Inggu

girl, whatever Ao3: inggu09

[inggu09]

thinking about Michael walking through the supermarket that time that it was separated for him for a night, and running into bestfriend!reader disguised like an old lady who steals from his shopping cart, and Michael only thinking how much in love he is with her but, he is so shy to do something about it (and reader never realizes his feelings towards her)

[jeahamkrle]

I hope these pics say it all if someone ask me why I am so obsessed with the remember the time short film.

[imurronn]

His makeup so tea here omgg🫦

and his hairrrrr!

[amnesia-sc]

michael jackson as a son of apollo 𖤓

𖤓 “Apollo is an oracular god—the prophetic deity of the Delphic Oracle and the deity of ritual purification. His oracles were often consulted for guidance in various matters. He was in general seen as the god who affords help and wards off evil… Medicine and healing are associated with Apollo.

𖤓 As the god of mousike, Apollo presides over all music, songs, dance, and poetry. He is the inventor of string-music and the frequent companion of the Muses, functioning as their chorus leader in celebrations.

𖤓 Protection of the young is one of the best attested facets of his panhellenic cult persona. As a kourotrophos, Apollo is concerned with the health and education of children, and he presided over their passage into adulthood. The god himself is depicted with long, uncut hair to symbolise his eternal youth.”

[mjsbambieyes]

I wish he knew how beautiful he was

[angelfacediary]

Off the wall michael and reader who just steals food off his plate so he retaliate by stealing food off of hers and they go back and forth. It's a regular thing for them and it's reader's way of making sure he eats

݁ ˖Ი𐑼⋆ Thats mine ! • Otw!Michael x reader

⤷ ゛Synopsis ˎˊ˗ Unfortunately Michael's eating habits weren't the best, but its okay because you know one way that always seems to work.

𑣲⋆ warnings : None !

It was known that you always stole food straight off Michael's plate. Not because you actually wanted the food on his plate, but because Michael was picky and unfortunately had a habit of going long periods of time without eating, especially when he had something sitting on his mind like new lyrics or a sudden rhythm that he couldn't seem to shake, distracting him from anything that wasn't music.

You knew better than to nag him, to tell him that he should eat. Instead, you just let your fingers wrap around the golden crispy shell of the fry, dipping it casually into his ketchup like it was your own plate that you were diving into.

“Hey! Why are you takin’ food off my plate?” His hand playfully swatted at yours, his eyes watching as you enjoyed the fry that once sat on his plate, just asking to be eaten by you.

“Because it tastes better coming off your plate,” you spoke, taking another fry off his plate, popping it into your mouth, watching as he smiled. His hand moved over to steal just a small portion of your food, tossing it into his mouth like he was afraid that you were going to take that too.

“Are you taking my food now?” You giggled, a shocked face playing out as you placed a hand over your chest.

“It tastes better coming off your plate,” he repeated the words that you had said only moments previously, before he let out another chuckle, making sure that he took a few more fries off your plate.

His plate that once sat full was now half empty, half eaten by you, while your plate sat more than halfway eaten because once Michael was set on doing something, it was never halfway done, and this time he was set on getting his lick back from you constantly terrorizing his plate with your fingers, blissfully unaware of the fact that this was your way of making sure that he ate.

©angelfacediary

Taglist :

@blkkbratt @tinydreamerpillar @luvingkiku @animegamerfox @loveposiie @2young4ublog @rlm-11 @kaiomii @shamonemjshamone @applesbby @yourleogf @pixieelixer-24 @michaelssparklysocks @bellaswanreincarnated4 @5ecret4rt @swavydadon @saiyajvn @tojiswifeforlife @kryka83 @devynrulesboisdrool @galacticpurpl3 @michealwife

[japinesedenim]

HUMAN NATURE | M. JACKSON

(modern) bad! michael

context: your boyfriend, the friendly neighborhood spider-man, comes banging on your window in dire need of patching up.

The digital clock on your nightstand glowed a harsh, neon green.

2:14 AM

Your bedroom was silent, wrapped in the heavy, comforting stillness of a rainy New York night. You were deeply asleep, buried beneath a plush duvet, your hair carefully preserved under a bonnet.

Then came a sound.

Thud

It wasn’t a gentle tap. It was a heavy, wet, structural impact against your third-story window that made the glass rattle violently in its frame. You bolted upright, heart hammering against your ribs, throat instantly tight with panic. Before you could even process a break-in scenario, a frantic, frantic scratching sound clawed at the glass, followed by a weak, muffled thumping.

Flipping the covers off, you rushed to the window, pulling back the heavy curtains.

Your breath caught. Pressed against the rain-streaked glass was a masked face. The giant, white mesh eyes of the Spider-Man suit looked cracked and smudged with soot, but it was the erratic, painful rise and fall of his chest that told you everything.

You unlocked the window and shoved it upward with all your might.

Instantly, the scent of the city storm—petrichor, exhaust, and a sharp, metallic tang of copper—flooded your clean room. Michael practically tumbled over the sill, his foot catching on the frame as he lost his footing entirely. He didn't land with his usual fluid, feline grace. He collapsed forward, a dead weight, grunting heavily as his broad shoulders slammed into your chest.

"Michael!" you gasped, your arms instantly wrapping around his waist to keep him from cracking his head on the hardwood floor.

"I got it... I'm okay, I'm okay," he panted, his voice a strained, breathless rasp beneath the fabric of the mask. But he wasn't okay. He was trembling violently, his entire weight leaning into you, forcing you to use every ounce of your strength to guide his stumbling steps toward your vanity chair.

He sloped heavily into the cushioned seat, his head dropping back against your mirror with a dull thud. His gloved hands, usually so expressive and steady, rose with agonizing slowness to pull the mask off. He hitched it up over his chin, his nose, and finally over his wet forehead, tossing it blindly onto the vanity table behind him where it knocked over a bottle of perfume.

The sight of his face made your stomach drop.

His curls were a damp, tangled mess, stuck to his forehead with a mixture of rain and sweat. A dark, ugly bruise was already blooming across his high left cheekbone, and his lower lip was split, a slow trickle of blood staining his jaw. His dark eyes were glassy, wide with a mixture of adrenaline and pure exhaustion.

