-sfw, agnst, all that good stuff allowed. no nsfw please!
do we want a taglist?
𝔻ℕ𝕀: trump supporters, ICE supporters, homophobes, racists, sexists, ai users/ supporters and other things like that ew no yuck get away from me.
work in progress:
none currently
i'm adding this because i know that there has been a lot of turmoil in the mj fanbase lately and i just wanted to say if any of my writings are offensive in any way please, please, PLEASE let me know. i AM a white writer but i can promise you that i would never do anything in my power to be racist, offensive or unjust to anyone on purpose, especially in my writing. if something doesn't sit right with you, please inform me so i can make it right. i love you all and i just thought this was important to mention.
Hey, love your writing so much! Especially the one you wrote about Michael when he was burnt.
Can I request a sickfic for him please. Maybe as his wife or his fiance, he's workin himself to the bone even when he's clearly coming down with something & develops a bad cough - I know he used to get laryngitis an awful lot. His fiance/wife is exasperated because he doesn't listen and keeps saying he's fine when she tells him to try and take it easy and rest for a bit. He has to get worse before he finally listens to her though, I'm thinking maybe he loses his voice completely? Cue reader all too happy to finally take care of him properly.
Thanking you 🫶🏾
ahem.
a michael jackson fic.
summary - requested!
includes - stubborn as hell michael // established relationship // husband michael // wife reader // michael is sick :( // caretaker reader // stubborn michael (the usual)
He remained hunched over the mixing board, one hand pressed against his headphones while the other moved another slider by less than an inch. Music filled the studio, loud and layered and still somehow not loud enough to disguise the rough sound that had torn from his chest.
You watched him through the glass.
Michael felt it. He always did.
His eyes flicked toward you, and before you could say anything, he lifted one finger.
One minute.
You folded your arms.
He smiled.
It was the smile he used when he wanted you to believe he was charming enough to escape consequences.
Usually, it worked.
Tonight, his cheeks were flushed, there were shadows beneath his eyes, and the smile itself seemed to cost him more energy than he wanted you to notice.
You raised your eyebrows.
Michael turned back to the board.
The track played again.
And again.
And again.
By the fourth replay, his shoulders had begun to sag.
“Michael.”
He held up the finger once more.
You walked into the booth and stopped the track yourself.
The sudden silence made everyone look up.
Michael slowly lowered his headphones. “I was listening to that.”
His voice was wrong.
Not dramatically. Not yet. It was only slightly deeper than usual, the edges of each word scraped raw.
You stared at him.
He cleared his throat. “What?”
“How long has your throat been hurting?”
“It doesn’t hurt.”
“Michael.”
“It’s dry.”
“And the cough?”
“What cough?”
As if summoned by the lie, another one caught him.
Michael turned his head and coughed into his fist, trying to keep it small. It lasted long enough for the sound engineer to glance awkwardly between the two of you.
You waited.
Michael straightened. “Dust.”
“There is no dust in here.”
“There’s dust everywhere.”
“Not enough to give you a fever.”
His eyes widened with practiced innocence. “I don’t have a fever.”
You crossed the room and placed the back of your hand against his forehead.
He leaned away.
That told you everything.
You caught his chin gently before he could escape and felt his forehead again.
Warm.
Too warm.
“Home,” you said.
“Baby—”
“Now.”
“We’re almost finished.”
The engineer turned very deliberately toward the soundboard.
You looked at the clock on the wall. “You said that three hours ago.”
“Because we’re very close.”
“You are always very close.”
“That’s the work.”
“The work will still be here tomorrow.”
Michael’s expression shifted.
It was subtle, but you knew him. You knew the moment the warmth in his eyes became resistance, the moment concern started sounding like an obstacle.
“I’m fine,” he said.
You hated those two words.
Michael said I’m fine when he was tired.
He said it when he was overwhelmed.
He said it when his body was begging for something his ambition refused to give it.
Sometimes you thought he believed exhaustion was simply the price of being himself.
“You are coughing, you’re warm, and your voice is going,” you said. “You’re not fine.”
“My voice is not going.”
It cracked on the final word.
The room fell silent.
Michael blinked.
You pressed your lips together, fighting every instinct to say I told you so.
He cleared his throat again. “That happens.”
“Yes. When you’re getting sick.”
“Or when you’ve been singing.”
“Which you have been doing for eleven hours.”
“Exactly.”
You stared at him.
Michael offered you another soft smile, reached for your hand, and brought your knuckles to his mouth.
“One more take,” he murmured.
“You’re impossible.”
“But you love me.”
“At the moment, I’m reconsidering.”
His eyes sparkled.
“One,” you warned. “Then we leave.”
“One.”
Michael was a liar.
One take became six.
Six became an argument in the car.
By the time you reached home, Michael had stopped trying to convince you he was not tired. He rested his head against the passenger window, eyes closed, arms folded tightly across his chest.
You glanced at him at a red light.
“You’re shivering.”
“The air is cold.”
You turned it off.
He opened one eye. “Now it’s hot.”
“Good.”
“How is that good?”
“You’re admitting you can feel temperature. We’re making progress.”
He made a quiet sound that might have been a laugh, but it dissolved into another cough.
This one was worse.
It bent him forward, one hand pressed to his chest as each cough seemed to trigger the next. You reached across the console and rubbed his back until it passed.
When he finally sat up, his eyes were watering.
“Still dust?” you asked.
Michael wiped beneath his eyes. “Could be.”
You looked at him until he turned away.
At home, you tried to send him to bed.
Michael went to the piano.
You found him ten minutes later with a blanket around his shoulders and a notebook balanced on one knee, silently working out a melody against the keys.
“What are you doing?”
He jumped slightly. “Nothing.”
“It sounds suspiciously like something.”
“I had an idea.”
“Write it down.”
“I am.”
“With words. Not a full arrangement.”
He pressed another key.
You reached over his shoulder and closed the fallboard.
Michael stared at it, then up at you.
“Bed.”
“I’m not tired.”
He yawned before the sentence was finished.
