from him and this time. Only, he realise it felt so much worse this time around because he actually knew what he was missing.
A sudden bump in the road jolted Michael from a vivid memory. Blinking rapid, his eyes adjusted to the scene around him. Back in the Cadillac, the world moved all too slow and alarmingly too fast all at once. He supposed it was his own fault for getting in this head space. It had been a long time since he lost himself to ghosts from his past.
"You alright, Joker?" Bill asked from beside him, eyes clouded over in worry that could only possibly come from a father figure of sorts.
Looking up, Michael's thumb gently stroked the precious black and white photograph in his hand and he smiled softly. "Yeah." He assured. "Just lost in some history, I guess."
Giving a knowing nod, Bill chuckled to himself and then turned his gaze back towards the window.
"We're two minutes out from the hotel." He stated. "We're going through the underground entrance, so we should get you straight up to the penthouse without any problems."
"Thank you, Bill." Michael muttered, sliding the photograph back into the protective, plastic sleeve Darryl had provided him with.
Leaning back against his seat, his mind filled with memories that would span a lifetime. The world thought they knew their story, but none of them knew the small, intimate details the way they did. He knew the women who still wrapped her arms around him like she did when they were children and he could hum her favourite songs in the dark whenever sleep failed to claim her for the night. Michael couldn't wait to get back to the penthouse and show her photographic evidence of when their stars aligned.
The delicate click of the lock reached his ears, proof that the door to the penthouse suite had been securely sealed behind him.
Sighing a heavy breath or relief, Michael felt the moment his body began to relax. Tight muscles from the stress of an interview he'd ultimately ending up enjoying began to unwind and his defensive gaurd fell down. In the peaceful solitude of his own space, he didn't feel like Michael Jackson the performer. He felt like a real person, full of faults and imperfections, the basis of what made a human so hauntingly beautiful.
Rolling his shoulders, Michael took a moment before shurgging out of his jacket, the sliver buckles hitting together in a soft clink as he carefully draped the dark leather over the back of a velvet armchair and groaned while stretching his back muscles. Careful hands made quick movement, nimble fingers unfastening the tiny, red buttons to roll the maroon sleeves up past his elbows. In a public setting, he had learnt to shy away from showing much of his flesh these days, but in the safety of the hotel walls, locked behind a door only trusted individuals had access to, he didn't have any doubts or worries to cloud his self perception.
He'd barley kicked his shoes off when he heard the sound of rustling silk growing nearer. Quiet footsteps drummed against the hardwood flooring and before he had the chance to turn around, a familiar warmth pressed flush against his back. A set of recognised, delicate arms slid effortlessly across his waist, palms locking together and pulling him back against the comfort of a soft frame. The floral scent he'd grown so attached to hit his nose in a wave of nostalgia and all too soon, a chin rested comfortably against the arch of his shoulder. A pair of gentle, pillowy lips pressed a delicate kiss to the hinge of his jaw prompting a satisfied hum to fall from his own mouth.
"Welcome back, baby." She purred, voice turned down a notch in the intimacy of the moment. "I missed you."
For a long second, time escaped him and Michael paused as he processed the familiarity of the moment, perfectly mirroring an image of the pair of them he'd grown so found of since finding out of it's existence barley an hour before. Practically identically in every way, the lines of their bodies pressed together, so naturally, he had barley registered when it had become a thing for them. Prehaps it always had.
Shoulders lifting up and down, the melodic tone of his free falling laughter built in a beautiful cadence, the sound so pure and youthful in places most adults fell flat. Lifting his hand, Michael tried his best to conceal the sound and failed miserably in his mission.
Shifting against him, she turned her gaze to the side on his face, taking in the apperance of the sharp contours of his face with her usual wide-eyed expression narrowed with an intense curiosity.
"Okay, fess up..." she hummed against his warm cheek. "what's got you so giggly?"
Turning with in the safe perimeters of her arms, Michael's hands automatically settled on her waist, his lips still cruved into a sweet smile as he leaned forward to capture her lips with his own, only to pull back all too soon, leaving her with an ache he wasn't ready to sooth just yet.
Through the dark length of his lashes, Michael scanned her alluring features with a devoted intensity, noting quickly that she's taken off her makeup and somehow still looked just as beautiful as she ever had. With a small laugh, he brushed the tip of his nose against her own and squeezed her tighter on instinct.