"Hey, beautiful," he whispered, offering a weak, lopsided smile that quickly turned into a sharp wince. "Sorry about the... the window. Elevators were broken."

"Shut up, Michael," you breathed, your eyes already dropping down his torso.

The high-tech, black-and-red texturized suit was shredded across his right rib. A deep, jagged laceration tore through the fabric, the edges stained a deep, sickening crimson. He was actively bleeding, the dark fluid seeping over his lean, athletic abdomen.

"Don't move. Not an inch," you commanded, your voice shaking but firm.

You didn't wait for his reply. You turned on your heel and practically sprinted into the bathroom. You didn't even have to look for the supplies; you kept a heavy-duty medical kit tucked right beneath the sink, specifically bought and stocked for nights just like this. Grabbed the iodine, sterile gauze, surgical tape, and a bowl of warm water, you rushed back into the bedroom, setting the supplies down on the vanity with a clutter of plastic and glass.

You dropped to your knees between his thighs, your hands immediately going to work.

"Hold this back," you ordered softly, nudging his large hands toward the shredded edges of his suit.

Michael nodded quietly, his dorky, nervous energy fading into a vulnerable, submissive silence as he watched you. He gripped the torn fabric, pulling it away from the wound so you could work. His chest heaved, a low, shaky breath escaping his parted lips as you soaked a piece of gauze in the warm water and began to gently dab away the dried blood.

"God," he hissed, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the edge of the vanity table. His hips twitched instinctively, trying to pull away from the sting.

"I know, I know. Stay still," you muttered, your brow furrowed in deep concentration. You reached up, your fingers lightly touching his uninjured cheek to steady him. The contrast of your warm, smooth skin against his clammy, battered face made his eyelids flutter. "What happened out there, Michael? Seriously."

"Just... a couple of guys down by the docks," he rambled, his voice dropping into that rapid, nervous cadence he got whenever he knew he was in trouble. "They had some... I don't know, high-tech scrap metal or something. One of 'em got a lucky shot with a blade. I took care of it, though! I webbed 'em up for the cops. They're not hurting anybody else tonight, I promise."

You poured the antiseptic directly onto a clean pad, your jaw tightening. "And look at you. You almost let them kill you."

"It's just a scratch, applehead—ah! Jesus!" He cut himself off with a sharp, high-pitched gasp as you pressed the iodine-soaked gauze directly onto the deep cut. His head flew back, his eyes closed tight, his throat swallowing convulsively as he endured the burning pain.

"It is not a scratch! It's deep, Michael. It needs stitches, but I'm just going to butterfly-tape it tonight since you refuse to go to a real hospital," you said, your voice cracking with a sudden, overwhelming wave of emotion.

The adrenaline that had carried you out of bed was wearing off, leaving behind a cold, heavy layer of exhaustion and fear. As you carefully began applying the butterfly bandages, pulling the edges of his rich brown skin together, a tear slipped from your eye, dropping onto his thigh.

Michael froze. The restless, energetic hero instantly vanished, replaced by the deeply empathetic man who couldn't bear to see you cry.

He reached down, his massive, hand cupping your chin. His long, elegant fingers were gentle, his thumb wiping the tear from your cheek.

"Hey... look at me," he murmured softly, his voice dropping into that velvety, mesmerizing register. "Please don't cry. I hate when you cry."

You looked up at him, your hands resting on his uninjured hip. "I'm tired, Mike. I'm so tired. It’s two in the morning, and I’m sitting on the floor cleaning your blood off my hands. It’s ridiculous that it’s come to this. Every time a siren goes off in the distance, my stomach knots up because I think it’s for you. You have a whole life, a whole career, and you’re out here playing god with a target on your back."

Michael’s expression softened into something profoundly apologetic. He looked down, a heavy sigh escaping him. "I know. I know it’s unfair to you. I’m so sorry for dragging you into this mess. But... when I'm out there, and I see people who can't defend themselves... if I have the power to stop it, I feel like it's my responsibility. If I just sit at home, I feel like I'm letting them down..letting you down."

He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against yours, his dark curls falling around your faces like a curtain. "You're my safe place. The only place I don't have to be a hero or a superstar. Just Michael."

The honesty in his eyes broke your anger. You finished securing the final strip of tape, patted it down gently, and let out a long breath. "Just promise me you'll be smarter. No more solo runs against guys with killer knives."

"Promise," he whispered, kissing the tip of your nose.

Twenty minutes later, the room felt safe again. The bloody, ruined Spider-Man suit had been thrown into the washing machine downstairs on a silent cycle. Michael had washed the grime from his face, and you had carefully helped him ease out of the tight gear.

Now, he was propped up against your pillows, stripped down to nothing but his dark boxers. The stark white bandages across his ribs and abdomen stood out sharply against his skin, a reminder of the night's danger, but he looked infinitely more relaxed. He smelled like your lavender body wash now instead of smoke and rain.

You slid into bed beside him, opening your laptop and setting it between you both, turning on a movie just for background noise. The glow of the screen illuminated the room in soft hues.

Michael immediately shifted, groaning softly as he extended his long, muscular arm, inviting you in. You slid into his side, nesting your head perfectly in the crook of his shoulder. Your arm draped over his chest, careful to avoid the fresh bandages.

He sighed, a sound of pure contentment, his large hand coming down to rest on your hip, his fingers idly kneading the soft skin there.

"You have no idea how much I love you," Michael murmured into the quiet room, his eyes fixed on the side of your face. He wasn't even looking at the laptop. "I was swinging between those buildings tonight, and the only thing keeping me moving was the thought of getting back to this bed. To you."

You tilted your head up to look at him. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," he whispered.

He leaned down, bridging the small gap between your faces. His lips met yours, and the kiss started out incredibly slow, sweet, and comforting. It was a reassurance that he was alive, that he was here. His lips were soft, moving against yours with a tender rhythm that made your chest ache.

But as the seconds ticked by, the residual adrenaline from the night began to morph into something entirely different. The tone shifted. The kiss deepened, becoming heavy, deliberate, and thick with sudden, intoxicating sexual tension.