You pointed toward the stairs.
Michael pulled the blanket closer around himself. “You’re very bossy.”
“And you married me anyway.”
“I was young.”
“It was last year.”
“Like I said.”
You tried not to smile.
He saw you trying and stood, victorious.
“Bed,” you repeated.
Michael kissed your cheek on his way past you. “Yes, ma’am.”
For one hopeful moment, you thought you had won.
Then he was gone before sunrise.
The space beside you was cold when you woke.
You reached for Michael without opening your eyes and found only rumpled sheets.
His pillow held a note.
Couldn’t sleep. Went in early. Don’t be mad. I love you.
You read it twice.
Then you called him.
He did not answer.
You called again.
Voicemail.
On the third attempt, someone from the studio picked up.
“He’s recording,” the assistant said carefully.
You closed your eyes. “Put him on.”
“He’s in the middle of—”
“Put my husband on the phone.”
There was a pause.
“Yes, ma’am.”
A minute later, Michael’s breath came softly through the receiver.
“Hello?”
His voice was barely there.
Every trace of amusement left you.
“Michael.”
“Before you say anything—”
The sentence broke into a rasp.
“Stop talking.”
“I can still—”
“You can barely speak.”
“It sounds worse on the phone.”
You could hear the effort behind every word, how he was pushing sound through a throat that had nothing left to give.
“I’m coming to get you.”
“No, I have—”
His voice disappeared completely.
There was only a breath where the rest of the sentence should have been.
Silence followed.
“Michael?”
You heard him try again.
Nothing.
Then a tiny, defeated exhale.
You grabbed your keys.
“Do not move. Do not sing. Do not even whisper. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
The line remained quiet.
For once, he could not argue.
You should not have found that satisfying.
You did.
When you reached the studio, Michael was sitting on the sofa outside the recording booth with his scarf wrapped around his neck.
A mug of tea rested untouched in his hands.
Everyone around him looked guilty.
You stopped in front of him.
Michael looked up through his curls.
He appeared miserable.
His eyes were glassy, his nose pink, and the flush from the night before had faded into a pale exhaustion that made anger difficult to hold.
Difficult.
Not impossible.
You put your hand on his forehead.
He did not lean away this time.
He was burning.
“We’re going home.”
Michael opened his mouth.
No sound came.
You tilted your head.
He closed it again.
“Mm-hm. That’s what I thought.”
One of the producers coughed into his hand to hide a laugh.
Michael shot him an offended look.
You took the mug from his hands and passed it to the nearest person. Then you pulled Michael gently to his feet.
The movement made him sway.
Your irritation vanished.
You caught him around the waist, and his hands settled heavily on your shoulders.
“Easy,” you murmured. “I’ve got you.”
His forehead dropped against yours.
For a moment, he let his full weight lean into you.
That frightened you more than the cough.
Michael never stopped holding himself up until he had absolutely nothing left.
You slid an arm around him. “Come on, stubborn.”
He gave you a weak glare.
“I can call you worse things.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Save your voice.”
The glare deepened.
You smiled despite yourself and led him out.
The doctor confirmed what you already suspected.
Laryngitis. A respiratory infection. Strict vocal rest, fluids, steam, medication, and actual sleep, not the three distracted hours Michael usually tried to pass off as rest.
Back home, you confiscated his telephone.
Then his notebook.
Then, after catching him attempting to communicate musical instructions through increasingly dramatic gestures, you confiscated his tape recorder too.
Michael sat against the pillows, deeply betrayed.
You placed a bowl of soup on the bedside table.
He reached for the notebook again.
You moved it farther away.
He gave you a look.
“No.”
He pointed at himself, then mimed writing.
“I know you want it.”
He clasped his hands together and widened his eyes.
“That face stopped working yesterday.”
He made the face sadder.
You sat beside him. “Your job is to rest.”
Michael pointed toward the door, then made a series of elaborate motions that you interpreted as either the studio needs me or a flock of birds has stolen my luggage.
“They will survive without you.”
He shook his head.
“Michael.”
He crossed his arms.
You stared at each other.
Then he coughed.
The defiance disappeared from his face as the fit took hold, shoulders curling inward. You steadied the bowl before it spilled and rubbed slow circles between his shoulder blades.
When it passed, he slumped back against the pillows, breathing through his nose.
His eyes closed.
You touched his cheek.
“This is what I was trying to prevent.”
He opened his eyes and looked at you.
The stubbornness was gone.
In its place was something small and apologetic.
Michael reached for your hand and traced letters against your palm with one finger.
S-O-R-R-Y.
Your heart softened against your will.
“You should be.”
He traced again.
M-A-D?
“Very.”
His mouth pulled into a pout.
You sighed. “I’m mad because I’m scared.”
He stopped.
“You work until you forget you’re a person,” you said quietly. “And everyone around you lets you because they think the work is more important. But I don’t care how perfect the song is if making it destroys you.”
Michael’s eyes lowered.
You brushed his curls away from his warm forehead.
“You don’t have to earn rest.”
His fingers tightened around yours.
“You don’t have to collapse before you’re allowed to let somebody take care of you.”
He looked back at you then.
There were tears gathering in his eyes, not quite falling, only shining beneath his lashes.
He pulled your hand to his chest and held it there.
His heart beat steadily beneath your palm.
Then he traced three words against your skin.
I love you.
Your anger did not stand a chance.
“I love you too.”
He leaned toward you, asking silently.
You kissed his forehead.
Michael frowned and tapped his lips.
“You’re contagious.”
His frown deepened.
“And you did this to yourself.”
He tapped his lips again.
You laughed softly. “Needy.”
Michael nodded without shame.
You compromised with a kiss against the corner of his mouth.
He caught your wrist when you tried to pull away, pressing his cheek into your palm.
“Soup first,” you said. “Then medicine. Then sleep.”
He shook his head at the soup.
“This is not a negotiation.”
Michael pointed toward his throat and grimaced.
“It’s warm, not hot. I checked.”
He continued looking doubtful.
You lifted a spoonful. “Open.”