"You have no idea." Michael hummed, his wide doe eyes warm and full of affection. Reaching into the back pocket of his black pants, he pulled out the photograph. Still in the clear, protective sleeve, he presented the black and white image like a grand prize and his smile winded almost instantly. "Look at this. The interview went great and the guy who conducted the entire thing said his team had found this photo of us from the day we first met."
Untangling an arm from his warm body, she took the photograph between her fingers and analysed the ink. Michael watched in unadulterated fascination as her eyes grew impossibly large under the weight of the moment, an almost entirely too dramatic gasp falling from her addictive lips when she realised he wasn't kidding.
"Oh my God." She whispered, staring down at the imagery of her ten year old self clinging so carelessly onto an eleven year old Michael. Her lips curved into a small smile, eyes shining with an emotional glaze. "Look how small we were. I can't believe they found this. I had no idea it existed. Look at my us! I miss your afro."
Michael giggled to himself, thumbs tracing absentminded patterns against her hip with every intention of keeping her close, like separating from her would cause him physical harm.
"I know." He hummed, peering down at the picture she refused to turn away from. "We should frame it. We need to hang it somewhere we can always see it."
Michael had never believed in the concept of soulmates, but how could he deny the image before it. Sometimes it felt as though their destiny had been written before they'd ever met. Two lonely children, finding companionship in the most unexpected place.
For a beat too long, she didn't say a word. Her soft eyed gazed flicked from the photograph, then back to him, like she was placing together the pieces of a puzzle before time ran out and she lost them forever. He recognised that look. It must have been the same one that he'd worn when Darryl had so casually whipped the photograph out and placed it in front of his eyes.
Complete bewilderment.
It really was that simple.
"You know..." She began, her voice teetering the line between teasing and embarrassment. "I'm not at church, but I might as well confess... I had the biggest crush on you back then."
Michael practically cackled, his head leaning back with the sheer magnitude of the sound. He turned towards her, onyx optics filled with mild skepticism.
"Stop it! No, you didn't." He muttered, eyebrows arched in humour.
"Yes, I did!" She protested, looking up at him with stubborn determination. "Why do you think I constantly blasted Jackson 5 songs in my dressing room?"
"I thought you were a fan!" He laughed, still not fully convinced. "Everyone was a Jackson 5 fan back then. You know... I don't like to brag, but we were making big moves back then."
"I know and I really was a huge fan." She nodded and then playfully poked at his chest with the hand that wasn't holding tight to the photograph. "But I had the biggest crush on you. I remember I had a poster of you and your brothers in my bedroom and I thought you were the cutest boy I ever saw."
Michael's mouth opened in protest, like he wanted to argue against it, but words failed him, which was ironic when his career had been built off his song writing capabilities. Stringing words together should have been easy for him, but she never failed to leave him speechless.
"I mean, look at this photo." She turned the picture around, confronting Michael with the image of their baby faced seleves. "Look at my smile, how I'm clinging on to you. I mean, I was so obvious."
"I just... thought you wanted a friend." His voice soft as a whisper, like he was only just noticing the way she had always acted around him.
"Well, I did." She confessed with a small nod. "I was lonely and I really valued our friendship, but I was so enamoured with you. That week, I woke up each day, so excited to get back on set because I knew you would be there."
If Michael could've kick himself without appearing crazy, he certainly would have. How was it possible he could have been so entirely obvious to this?
She caught the exact moment his brain began to malfunction and threw her head back with a loud laugh, so utterly in love with his hopelessly naive man.
"We could have been dating that entire time." He gasped, inwardly cringing at the time he lost where he could have called her his own.
"Nah." She laughed, taking his hand and tugging him closer. "Things worked out the way they did for a reason."
"You think?" He asked, arms circling her waist as he pulled her in and eradicated any space between the two of them.
"Yeah. Childhood crushes never work out." She shrugged, leaning in until their lips were only a hairs width apart. "I have you now. What more could we ask for?"
Heart pounding, brain losing function, Michael surged forward and caught her bottom lip between his own in a scorching kiss. The familiar taste of her reaching his tongue and provoking a loud groan of satisfaction.
She was right.
He loved their story.
He loved their unpredictable childhood friendship, hiding from his brothers and sharing secrets in dark corners of the set studio. He adored their teenage years, sneaking away to find a phone and staying up way past dark just to hear her giggling over the line. And most recently, he loved calling her his own. Coming home and knowing he would find her in his space, there was no other feeling like it.
Things really had worked out the way they had for a reason.
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