Michael let out a low, deep growl in the back of his throat, his tongue sliding past your lips, claiming your mouth with a quiet, dominant intensity that sent a shiver straight down your spine. His large hand slid from your hip, his long fingers gripping your waist, pulling you flush against his side. The heat radiating off his bare skin was immense.

You shifted, turning your body toward his, completely lost in the intoxicating taste of him. Your hand slid up his chest, your fingers tangling in the damp curls at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. Michael groaned into the kiss, his other hand going down to grip the plump of your ass as he deepened the kiss even further, devouring your mouth.

A soft, breathless moan escaped your lips, and the sound seemed to drive him crazy. He shifted his weight, trying to roll over, his large thigh lifting to hook over your hip to pin you beneath him.

"Ah—shit!"

Michael instantly broke the kiss, his body seizing up as a sharp, agonizing hiss of pain tore from his throat.

In your haze of passion, your knee had shifted forward, pressing squarely into the massive, dark bruise on his hip and lower ribcage.

You gasped, instantly pulling away and pushing his shoulder back down onto the pillows. "Michael! Oh my god, I'm so sorry!"

He lay flat on his back, his eyes squeezed shut, one hand pressed over his bandaged stomach as he took a series of shallow, ragged breaths. The romantic, sultry atmosphere shattered into hilarious, painful reality.

"No, no... it's okay," he wheezed, a breathless, strained laugh bubbling out of him despite the pain. He opened one eye, looking up at you with a heavy, half-lidded gaze that was still entirely dilated with lust. "It’s fine. I’m fine. Don't stop."

"Are you insane?" you laughed, sitting up and crossing your arms. "You are literally held together by tape and hope right now. You are in absolutely no shape for any kind of sex."

Michael pouted, a genuinely hilarious, frustrated look crossing his face. He reached out, his large hand wrapping around your wrist, tugging you back down toward his chest.

"Wait, wait, applehead... hear me out," he pleaded, his voice dropping into a smooth, playfully seductive whine. "What if... what if I just lay completely still? Right here. I won't move a muscle. You could... you know, hop on top."

You let out a loud, unbelieving laugh, slapping his uninjured shoulder playfully. "Nice try."

Michael let out a dramatic, exaggerated sigh, rolling his eyes, but the playful smirk on his lips betrayed how much he loved your stubborn protectiveness. "You're no fun."

"I'm keeping you alive," you countered, sliding back down into his side.

He didn't argue this time. He wrapped his arm back around you, pulling you close, his large hand resting safely on your thigh. You rested your chin on his chest, watching the colors of the movie flicker across his face. Within minutes, his breathing slowed, becoming deep and even as the sheer exhaustion of his double life finally claimed him.

Safe in your warmth, the hero finally went to sleep.

couldn’t find any spider-man mj fics so I wrote my own

[lestatress]

happy father’s day to the man who was born to be a dad 🩷🩷🩷

[cloudsofbooksandpages]

I miss him like he was my man 💔 his music got me feeling so emo today omg.

[stuckinthearchives]

Keeping Promises - Michael Jackson x Nurse!Reader

Summary: As a nurse, you always prided yourself on keeping your promises. But what happens when Michael Jackson becomes your patient, and the line between professional and personal becomes harder to ignore?

Warnings: hospitals, mentions of injuries, probably some incorrect medical practices, slow-burn, fluff, hurt/comfort

Word Count: 5.8K

A/N: Welcome to my first fic in like 5 years! I hope you enjoy!

The first time you met Michael Jackson, you almost knocked him out with a bedpan.

Not the best first impression.

It was 1982, and you had just been hired on as a pediatric nurse for Brotman Memorial Hospital: bright-eyed, fresh out of nursing school, and ready to prove your student loans weren't for nothing.

The entire week, all anyone had been able to talk about at work was the fact that the Michael Jackson was visiting the pediatric wing. Nurses and doctors alike muttered about what they thought he would be like in-person, a few of your colleagues going as far as to gossip in the break room about how to get noticed by him.

You, on the other hand, were not as starstruck.

You had work to do.

This particular day was going horribly, and your shift started an hour ago. As much as you loved kids, it was easier when your patients were fake. You had already narrowly avoided getting peed on, changed numerous bandages, negotiated with a toddler to take his medicine, and gotten puke, snot, or a combination on your scrubs…twice. You were already predicting having to sacrifice your lunch break for catching up on your charts, and now you were on a wild goose chase for a stuffed rabbit one of your patients had dropped earlier in the day. Michael Jackson was the last thing on your mind.

You muttered quietly to yourself as you walked in the vacant room, mentally checking that this was in fact the room Tommy had been in earlier. While the rabbit was the main item on your mind, you still had to do your job and get the room ready for the next patient. You walked over to the supplies cart in the corner of the room and grabbed everything you needed: fresh linens, a new pillow, and an empty bedpan.

You thought the room was empty.

Tommy had been moved to a different room after his procedure, and the room was dark and quiet besides the faint sunlight drifting in from the window.

Something moved in the corner of the room by the bed.

You dismissed it immediately. Probably the AC moving the curtains.

Then a voice came from behind you. Not from the door, but from inside the room.

"Excuse me?"

You panicked.

Your brain didn't have time to catch up as you turned and threw the bedpan straight at where you heard the voice from.

As the bedpan went flying towards his head, the man ducked quickly, dropping the item in his hands in the process. He looked up at you bewildered as the bedpan clattered behind him. You stared back at him in disbelief before recognizing exactly who it was you were staring at.

Oh my god.

I just threw a bedpan at Michael Jackson.

Not a pen or a pillow…a bedpan.

As you started to apologize, your supervisor and Michael's security guard came running into the room, drawn by the clatter and general commotion. It didn't take long for your supervisor to figure out what had happened.

"Mr. Jackson, please let me apologize for this behavior—"

"No, no, it's okay." he laughed, reaching down to grab what he dropped. "It was definitely my fault." Not wanting to make eye contact for fear of humiliating yourself a second time, you focused on the item in his hands.

It was Tommy's rabbit.

Michael looked towards you once again, this time gesturing to the stuffed rabbit in his hands.