His eyebrows rose.
“I have been waiting all day to use your lack of a voice against you. Don’t ruin this for me.”
His shoulders shook with a silent laugh.
Then he opened his mouth.
You fed him slowly, blowing on each spoonful even though it did not need it. Halfway through the bowl, the medicine and exhaustion began winning. His eyelids drooped between bites. His head tipped against your shoulder.
“That’s enough,” you whispered.
Michael objected with a quiet hum.
“I thought you didn’t want it.”
He pointed weakly toward the bowl.
You offered him one more spoonful.
He accepted it, then slid farther down beneath the blankets.
You switched off the lamp and settled beside him.
Michael immediately curled into you, head resting against your chest, one arm wrapped around your waist. Even sick, he ran cold. You pulled the blankets higher and rubbed your hand along his back.
His breathing gradually slowed.
Just before sleep took him, his finger moved lazily against your side.
Thank you.
You kissed the top of his head.
“Next time, you listen to me before you lose your voice.”
Michael made a skeptical little hum.
You looked down at him.
“I heard that.”
His eyes remained closed, but a smile appeared against your chest.
For the next four days, Michael obeyed vocal rest with all the dignity of a man being unjustly imprisoned.
He communicated through notes.
Most were reasonable.
May I please have more tea?
Some were not.
Technically, humming is not speaking.
You wrote beneath it:
Technically, I can call the doctor and ask.
The humming stopped.
He followed you from room to room wrapped in a blanket, silently requesting affection with outstretched arms whenever you passed. He fell asleep on your lap during movies and complained through facial expressions when you chose anything he considered boring.
By the fifth morning, his fever was gone.
You woke to find him propped on one elbow, watching you.
“Morning,” you whispered.
Michael smiled.
Then, very carefully, he tried his voice.
“Morning.”
The word was faint and rough, but it was there.
Your eyes widened.
Michael’s smile grew.
“Don’t push it,” you warned.
He leaned closer, lips brushing your temple.
“Love you,” he rasped.
“Michael.”
“Had to.”
“That was three words.”
“Important.”
You pressed a finger to his lips. “Quiet.”
He kissed your fingertip.
Then he reached toward the bedside table, picked up his notepad, and wrote:
Am I still in trouble?
You considered it.
“Yes.”
He added another line.
Can my wife take care of me anyway?
You looked at the man who had worked himself voiceless, ignored every warning, escaped the house before sunrise, and frightened ten years off your life.
Then you looked at the blanket tucked beneath his chin and the hopeful softness in his eyes.
Summary: You go to visit your parents out of town just after Thriller was released and you and Michael promised to send letters. However, that promise gets broken, and when you return to Michael's house, you can't help but bring it up.
Warnings: angst, arguing, hurt then comfort, Michael begging, Michael being insensitive, crying.
Pairing: thriller!era Michael Jackson x reader
Words: 4.8k
Note: i swear to god it's taken me like 17 YEARS TO FINISH THIS I'M SO SORRY. i got soooooo discouraged after tumblr decided that it hated me and deleted half of my fic TWICE until i learned my fucking lesson and finished writing on google docs 😠 also i promised myself that i wouldn't go to sleep until this was published... uhm.... yeah its currently 4:20 in the morning.
Dear Michael,
I miss you! I hope that everything is going well for you and that you're staying safe. I know that all of the paparazzi are probably overwhelming. I hope that you're taking care of yourself! I haven't done much since I got here, except for looking through a couple gift shops to find something cute to bring back to you and your family. I hate being away from you!
With love, Y/N
You sealed the envelope and flipped it over to write his address on it. You had gone out of town to go visit your parents, with some regret that you had to leave Michael, but otherwise excited to see your family again. You lived with Michael and his family which was your choice, (you were an adult after all) but you hadn't seen your own family for a while and decided to go visit them for a few weeks.
Michael had just released Thriller before you left, and it was an insane hit. Everyone absolutely loved it, and the paparazzi were insane for him. Interviewers wanted to speak with him every hour of every day, which Michael didn't let happen of course. However, you were glad to get away from all of the newfound fan electricity since Thrillers drop.
You and Michael had of course promised to write each other letters while you were away, and this was the first one you were planning to send out, to solidify this promise.
You stood from the desk in the guest room -- your parents had moved out of your childhood home, so instead of staying in your old room, you were staying in the guest room of their new house -- after grabbing a tube of lipstick and then moving to stand in front of the mirror, you carefully applied it to your lips. Then, when the coating was satisfactory, you carefully pressed your lips to the edge where the fold-over part of the envelope met the middle of the back. Pulling back, you saw your bright red kiss mark stamped on the back of Michael's envelope.
After you sent it off and had returned towards your makeshift room, you spotted the small gifts you had bought for him and his sisters. For Michael, you had found this perfect Micky Mouse figurine that was wearing a pair of wired earphones connected to a Walkman sticking out of his pocket. For LaToya, a pair of beautiful crystal earrings that she would love. However, you weren't able to find anything that you thought Janet, or his mother would like. You wanted to get something for each of them, so you were planning to continue looking for something before you returned.
The next day, you walked around downtown with your parents, walking through shops, eating at an old '50s diner, sitting in the park, and then went to a drive-in movie after dinner.
While looking through an antique mall, you came across a beautiful camera, that was in perfect condition and labeled as $46. That's when a thought struck you. Taking pictures to put in the letters to Michael would be such a perfect idea.
You just had to buy the camera.
For the rest of the day after the antique store, you snapped away at everything that caught your eye.
The light dusting of snow clinging to the city's rooftops.
You and your parents grinning at the camera with the sunset glowing softly behind you.
A snapshot of the movie you watched at the drive-in theater.
The burger and fries you got at the diner.
At the end of the day, you were happy with the little stack of photographs you had collected for him.
Your parents didn't live too far from Encino, California, but you knew that the post would take a few days to deliver. That didn't stop you from writing Michael again the next morning.
On the back of the photo's you had taken, you wrote the date, and then little messages for context. Things like:
It's starting to snow here :)
And:
We got to watch Casablanca at the drive-in!