"I heard one of the boys mention he lost his stuffed animal, and I figured I'd come find it. I believe this is Tommy's."

"Yes! Thank you, Mr. Jackson. I was worried we'd lost Carrots for good." You mustered up a small smile as you took Carrots, more distracted by the look on your supervisor's face at the mention of the stuffed animal. Michael returned your smile with a grin of his own, one that made your heart beat just a little faster.

Your supervisor interrupted the moment.

"Well, Y/N. Since you've already managed to…introduce yourself, would you mind taking Mr. Jackson back to our patients?" The look on your supervisor's face already clued you in on a discussion you'd be having later, likely to do with professionalism and conduct. You nodded, mumbling a "yes, sir" before motioning for Michael to follow you. You began your trek back to the main pediatric ward, a loud silence between you two.

"Mr. Jackson, I just want to say that I am so sorry for—"

"Please," he interrupted. "call me Michael. And it's not your fault. I'm the one who spooked you." He paused, moving so you two were walking side-by-side. "I'm just glad the bedpan was empty."

His comment pulled a small laugh from you, and he looked almost proud of himself. You walked a bit further before he spoke up again.

"So you're the infamous Miss Y/N?"

You shot him a look.

"I'm sorry?"

He laughed.

"You know you're a mini legend to the kids, right? When I've visited the past few weeks, you're all they talk about."

"Well," You paused. "I'm not sure about a legend."

You opened the door, letting Michael in before stepping into the room yourself. Along with the commotion of kids realizing it was Michael Jackson, there was the unmistakable sound of kids shouting your name. There was a certain level of energy that Michael was used to seeing when he visited the children, but it seemed that their excitement doubled when you walked in the door.

You walked over and handed Carrots to Tommy before almost immediately being pulled into an argument between two little girls in the beds on either side of Michael.

"Miss Y/N, the sky is blue because it's the ocean but up, right?"

"No, that's wrong. The sky is blue because colors get stuck, right Miss Y/N?"

Before you could answer, more children demanded your attention.

"Miss Y/N, why does Grace have blue eyes but Andy has brown eyes?"

"Miss Y/N, why is an apple called an apple?"

"Miss Y/N, you promised you'd give me a cooler band-aid today. This one's falling off."

At the last comment, your head swiveled towards a little boy holding up his arm as gauze unfurled all around him. You sighed, grabbing new gauze from the supply cart before heading over to the boy.

"Well," You paused, smiling at the boy as you start unwraping the rest of his bandages. "I do always keep my promises."

As you started to re-wrap his arm, you went one by one and answered every question you had been bombarded with since you walked in. Michael simply watched in awe. He looked around and noticed a girl sitting cross-legged on her bed, markers scattered around her as she doodled on the cast on her leg. Intricate designs wrapped all around the cast, some colored, some not.

"Did you do that yourself?" he asked her. She glanced up at him, her tongue still sticking out from her concentration.

"I only do the coloring. Miss Y/N does the drawing. She's the best." The girl continued coloring her cast, filling in each of your designs carefully. Michael paused, his attention completely stolen by the beautiful designs weaving across the cast.

"Yeah, it does seem like she's the best at drawing."

The girl looked up at Michael like he was the stupidest person on the planet.

"No, silly. She's the best at everything."

Michael glanced back at you. You had already fixed the one boy's bandages and were now sitting on a vacant bed. Two kids had wiggled their way into your lap, a third sitting in front of you as you carefully braided her hair to cover most of the scars on her scalp. As you finished, the young girl stood up and hugged you tightly.

"Thanks Miss Y/N! You're the best!"

That seemed to be the common theme among the kids. Five minutes couldn't go by without someone shouting "No, Miss Y/N has to do it cause she's the best!" or "Miss Y/N is MY bestest friend."

And as Michael continued to talk to the children and watch you interact with them, he couldn't help but feel inclined to agree.

By 1984, the novelty of nursing had worn off.

The responsibility hadn't.

You had accepted a position as a pediatric burn nurse a few months back, and the burn center had quickly become like a second home to you. While all of your general peds training still applied, you had learned so much from the center in such a short time.

Like how everything changed when something big was happening.

Phones ringing off the hook.

Doctors running instead of walking.

The nurse's station emptying abnormally fast.

Bits and pieces of information being passed through quick chats during breaks.

VIP patient. Pyrotechnic failure. Third-degree burns. No press allowed.

You didn't even know who it was, just the general information your co-workers could ascertain from glances at a chart. Sally said she wouldn't be surprised if there was nerve damage, based on what she'd seen. Ruth, the newest hire for the burn center, had just returned to the nurse's station looking frazzled, asking if anyone knew how to get a patient's heart rate down fast.

You contributed a few ideas to the group discussion as you sat behind the nurse's station, honestly trying to focus on your charts more than anything else. An older gentleman walked up to Ruth and you returned to charting your rounds from that morning.

"Mr. Bray, how can I help you?" Ruth had now fully turned toward the man, and you noticed she seemed to be shaking.

Interesting.

"It's been hours, and his heart rate is still up."

Ruth sighed and nodded.

"I'm aware, sir. Unfortunately, until we can find the cause—"

"You." He interrupted.

Eavesdropping on the conversation, you looked up to see who the man was talking to, only to make direct eye contact with him. He was talking to you. The man looked strangely familiar, but you couldn't place him for the life of you.

"Me?"

He nodded.

"Can you help him?"

The look he was giving you reminded you of the parents you so often saw in the burn center, the ones begging you to do whatever you could to save their child. But this wasn't your department, or your patient assignment.

"Well, sir, I'm just a ped—"

"Please."

You looked over at Ruth, whose face was twisted in confusion. You saw a lightbulb go off in her eyes before she turned to face you a bit more.

"I think that's a good idea. You know more than I do," she leaned closer to you, "and it doesn't hurt to have a calming presence, right? I don't think I'm helping."

"She's not." Sally chimed in, looking over her glasses at the two of you. You nodded and made your way around the nurse's station, following the familiar man down the hallway towards the private rooms. You noticed that the man's fingers couldn't seem to sit still, constantly tapping against his leg as you walked. He stopped in front of a door and gestured towards it, stepping back to let you through.

You walked through the door, immediately getting thrown into what could only be described as chaos. Nurses and doctors filled the room, flitting around like frantic bees, their conversations more like buzzing. The lights were bright as always, the TV played a random movie in the background, and in the middle of it all:

Michael.

He was the VIP patient. As you stood in the doorway, completely unacknowledged by the group in the room, you noticed the bandages wrapped around his head, the third-degree burn cart in the corner of the room, and the Demerol drip connected to his IV. But more than that, you noticed him.

The way he couldn't seem to sit still, always fidgeting with a blanket or the gown he was wearing. The way his eyes wouldn't focus on one thing, darting from the doctors to his monitors to the TV. The way his chest was rising and falling like he had the worst case of silent hiccups.

In that moment, he reminded you more of your kids than the man you met two years ago: scared, overwhelmed, and overstimulated.

So, you did what you always did.

Just this time, the patient wasn't four feet tall.

You quickly walked over to the huddle of doctors in the middle of the room, listening to their conversation for a moment before cutting in when there was a lull.

"Hi, doctors. I was wondering if it would be possible for you to move this conversation elsewhere? We're trying to get the patient's heart rate down and talking about the patient like they're not in the room isn't the most effective way to do that."

The doctors stared at you, absolutely bewildered, and you simply stared at them until they moved. You grabbed Michael's chart from one of them while following them to the door before dimming the lights in the room to where everything was still visible, but not nearly as bright. Finally, you grabbed the TV remote from the bedside table and turned down the volume.

"Okay, Mr. Jackson."

He perked up as you addressed him.

"Before I get started on anything, are your bandages loose enough? They should be tight enough to apply pressure but not squeezing your head."

He nodded at you, so you continued.

"If at any point they are too loose or too tight, just—"

"I know you."

He was staring at you now. Well, as much as he could when his body was fighting to stay awake. Your heart leapt for a second at the notion that he still remembered you years later, but you chalked it up to him thinking you looked like someone he knew.

"Well, you probably know a lot of nurses by now." You looked down at his chart to see if Ruth had managed to collect his latest set of vitals.

"You threw a bedpan at me." His comment made your head snap back up to look at him, and he now had a small smile on his face.

Oh my god.

He remembers me.

"You know, Mr. Jackson, of all of the things to remember about our first meeting—"

"Thought I told you to call me Michael," He mumbled, closing his eyes and drawing a deep breath before looking at you once more. "and what's more memorable than nearly getting decapitated by the legendary Miss Y/N?"

So not only did he remember your encounter, but he remembered your name.

You let out a short laugh.

"I don't know about legendary."

"Oh, trust me. The kids would agree with me."

You rolled your eyes, another chuckle escaping you.

"The kids also think I control the weather."

A tired smile pulled at the edge of his lips.

"Maybe they're on to something and we don't know it yet."

"I promise you they're not. I've been asked if fish get thirsty three times in the past week."

"And?"

You paused.

"I didn't have an answer."

His shoulders shook as he laughed softly, settling himself back into his pillows.

"I don't think it matters to them if you have an answer or not. No matter what, someone always had a story about Miss Y/N."

The smile on your face faded into something softer as you glanced back at his chart, and neither of you spoke for a moment.

"They love you, you know."

Your eyes lifted from the chart as heat crept into your cheeks, a small sigh leaving you.

"I know," You paused as something in your chest tightened. "I love them too."

Michael smiled at you again, this one smaller and softer than before.

"I could tell."

He sighed deeply, a light hum leaving his lips as he did so. His eyes were fluttering open and closed much slower now. You fixed the blanket around his shoulders and hesitated for a moment before gently laying your hand over his.

"You should get some rest."

"Mm."

A pause.

"The kids were right."

"About what?"

"You being the best."

By the time you thought of a response, he was already asleep. And for the first time all evening, the monitor beside his bed sounded exactly as it should.

Michael technically wasn't your patient.

That didn't stop him from asking for you every chance he got.

At first, he just wanted updates about the kids in your ward.

Then he wanted to know how your day was going.

Then he had questions about the burn center.

He ran out of questions on day four, but that never stopped him from trying.

By the end of the week, you were spending your lunch breaks sitting in the corner of his room: you eating whatever lunch you had managed to scrounge up and Michael eating whatever Bill had brought him that day. On certain days, Bill would even bring you lunch when he delivered Michael's.

Night shifts that once seemed to drag on forever were now filled with conversations, either with Michael or, more usually, with Bill. You'd learned that he'd been with Michael 13 years, drank too much coffee for one person, and absolutely despised green beans. In return, you had told him about where you grew up and how you got to LA, along with how you ended up a nurse when it was not your first choice. Your conversations ranged from simple icebreakers to deeper confessions, but they always seemed to connect back to Michael.

"Yeah," He mentioned one night as you sat behind the nurse's station. "I had one assignment with the LAPD go a little too rough, and Gail wouldn't stop until I found something else to do. Said I needed to stick around for at least the kids, maybe even any eventual grandkids." He took a sip of his coffee before sighing.

"Y'know, Joseph originally hired me to make sure Michael didn't get in the same trouble his brothers did on tour."

You'd encountered Michael's father only once, and you had already ascertained all that you needed to know: he didn't care about his son, only the money his son made. Of course he wanted to make sure his cash mule's record stayed clean. But this was neither the time nor the place, and you weren't nearly close enough to Michael to give your opinion.

"And how did that work out?"

"Haven't been fired yet."

And that was your new normal.

Making your rounds to see all of your kiddos, spending your breaks talking with Michael, and getting yourself through late-night charting by chatting with Bill on his breaks.

It had been about two weeks since the incident, and you knew Michael was aching to get off bedrest. He was healing better than expected, but his doctors had kept him confined to small daily walks just as a precaution. You had just clocked in to your shift and were making your way to your first room of patients when you heard giggling and shushing coming from the door you were heading towards. It wasn't unusual for the kids to be out of bed running around in the mornings, so you paid no mind to it. You opened the door, ready to greet your kids and start your day.

THWACK!