After you had marked each photo, you began to write Michael another letter. You missed him so much already, and you chose to say so.
Dear Michael,
I had the best day yesterday! My parents and I went walking around downtown and we watched a movie at the drive-in. I bought this wonderful camera too, and I'm sending you some photos I took. I hope they find you well and that the paparazzi aren't treating you too badly. I love you and miss you angelface.
Best wishes, Y/N
You waited a week before you sat down at your desk again with intention to write a letter. You knew that your letters should have arrived by now, and that his should have been well on its way back to you, possibly already here by now.
Maybe they had gotten mixed up in the mail somehow. If that was the case, you didn't want Michael thinking that you hadn't written him at all. The thought of a quietly disappointed Michael filled your mind, thinking that you were having far too much fun without him and that you had completely forgotten he existed. You heart squeezed.
Brushing that unpleasant thought from your mind, you smoothed out a fresh sheet of paper and began to write.
Dear Michael,
I'm afraid that my letter's might have gotten lost in the mail, so I'm writing you again before you've gotten a chance to respond. My parents have been treating me well, and I've missed their company. A cold front has come, so I must bundle up if I want to go outside. I hope that you're staying warm! I've taken some more photos for you since I last wrote, and I'm sending them to you of course. I wish you were here to see the sights with me. Tell your mother I've said hi as well as your sisters. I miss you all!
Lots of love, Y/N
You folded the letter and stuffed it into the envelope, the photographs soon following.
There was a photo of a cake that you helped your mom bake, decorated with fancy swirls and dollops. A photo of the view from the guest bedroom window, snowflakes swirling lazily past the camera. A photo your mom snapped of you laughing, playing cards in the living room with your dad, and lastly one of a crackling fire, sparks reaching up.
Sealing the envelope, you placed a kiss mark on the back, and sent it off in the mail, hoping dutifully that it didn't get lost.
Over a week had passed since you had sent the very first letter and you were starting to get worried. What if something had happened to Michael and that's why he wasn't responding?
Surely his mother or Bill or Quincy would've told you, right? He is probably just busy with his redoubled fame. Everything was fine.
Still, you couldn't ignore the feeling that something was off.
Dear Michael,
I hope this letter finds you well. I'm beginning to get a bit worried with your lack of response, but I'm sure everything is fine. I miss you tons. My parents and I went ice skating today at the frozen over lake out in the country. It was truly beautiful. I wish you could've been there to see it with me! I've sent you a photo of it along with this letter. Stay warm and safe! I love you angelface.
Best regards, Y/N
Filling the envelope with the letter and a single photo of an icy, glistening lake, you sealed it and kissed it, sending it out with extra care for fear it may not make it to him.
You let an entire week pass before you wrote again.
You thought that maybe he had been busy and forgotten to check the mail or maybe didn't even get a chance to check the mail. But with no letter by the end of the week and increasing worry burrowing in your chest, you couldn't wait any longer to reach out once again. You sat at the desk in the guest bedroom, the sound of one of your mom's records floating up the stairs.
It was growing much colder outside, nearing the middle of December, but the warmth of your parents house brought you no comfort.
You missed Michael. Deeply. And you were excited to get back to him for Christmas, but you wished that you had received a letter from him.
Dear Michael,
I miss you. A lot. I'm sure that you've wanted to reply to my letter but simply haven't gotten a chance. It's okay! I know that you're busy because Thriller was such a big hit. My mom made lasagna last night and you would've loved it. After dinner I had strawberry ice cream because it makes me think of you and it made me sad because you weren't here eating it with me. Stay safe. I love you angelface.
Sending hugs, Y/N
Inside was a single photo of you smiling softly, sitting on the couch, with a cold bowl of strawberry ice cream in your hands.
Sealed, marked with your kiss, and then sent off.
You couldn't stop thinking about how you hadn't gotten a single letter from him.
On your last week visiting your parents, you had gone out shopping in downtown again. The sun was shining feebly down on the city and wispy snowflakes fluttered down from the sky.
You were bitter from the fact that you hadn't received a letter yet, but that wasn't going to stop you from collecting gifts for his family.
You had gone into a record store and found a record for Janet by an artist she liked. For Michael's mother, you bought a classic novel, so that she had something to do when she got time to herself. However, you didn't know Rebbie well enough to get her something that she might actually like, so you sufficed with gifts for Michael, LaToya, Janet, and their mother.
The city was truly beautiful and your parents were wonderful, but the weight of never receiving a letter back rested in your mind throughout the rest of your visit.
The last time you sat down at the guest bedrooms desk was on the day before you left. Picking up your pen, you began to write.
Dear Michael,
I'm coming home tomorrow! I can't wait to see your beautiful face. I feel like it's been ages since I've seen you. My parents have been nothing short of wonderful, but I've missed you dearly. I'm bring home some small gifts for you and Janet and LaToya and your mother. I would've brought something for Rebbie but I'm afraid I don't know her very well. I hope this letter reaches you. I'm afraid that the others might've gotten mixed up in the mail. Or perhaps your brothers have stolen these letters from you as a bit of a joke. I'm not sure. Anyway, I love you and miss you bunches! See you soon angelface.
I can't wait, Y/N
On the final day before you left, you snapped a picture of you standing in between your parents in front of their house, smiling brightly in the early morning light.
You had packed up everything you brought as well as the additional gifts for Michael and his family. You were sad to leave your parents but indescribably happy to go home to Michael. You were sure he would have the perfect excuse as to why he never wrote back, and you were sure he would contact the mail office, demanding them as to why he never got the letters from his precious girl.
The drive back to Encino took nearly all day, and by the time you saw the Jackson's fountain in the front drive, it was glittering in the golden sun rays as it set.
Excitement bubbled in your chest. You couldn't wait to see Michael again, after a long awaited 3 weeks.
You wrapped your thick scarf around your neck and exited the car, making sure to thank the driver. Freshly fallen snow squeaked under your boots as you approached the front door, excitement mingling with nervousness. You raised a gloved hand and knocked on the front door.