Something stuck to your forehead as you stumbled back in surprise and small gasps came from further inside the room. Focusing your eyes up, you could see just the tip of something blue sticking out from your forehead like a horn. As you looked around, you noticed a huddle of kids towards the far side of the room, all surrounding a familiar face that was staring at you absolutely mortified.

Because there was Michael, hospital gown and all.

Holding a Nerf gun.

You reached up, feeling for the object attached to your forehead and pulling it off. It was one of those classic Nerf darts with the suction cup on the end, which explained why it had so easily affixed itself to your face. In the next moment, Michael had thrown the toy to the ground and raised his hands in surrender, his face still twisted in complete and utter embarrassment. The kids surrounding him began quietly giggling.

"Does anyone have an explanation for this?" You shifted your gaze from Michael to the rest of the room, truly taking in the chaos for the first time this morning. Pillows had been stripped from the beds and laid to form a makeshift wall across the middle of the room. Stuffed animals were strewn across the room as casualties. Molly sat in the corner nearest you, a crown made of tubing and rubber gloves balanced precariously on her head. Your kids were spread around the room, some holding Nerf guns while others held beanbags and hackey sacks. You could see Michael following your gaze. The silence stretched on for a few more moments before he sighed.

"It was completely their idea."

His words caused the room to erupt as ten children protested his answer, clearly offended at his accusations.

"Nuh uh!" Danielle cried. "That's not true! Miss Y/N, I promise it was Mr. Michael's idea."

That made you re-affix your gaze to Michael, this time raising an eyebrow at his antics.

"So it was your idea."

"What?!" He gasped dramatically, his hand automatically going to his chest. "This is an outrage! What do they have that you believe them over me?"

"Danielle says she promises it was your idea, and we don't make false promises around here." You crossed your arms, shifting your weight to one leg so you could tap your foot. "So, got a better explanation for what happened here?"

"Well…" He paused, clearly searching for some way to explain the mess. "The kingdom of MollyJasonDanielleAaronBenKatie-ia declared war on Michael-land."

You heard a scoff from somewhere on your side of the room.

"Only because Michael-land attacked us first!" Jason cried as he reloaded his darts. The room descended into chaos once again as Michael carefully made his way towards you, attempting and failing to avoid getting hit by the flying darts and beanbags. You couldn't help the smile that appeared on your face as he reached you and leaned himself against the door.

"So…" You stopped, shifting your focus from your kids to the man beside you. "Michael-land, huh?" He went beet-red and dropped his head into his hands.

"I promise it was their idea. And who am I to say no to them?"

You allowed the pandemonium to continue for a few more minutes before attempting to round everyone back into their beds.

You failed spectacularly.

Everyone either wanted your attention or Michael's, resulting in two growing crowds between you, the chaos now taking the form of small arguments and many questions.

"Miss Y/N, they cheated. Mr. Michael's too tall and reached over our wall."

"Nuh uh, you guys just need to get better."

"Why does Molly's name get to go first? She's only queen 'cause we said so."

"Aaron, that's how it works, and you're just upset because we all said you'd be a bad king."

"Mr. Michael, did you know Miss Y/N cheats at Candyland? I don't know how, but she does."

"I'll have to keep that in mind the next time I play her." Michael shot you a small smile, clearly entertained by the constant questions.

"Miss Y/N, why aren't there girl kings?" Molly asked, the crown having now slipped halfway off her head.

"Those are called queens sweetie, and they exist, just not in America."

"Mr. Michael? Where do you rule?" Michael made eye contact with you for a moment before turning towards the little boy who had spoken.

"What do you mean?"

"I heard my momma calling you the King. But like, of where?"

You could see the moment it clicked in Michael's brain, and he let out a loud laugh, covering his mouth with his hand quickly after.

"Well, some people call me the King of Pop. It's not because I rule over anywhere, but because I'm really good at my job."

His answer caused another tirade of questions, this time solely directed at him. You watched as he explained his process for writing songs and answered every question with a thoughtful response. As the interrogation continued, Michael glanced up from the crowd in front of him and caught your eye, smiling at you like the happiest man in the world.

You returned it with a soft smile of your own before you excused yourself from the room, resigning yourself to returning at a different, calmer time.

Not because you couldn't easily handle getting the kids back to bed.

But because you couldn't handle the man in that room.

Sure, he made the kids laugh hard enough to forget all their worries.

Sure, he answered every ridiculous question with complete sincerity before looking at you with a smile that seemed to hold far more meaning than it should.

And sure, he had a smile that made your heart do something profoundly stupid every time it was sent your way.

But first and foremost, Michael Jackson was a patient.

Maybe not your patient, but a patient nonetheless.

So no matter how your heart leapt or sighed at the sight of him, you considered him strictly off-limits.

For the first time in nearly two weeks, you had a night off.

No overnight rounds.

No charting at 2 am.

No patients trying to convince you that one more round of UNO wouldn't be enough to mess up their sleep schedules.

Just a quiet dinner and eight uninterrupted hours of glorious, glorious sleep.

After finishing your final round of the pediatric ward, you were standing at the nurse's station, coat on and ready to finally be free of this place. All you had to do was submit this final set of charts and you could leave.

That was until a cough, a wheeze, and a sniffle alerted you to someone down the hallway. Your head snapped up as you wondered who sounded that horrible.

The answer was given to you in the form of a woman who looked like she had fought with Death and lost. Pale, clammy, and shivering, she slowly walked toward the station. As she got closer, you realized just who it was.

"Margot, you look terrible."

She stopped in front of the nurse's station, glassy eyes slowly shifting to look at you.

"Thanks."

"That wasn't a compliment."

You had worked with Margot for about a year, long enough to know her habits. Specifically, her habit of giving everyone else grace but saving none for herself, especially when it came to illness.

"Mar, you need to go home."

Her eyes seemed to focus for the first time in your conversation.

"No, no. I'm fine. I just need to take some meds."

"What you need is sleep and—"

You were interrupted as she sneezed, the force of it nearly knocking her over. You immediately reached out to steady her while simultaneously feeling the heat coming from her skin.

"Honey, you're burning up. You need to go home." You reasoned, turning to grab her coat from the rack. She sniffled as you held it out to her.

"I can't. There's no one to cover my shift and I can't just abandon my patients."

You could feel the cogs turning in your head, running through the schedule of everyone on call tonight.

If I can get Jess to switch to peds for tonight, I can call Amy to cover the main unit. No wait, that would put her into overtime. So that just leaves…

Me.

You groaned internally as your dreams of Chinese takeout and an everything shower faded away, crushed by the unfortunate fact that you were a nice person.

"I can cover your shift."

Margot paused in the middle of a cough, grimacing in pain before looking up at you.

"No, I can't let you do that. It's your night off and—"

"Margot. I can not have you getting anyone sick, and I need you getting better. End of discussion."

She stayed silent for a moment before nodding, trading you her coat for the charts in her hands.

"I just finished rounds so you should be good for a bit. Thank you. I'll make this up to you." She mumbled, bundling herself up in her winter attire. You gave her a small smile and patted her shoulder.

"Make it up to me by getting better and only coming back when you're healthy."

With that, she ambled her way out the door, and you set the charts down before removing your coat. As you sat back down at the nurse's station, you started to look at Margot's charts, frequently having to rewrite parts that seemed to have been written when she was half asleep.

By the time you finished reading and rewriting, hours had passed, and you were starving. You grabbed a quick snack from the break room before situating yourself back at the station and running through your mental checklist of tasks to do between rounds. The department had been relatively quiet, only the occasional disconnected monitor interrupting the silence of the night. This had always been your favorite part of the night shift: the moments where everything came to a halt and you could hear a pin drop.

Or someone running down the hallway.

You looked up in time to see Bill hastily making his way toward you, his usually calm and collected demeanor twisted into a furrowed brow.

"Hey Bill! What's—"

"Somethin's wrong."

It took you a second to register his words before you leapt from your chair, not even asking for an explanation before following Bill back towards Michael's room. As you entered the room, you realized exactly why Bill had gotten you.

While you knew Michael was never the best sleeper, the way he was twisting and turning was your first clue. That coupled with his alarmingly high heart rate and garbled muttering settled a knot in your stomach that simply screamed wrong.

You rushed over to his bedside and began checking everywhere for what could have been the issue. His bandages seemed loose enough, his vitals besides his heart rate were fine, all the monitors were properly attached. You resorted to asking him questions, something you typically didn't want to do for a sedated patient in pain.

"Are you cold?"

A small head shake.

"Hot?"

Another.

"Is anything too tight?"

"No." He mumbled.

"Too loose?"

Michael let out a small whine, and as you looked him over once more, you noticed that he wasn't so much panicking as he was grimacing.

He's in pain.

The Demerol.

It was easy enough to miss. Even a trained nurse would have likely looked over it. You even had to do a double take and check his chart to make sure what you were seeing was right.

"Margot, what did you do?" You muttered, making your way over to the Demerol pump as Bill stared at you in silence. While everything looked fine at first glance, the issue became glaringly obvious upon further inspection.

Sure, the dosage was right and everything was connected as it should be.

But the rate was wrong.

Michael had received only about half of the Demerol he was supposed to by now, and while it was still enough to keep him sedated, it obviously had little effect on his pain.

Another whine came from the man on the bed, and you brushed his curls from his forehead before looking back towards the source of his pain.

"Don't worry, Michael. I've got you."

At first, you wanted to curse Margot for causing Michael unnecessary pain. But when you thought about it, it made sense. She was sick, tired, and pushing through her shift while feeling like death. You would have likely made a similar mistake if in her position.

So rather than thinking about murdering your coworker, you focused on resetting the infusion rate. Once you had finished that, you turned back towards Michael.

"There, that should start feeling better soon."

Michael gave you a small nod before settling back against the pillows, still restless but no longer quite as uncomfortable. You turned to start explaining the situation to Bill, and you vaguely noticed Michael starting to sleepily play with your hand.

"It looks like the infusion rate was set for a longer period than it should have been, so he was overall receiving less of the Demerol. I reset it, so it should hopefully be back to normal."

Bill gave you a solemn nod before slowly turning to return to his post by the door. You started to follow him when something grabbed your hand. You looked down to see Michael grasping your hand, his eyes barely open as the Demerol started taking more effect.

"Stay?"

It was a simple question, really. But behind that one word seemed to be weeks of small smiles and mixed emotions you hadn't allowed yourself to feel.

On one hand, Michael now really was your patient.

On the other, you had technically been off shift for 10 minutes at this point, and your relief was due any minute.

You looked towards Bill in the corner of the room, who had conveniently decided the wallpaper was quite interesting in that moment. You couldn't help as a soft smile rose to your face.

"Sure, but just for a little while."

Michael visibly relaxed at your answer, his grip on your hand loosening slightly as the hint of worry on his face disappeared.

"Promise?" He whispered. You reached over to grab a chair from the side of the room and dragged it over to his bedside, taking his hand back in yours as you sat down.

"Promise."

You had only intended to stay until Michael fell asleep.

Instead, you woke to the first streams of sunlight filtering through the window, a blanket around your shoulders that wasn't there before.

You lifted your head to glance at Michael. For the first time since you saw him earlier that night, he looked truly peaceful.

By now, your shift had ended hours ago. You were more than free to head home and spend your day off lounging in your apartment.

Instead, you rested your head back against the side of the bed, focusing on the hand still loosely wrapped in yours.

After all, Michael Jackson had asked you to stay.

And you never broke a promise.

A/N: I so hope you enjoyed this fic! Thank you to @ebonymuse and @youwannabestartingsomething for proofreading. Please feel free to leave any feedback, requests, or demands for a pt. 2!

[miseducationofmicheal]

Michael Jackson, Detail ⋆.˚

[michaelharmony]

rest in peace to this beautiful soul. the world didn’t deserve you. let’s all remind ourselves that despite this tragedy, he spent his last day doing what he loved most.

[urdeftones-grrrl]

Rest In Paradise Angelface ❤️

29 August 1958 - 25 June 2009

miss and love you forever

[plumaura-onair]

Rest easy Michael 🕊. I hope you've finally been receiving all the love, respect and peace that you truly deserved all your life 🤍

[curlz4mygirls]

i’ll miss you forever.

i’ll love you forever.