Michael's mother opened it.
"Hello Y/N! I'm glad to see you back." She welcomed you in with a warm hug.
"Hi Katherine! I've missed you and your family." You sunk farther into her hug. Oh! Wait a minute--" You pulled away from her embrace, shutting the door behind you as to not let in the cold winter air, and unzipped your bag, pulling out the novel you had bought for her, smiling. "For you. I thought you might enjoy it."
"Oh, you didn't!" She exclaimed, taking the book from you. "Thank you honey. This is so sweet of you."
"You're welcome, Katherine. Anything for you." You smiled at her before reaching to pick up your bag.
"Michael is in his studio by the way dear. I'd recommend waiting for him in his room. I'll let him know that you're back."
"Okay, thank you! I hope you enjoy that book."
You walked up their grand staircase, following the familiar path towards Michael's room. Pushing open the door and heaving your bag into his room, you froze.
On his bed were letters.
Your letters. The ones you had sent him when you were out of town.
They were here. Laying scattered across his bed and a few spilling onto the floor.
They hadn't gotten lost in the mail. His brothers hadn't stolen them. He hadn't not had time to check the mailbox for your letters. He had them.
You walked slowly over to his bed, picking up one of the letters. It was sealed. Thrown into his room without a thought. He had obviously seen them. He knew you sent them to him. He hadn't even opened them. Hadn't even tried.
Hurt swelled in your chest. You reached for another envelope. Maybe that was the only one he hadn't gotten a chance to open. The second was sealed as well. As was the third. As was all of them.
He didn't open any. He hadn't even tried.
He's just busy, you told yourself. But he had received the letters. Picked them up. Read the address to make sure it was the right place. Knew that you sent them. Tossed them aside.
You couldn't believe it. You let your own letters slide out of your grip, back onto his bed. You sat there for a moment, not quite sure what to do. Then you stood up and began to unpack, keeping the letters out of your vision. Your heart squeezed painfully, bringing tears to your eyes.
No. You couldn't cry over this. You refused to let yourself.
You folded your clothes back into their spot in one of Michael's empty drawers. You returned your makeup and skincare to the vanity sitting in the corner of his room. You did everything you could think to before there was a knock on the door.
"Come in!" You tried to mask the evident pain in your voice.
The door opened. It was Michael. His face lit up as soon as he saw you. It almost made you feel bad for being hurt.
"Baby, you made it!" He exclaimed happily, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him. He hugged you tightly, his hands around your waist. You slung your arms around his neck, hugging him back half-heartedly. He rested his cheek on your shoulder, face pointed towards your neck. "Missed you so much." He murmured, his breath tickling you.
You allowed yourself half a second to enjoy his embrace. It was warm and familiar and everything you wanted it to be. Except it was not.
"I missed you too, Michael."
You pulled away, avoiding his eyes. You turned back towards your suitcase, the unopened letters on his bed catching your attention once again. You rummaged in your suitcase for something that wasn't there. Michael noticed.
"What's wrong mama?" He asked gently, turning you around to face him once again.
"Nothing Michael, everything's fine. 'M just tired." His big brown eyes tried to catch yours, but you wouldn't let him. And he wasn't buying it.
"You know you can tell me anything. What's wrong?"
You sighed. You wanted to tell him...at least, you thought you did. You just didn't know how to go about it. But maybe you ought to give him a taste of his own medicine. He never replied to you in a letter, so why should you tell him what the problem was?
"Y/N, please. Was it something I said? Did something happen out of town? Are your parents alright?"
That caught you off guard a bit.
"What? No. My parents are fine."
"Then tell me baby, what is it?" He pleaded.
His hand reached up to gentle take your chin between his fingers, and you finally allowed your eyes to meet his.
You regretted it immediately. There was a crease between his brows from where they were drawn together, and there was a frown playing on his lips. He didn't like not knowing why his girl was down. No, not at all. And you didn't like seeing him look at you like this. It was like taking candy from a baby.
"You never responded to my letters Michael. You never even opened them!" You gestured towards the pile of letters sitting on Michael's bed.
Michael removed his hand from your chin, face falling. "Aw c'mon baby, you know I've been busy. I didn't have time to respond to them!"
"But you had time to get them! You obviously saw them, and read the envelope, and had time to collect them in your room."
"I only had time to get them from the mailbox and toss them up here!"
"So you didn't even want to read them?"
"That's not what I'm sayin' baby!" Michael said exhasperhatedly, throwing his hands up in the air. "You know if I had time to read them I would've."
"Oh, so you didn't have time after dinner? Or in the mornings? Or the nights when you can't sleep? You didn't have time then? Michael, you didn't even try to read one! None of them are even open!"
Your voiced were growing louder. Far louder than you had wanted them to when you first saw him after 3 weeks.
"I didn't have time. I've been so busy after you left I've barely had time to sleep! I would've responded if I could angel--"
"Don't angel me! You had me worried that something had happened to you! But no. You just didn't make time to even open one letter."
"I'm sorry I just--"
"Michael, you promised!" You cried, tears springing to your eyes.
He didn't respond. The room was full of tension and hurt and confusion. You couldn't stand being in here any longer.
You grabbed your wool coat that you had shed once inside the warm house.
"Baby wait-- please," Michael lunged, trying to grab your wrist in an attempt to stop you, but you stepped out of his reach.
Opening the door and giving him one last glare, you stepped into the hallway and disappeared down the stairs.
He let his arm fall limply to his side. He couldn't believe you guys had fought already. You'd never really fought, ever, and he thought that it was a horrible feeling. He had been so excited to see you.
He walked over to his bed slowly, almost in a dream-like state, your words ringing through his ears. 'Michael, you promised!' It was true. He did promise. He sat on the edge of the bed, heart sinking just as the mattress did. With his weight, the letters still resting on the bed shifting, catching his attention.
He reached out to grab one. His address was written in your perfect handwriting. He flipped it over. Your red kiss mark was on the back. His heart panged. You put so much effort into these letters and he hadn't even noticed.