[megsnotokay]

𝑯𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒍𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒍𝒚 𝑫𝒆𝒗𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒅.

.✦ ݁˖ king!Michael x f servant!reader

summary. where King Michael is completely enamoured with everything you do. He completely adores you and he isn’t even remotely subtle about it, always showering you with gifts and attention.

content. fem!reader, fluff, yearning (hard), mutual affection , king Michael is soooo down bad, mutual pining, not proofread

“Your majesty.” you put a hand on your hip attempting a stern look at the man making his way toward you. But of course he just smiles sheepishly, chuckling a little at you still heading your way with his hands behind his back. He looked elated, his eyes glittering at you just as much as the crown on his head. You’d been outside tending to the garden and gathering a few flowers to help the kitchen prep for dinner later. You knew how easy it was to forget even the smallest details and never minded helping anyone. It was one of the things Michael loved about you. Not that he had told you that yet.

“What?” He tried to play coy but you knew he had some outlandish and unnecessary item hidden behind his back. As he often did in his attempt to shower you with many gifts.

“You know what. I thought I told you to stop this.” you huffed, indignant, crossing your arms over your chest which immediately drew Michael’s attention there, your breast spilling out of your corset top. His eyes truly tried (and failed) not to linger but he was completely at your mercy. You were absolutely radiant in the early morning light, skin glowing like the sun had personally blessed you and hair shining like a halo framing your face. An angel really.

“You know, I find it kinda funny that you talk to me like this but still refuse to call me Michael.” you opened your mouth to argue but closed it again not knowing what to say to that. Because he was right. In the time you’d come to work at the palace, Michael had been a constant in your day to day. You spoke all the time and had built a relationship full of trust and affection just teetering on the edge of something real. Something that you weren’t yet ready to realize. You still tried to keep him at arms length, to his dismay.

When he managed to get you alone, you spoke to him not like he was a king and the most powerful man in the world but like a close friend or in Michael's mind, a lover.

Your only grace being in his title and the obvious power imbalance between you two. It was your shield from everything and everyone. You knew what people might think if you, a random servant, was suddenly getting excess attention from the king. Everyone adored Michael but they wouldn’t adore you. You would be just another obstacle to them, something to talk about and ridicule out of spite and jealousy. You knew it would not only complicate things with Michael but with the life you had built here.

Michael on the other hand wanted nothing more than to hold you close in this moment and all that followed it. He wasn’t stupid. He knew why you still called him by his title despite your familiarity and closeness. As a way to protect yourself, from his world and probably from him too. He would do anything for you and keep you safe from all of it, he was sure. You just had to give him a chance to.

“I got you something.” his strides long and sure as he moved to stand in front of you, and as you gazed up into his eyes, you knew that in that moment you were a weak woman. Weak for him. Like you had always been.

Michael smiled at you softly and pulled out what had to be the most beautiful piece of jewelry you had ever seen. A necklace with a large jem in the center surrounded by clusters of smaller gems. It had to have cost a small fortune you knew. And here he was offering it to you. A servant in his castle. As if you were someone important. But to him you were.

“No, I can’t take that.” you shook your head immediately taking a small step back as if the jewelry was radioactive.

“Yes you can. It’s a gift and I want you to have it.” he spoke, closing the distance between you two once again.

“You can’t keep doing this. People will notice and talk and-” you began to ramble and Michael’s smile just grew as it always did when you did anything. He was completely hopeless.

“And I don’t care. People will always talk.” he takes you by the hand and spins you gently until your back touches his chest and he embraces you.

And you let him because you are completely hopeless too. And despite your efforts, you know you can’t push him away or say no to him easily.

“I don’t care who watches or who talks. I only wish to be with you, as long as you’ll have me.” you could hear the truth in his words, almost childlike in purity and intention. You didn’t verbally respond but you leaned back into the safety of his arms. He gently began to adorn you with the necklace resting gently on your collarbones. After he was done he laid a gentle kiss on the side of your neck which you melted into and you knew with certainty that you were a goner.

© megsnotokay

note. this idea has been plaguing me for a while so I powered through writers block ⋆˚꩜｡

[ladyinhislife]

𝒵OMBIE! 𝑀ICHAEL 𝒥ACKSON X 𝑅EADER 𝐻CS !! (っ҂ཀ•)っ

ꉂ`𖦹. 🧟‍♂️ zombie! michael doesn’t have the most coherent speech— but he puts in the effort to show his affection for you! it could be a (cold) kiss on the cheek or little gifts showing up on your doorstep. i’m imaging him gifting you a bouquet of flowers that was taken from someone else’s grave (⁠╥⁠﹏⁠╥⁠) dead or alive, this man is still shy, and he would give you a crooked smile if you showed him too much affection his unbeating heart could handle. idk i just imagine you two walking through a cemetery together…

ꉂ`𖦹. 🧟‍♂️ zombie! michael smells kinda funky (ᵕ•_•) BUT has good upkeep for you. i know zombies typically smell like ammonia… rotten eggs… feces— but he’s trying ok!! (๑•́ -•̀) luckily for him, people love to leave perfume bottle gifts on gravestones. last time you visited him he smelled like roses. give my man a break he’s decaying here.

ꉂ`𖦹. 🧟‍♂️ zombie! michael protects you from the other zombies. he made it clear— after much awkward attempts because he was too shy to tell them straight up so he only warded them off temporarily— that you were his and prohibited from the jaws of the undead.

ꉂ`𖦹. 🧟‍♂️ zombie! michael has some of the most beautiful jheri curls you’ve seen (╥ᆺ╥；) that’s it. his hair is gorgeous.

ꉂ`𖦹. 🧟‍♂️ zombie! michael stays fitted idc. that (torn up) red jacket from the thriller music video? he got 3 more in a different color. he may be dead but his closet ain’t!!!

ꉂ`𖦹. 🧟‍♂️ zombie! michael would NEVVER eat your brain he just WANTS YOUR HEARTTTT :((

a/n: this will flop but it’s 2 am and i needa gts😳😳