Carefully ripping open the envelope, he pulled out your letter. He began to read.
Dear Michael,
I miss you! I hope that everything is going well for you and that you're staying safe.
He smiled, your handwriting familiar on the page.
I haven't done much since I got here, except for looking through a couple gift shops to find something cute to bring back to you and your family.
The smile faded, replaced with something sadder. You bought his family presents? He couldn’t even bother to open your letters.
He reached for another. There were photos in this one.
Dear Michael,
I had the best day yesterday! My parents and I went walking around downtown and we watched a movie at the drive-in.
You both loved drive-in movies. He poured the photos out of the envelope. There were cinematic photos of the drive-in movie you saw, snow on roof-tops, food you had gotten from a diner, and then he saw you.
His heart stopped.
You were smiling at the camera standing in between your parents, pure happiness apparent on your face. The sun was setting behind you, golden streaks shining through your hair. You were beautiful. He hadn’t realized how much he had missed you.
He grabbed another letter, desperate to make up for his awful acts.
Dear Michael,
I'm afraid that my letter's might have gotten lost in the mail, so I'm writing you again before you've gotten a chance to respond.
His eyebrows furrowed together and guilt started to seep into his blood, flooding his veins. Your letters were not lost in the mail.
More photos. Beautiful. You understood the art of photography just as much as he did.
Another photo of you. Laughing in the living room, a snapshot someone had taken of you without you noticing.
Another.
Dear Michael,
I hope this letter finds you well. I'm beginning to get a bit worried with your lack of response, but I'm sure everything is fine. I miss you tons.
He worried you. He hated worrying you. Gosh, how could he be so stupid?
A simple photo of an icy lake.
Another. Did you really write so many letters that he didn’t read?
Dear Michael,
I miss you. A lot. I'm sure that you've wanted to reply to my letter but simply haven't gotten a chance. It's okay! I know that you're busy because Thriller was such a big hit.
Guilt was gathering in his chest, weighing him down, his spine bending, trying to accommodate. He really was busy, but not this busy.
After dinner I had strawberry ice cream because it makes me think of you and it made me sad because you weren't here eating it with me.
A photo of you smiling softly, something sad behind your eyes. He knew. There was a bowl of strawberry ice cream in your hands.
Yet another.
Dear Michael,
I'm coming home tomorrow! I can't wait to see your beautiful face. I feel like it's been ages since I've seen you. My parents have been nothing short of wonderful, but I've missed you dearly.
He’d gone weeks disregarding your letters, probably making you feel alone, and small and unseen in his life. It seemed like he didn't care about you. Oh, but he so did.
I hope this letter reaches you. I'm afraid that the others might've gotten mixed up in the mail. Or perhaps your brothers have stolen these letters from you as a bit of a joke. I'm not sure.
He held your last letter tightly in his long fingers, back bent from the cement block of guilt sitting in his chest. They were here. Not stuck at the post office. Not in his brother’s clutches. He felt so incredibly guilty. The letters were sitting on his bed. Unthought about.
What if he wrote you letters that you simply just did not respond to. Did not open? He could hardly stand the thought.
The way you ended each letter got him the most.
With love, Y/N
Best wishes, Y/N
Lots of love, Y/N
Best regards, Y/N
Sending hugs, Y/N
I can't wait, Y/N
Your beautifully signed name. So full of love and care that he had let to crumple on his comforter as he slept in his bed, empty without you.
He absolutely had to fix this.
He gathered the photos you sent him in a stack, the ones of you sitting on top, and sprung from his bed, wrenching his door open -- lacking the usual care he had -- and hurried down the hallway, down the stairs, and to the living room where his mother was sitting on the couch, a book in her hands. Michael thought it looked new.
“Mother, have you seen Y/N?”
“She left for a walk,” she paused, looking up from her book. “Did she not tell you?”
He avoided her gaze. “Not really, no.”
She gave him a look that conveyed that she knew something was up, but she did not press the matter, redirecting her attention back to her book. Michael was glad she didn’t ask about it.
He strode to the front door, grabbing a thick jacket before opening the door and stepping out into the cold winter night.
It was dark outside, the sun set long ago. He shut the door behind him and made his way clumsily across the driveway, slipping occasionally on the snow. Once he made it to the street, he looked both ways. He had no idea which way you may have gone. Praying that he had chosen the right way, he turned left and began walking down the street, the nearly full moon guiding his way across the lumps of snow.
Finally after 10 minutes of walking and when his fingertips had begun to grow numb, he saw your shadowy figure around a curve of the street. He set off at a jog, calling after you.
“Y/N! Wait up!”
You turned, not really needing to see who it was, but seeing him running after you through the tears pooling in your eyes, sparked a warm feeling in your heavy heart. However, you kept walking. You didn’t really want to hear his excuses right now.
“Mama, please! Please wait!” You could hear his words echoing off of the houses lining the road.
You had subconsciously slowed your walking pace, and eventually, Michael caught up with you.
“Y/N… I am so sorry. What I did was wrong. Truly.” He started, walking slightly sideways so that he could face you. You kept your eyes ahead.
“I…I read your letters. They were so heartfelt angel…they–you’re a poet. You took so much time and effort to make those letters somethin’ special. And the photos you took are beautiful. Especially the ones with you in them.”
There was a pause, the only sound being your footsteps in the snow. You took this moment to turn away, mopping your tears the best you could with the edges of your coat sleeve.
“I was wrong to not read them. I really was. And I cannot apologize enough angel. I don’t know how I can repay you. I’m sorry that I wronged you. I shouldn’t have. Please forgive me.”
His words were so bittersweet, but you could tell that he meant them from the bottom of his heart. Michael waited for you to say something, anything, to let him know that he had mended the thing that held his life together.
You stopped walking, staring down at your feet, your fingers clutching your scarf over your mouth and nose.
That’s when Michael heard a broken sob leave you.
He panicked, heart spiking in his chest.
He instantly closed the distance between you two, cusping your frosted cheeks in his palms as frenzied consolations left his mouth.
“No, baby, don’t cry. I’m so sorry. Look at me please. Don’t cry, please.” He could feel his heart beating a mile a minute. You were grateful for his apology, but the sight of your letters laying on his bed wouldn’t leave your mind, and it made you feel so truly unneeded in his life. More tears leaked out of your eyes and your throat became unbearably tight.
“I’m sorry baby, I was stupid, I know, I know. Come here, I’m sorry. Don’t cry.” It sounded more like begging than consoling. He pulled you into his embrace, and you pressed your head onto his chest, the tears breaking into another sob. Then another. And another. His arms were tight and grounding around you, and the warmth from his body radiated through yours, all the while he murmured more begs for you to forgive him and to not cry.
Once you had finally calmed down, you pulled away. “‘M sorry for ruining our first night together Michael.”
“Don’t be sorry mama. It was my fault. I shouldn’t have been so insensitive. I never meant to make you feel so disregarded.”
You wiped the rest of your tears off of your face. “I love you Michael.” You say, as you peer up at him, the moonlight making his features glow spectacularly.
⊱ bad!michael x f!reader ◞ when things get too rough in bed, Michael discovers something that he ends up enjoying too much.
⊱ smut, sub!michael, dom!reader, slapping, slightly rough, crying, michael being needy and a whiney mess, reader hitting michael, slight humiliation
The heavy velvet curtains in the bedroom were drawn tight, blocking out the intrusive Los Angeles lights, but the room was far from quiet.
Michael had been pacing, trailing after you, and practically vibrating with an anxious, clingy energy since the moment you walked through the door. It was one of those nights where the weight of the world—the rehearsals, the management meetings, the endless scrutiny—had rubbed his raw nerves completely bare.
When he was like this, he didn't just want comfort; he practically demanded to be consumed by you.
"You're not even listening to me," he whined, his voice dropping into that breathless, feather-light register he used when he was feeling particularly vulnerable. He was hovering right behind you as you unbuttoned your blouse, his slender fingers twitching at his sides. "I told you, Frank kept pushing the schedule back, and I just... I couldn't get the steps right today. I feel like I'm losing my mind, and you're just sitting there."
You sighed, turning around to face him. He looked incredibly edible but utterly exhausting.
He was wearing an oversized black silk button-down, the top three buttons undone to reveal the smooth skin of his collarbones, and his curls were a beautiful, chaotic mess around his face. His dark eyes were wide, glossy with unshed tears of frustration, and his lower lip was pushed out in a pout that was half-genuine distress and half-manipulation.
He wanted you to fix it. He wanted you to coddle him. But frankly? You had your own long day, and his needy, demanding whines were starting to stoke a very specific, dark heat in your gut.
"Michael," you said, your voice dropping an octave, steady and unyielding. "Stop pacing. Sit on the edge of the bed."
He blinked, taken aback by your tone. A little thrill seemed to pass through him, though he tried to mask it with another complaint. "But I'm trying to tell you—"
"Michael. Sit down."
That did it. The absolute authority in your voice snapped his mouth shut. He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing, and slowly backed up until the back of his knees hit the mattress. He sank down onto the edge of the bed, his long legs tangled awkwardly, his hands gripping the sheets. He looked up at you through his eyelashes, a heady mixture of defiance and desperation gleaming in his eyes.
You walked over to him slowly, every step deliberate. The power dynamic in the room shifted instantly, tilting on its axis until the air felt thick and heavy. You stood right between his thighs, forcing them open. Michael let out a soft, shaky breath, his hands immediately coming up to rest on your hips, his touch tentative but greedy.
"You've been a whiney, dramatic brat all evening," you murmured, reaching down to cup his jaw. Your thumb brushed over his lower lip, pulling it down slightly. "Do you think you deserve my sympathy when you're acting like this?"
"I'm not a brat," he whispered, though he didn't pull away from your hand. In fact, he leaned into your palm like a starving man, his eyes fluttering shut. "I just... I missed you. You're being mean."
"Am I?" You tilted his head back, forcing him to look at you. His chest was heaving now, his breath hitching as you slid your hands down his chest, deliberately undoing the rest of his buttons. "You want my attention so badly, Michael? You're going to have to earn it."
"Please," he whimpered, the word slipping out of him like a reflex. He hated when you withheld affection, but the sheer dominance radiating off you was making him dizzy. His hands tightened on your hips, fingers digging into your skin. "Just touch me. Please, baby, I'm so tired."
"Then lay back," you commanded.
He didn't hesitate. He fell back onto the silk sheets, his dark hair fanning out across the pillows. You crawled over him, pinning his hips with your thighs. Michael let out a ragged gasp, his eyes tracking your every move with an almost feral intensity. He was completely at your mercy, his body trembling beneath yours.
When you leaned down to kiss him, it wasn't gentle. It was a bruising, possessive claim that had him groaning into your mouth, his tongue tangling with yours in a frantic, sloppy rhythm. He was trying to take control of the kiss, trying to pull you down deeper into his frantic energy, his hands moving up to grip your hair.
You pulled away sharply, a hard line forming between your brows. "Did I tell you that you could touch me like that?"
"I—no," he panted, his lips wet and flushed, his cheeks dark with a sudden rush of blood.
"But I need—"
"You need to learn how to behave," you interrupted.
You pinned both of his wrists above his head with one hand. He was incredibly strong, but when he was in this headspace, he let you overpower him completely, his muscles going soft and compliant under your grip. He writhed underneath you, his hips bucking upward in a desperate attempt to feel the friction of your body against his. He was already so hard, the front of his trousers soaked through with his desire.
"Look at you," you taunted softly, using your free hand to trace the line of his throat, feeling his frantic pulse. "So needy. So loud."
"Please, just let me fuck you, please, I'll be good, I swear I'll be good," he sobbed out, the first real tears finally spilling over his eyelids, tracking down his temples into his hair. He was completely unraveled, a beautiful, pathetic mess of desire and exhaustion. "It hurts, baby, please..."
He kept talking, kept whining, his voice rising in pitch as he begged and pleaded, his mouth moving a mile a minute. It was sensory overload. He was too loud, too frantic, completely spinning out of control. You needed him to quiet down. You needed him to focus entirely on you.
Crack
The sound of your open palm meeting his cheek echoed sharply in the quiet bedroom.
The silence that followed was absolute.
Michael’s head was snapped to the side, his curls falling over his eyes. His breath completely caught in his throat. The whining stopped instantly. The frantic bucking of his hips froze.
For a terrifying, breathless second, the only sound in the room was the ticking of the clock on the nightstand.
You froze too, your heart hammering against your ribs. Your hand tingled from the impact. You hadn't meant to hit him that hard—it had been a split-second impulse to shock him into silence. You braced yourself for him to push you off, for him to get angry, for the night to end in a horrible, catastrophic argument.
But Michael didn't move.
Slowly, agonizingly, he turned his head back to face you. His cheek was already flushing a bright, hot crimson, the perfect print of your fingers blooming against his pale skin.
His eyes were wide—wider than you had ever seen them—and completely blown out. His pupils were so dilated that the warm brown of his irises was almost entirely swallowed by black.
He wasn't angry. He was in absolute shock. And beneath the shock, a terrifying, beautiful wave of pure, unadulterated arousal was washing over his face.
A ragged, shaky breath rattled out of his chest, and his lips parted. A tiny, high-pitched whimper escaped him—not a whine of complaint, but a sound of pure, submission-fueled ecstasy. A heavy, thick drop of pre-cum leaked through his trousers, a testament to just how violently his body had reacted to the blow.
"Michael?" you whispered, your grip on his wrists loosening slightly.
He didn't try to pull his hands away. Instead, he pressed his wrists harder into your palm, begging you to keep him pinned. He looked up at you, his vision swimming with fresh tears, his chest heaving so hard it looked painful.
"Do... do it again," he choked out, his voice a broken, raspy whisper.
You stared at him, stunned. "What?"
"Please," he sobbed, a genuine, heavy tear rolling directly over the red mark on his cheek. He looked completely shattered, his pride stripped away, leaving nothing but a raw, pleading submissive. "Please, hit me again. God, please, it felt so good. I've been so bad. Slap me again, please, baby..."
The realization hit you like a physical wave.
Michael—the man who controlled every aspect of his life, the global superstar who had to be perfect at every second of the day—didn't just want to be taken care of. He wanted to be broken. He wanted the responsibility of his own body taken entirely out of his hands. He wanted to feel the sharp, stinging reality of pain to ground him from the chaotic noise in his head.
A dark, possessive thrill coiled in your stomach. You let go of his wrists, and instead of moving, Michael kept his arms pinned above his head on his own, his fingers twitching, desperately waiting for your next command.
"You like that, baby?" you asked, your voice dropping into a deadly, sensual purr. "You like being put in your place?"
He nodded frantically, his face twisting into a tight sob. "Yes—yes, please, I didn't know, I swear I didn't know, but it feels so hot. My face is burning. Please make it burn more."
You didn't hesitate this time. You raised your hand and delivered another sharp slap to his opposite cheek.
Crack
Michael let out a loud, unhinged cry, his eyes screwing shut as his hips violently jerked upward. A loud sob ripped from his throat, his shoulders shaking as he began to cry in earnest. It was a beautiful, messy, ugly cry—the kind of release he had been holding back for weeks. He was weeping, his mouth open, saliva glistening on his lips, completely unraveled by the stinging heat on his skin.
"Good boy," you praised, the words acting like fuel to his fire. "Cry for me, Michael. Let it all out."
"I'm sorry," he blubbered, his voice thick with tears, completely reverting into a whiney, sobbing mess, but now it was entirely under your control. "I'm sorry I was a brat. I'm sorry I didn't listen. Please fuck me, please, I'm yours, do whatever you want to me."
You reached down, quickly ridding him of his trousers. His length was leaking, pulsing with a desperate need. You didn't give him time to prepare. You aligned yourself and slid down onto him in one deep, agonizingly slow motion.
Michael’s head fell back into the pillows, a loud, choked scream tearing from his throat. The friction against his overstimulated body was too much. He looked like he was losing his mind, his hands finally coming down to grip the sheets so hard his knuckles turned white.
"Look at me," you commanded, riding him with a slow, grinding rhythm that had him gasping for air.
He forced his eyes open, his vision blurry with tears. He looked completely wrecked. His cheeks were both bright red, matching the flushed heat of his chest. He was trembling from head to toe, completely surrendered to you.
"Who do you belong to, Michael?"
"You," he gasped out, a fresh wave of tears spilling down his face. "Only you. Please, I'm your boy. I'm your good boy."
"Then show me how much you want it," you said, and then, with a cruel, deliberate hand, you slapped his flushed cheek one more time.
The sharp sting combined with the deep, heavy friction of your hips threw him completely over the edge. Michael let out a high, fractured wail, his back arching off the bed as his orgasm hit him with a violent, full-body spasm. He came in thick, desperate spurts, his internal muscles clamping down around you so tightly it nearly brought you to your own release.
He sobbed through the entire climax, his hands flying up to cover his face as his body shook with the force of his release. You followed him a second later, riding through your own climax as you collapsed against his chest, your breath hot against his neck.
The room fell back into a quiet stillness, save for the sound of Michael’s heavy, post-cry hiccups.
He was still trembling underneath you, his arms wrapped weakly around your waist now, holding you to him like a lifeline. The red marks on his cheeks were still burning, a stark contrast to the soft, peaceful expression that was finally settling over his features. The anxiety, the stress, the frantic energy—it had all been violently washed away, replaced by a deep, heavily sedated calm.
You shifted, burying your face in the crook of his neck, your fingers gently tracing the bruised-looking flush on his face.
"You okay, Angel?" you whispered softly, your dominant persona melting away into genuine warmth.
Michael let out a long, shuddering sigh, his fingers tangling in your hair, pressing a soft, wet kiss to the top of your head. He sounded entirely spent, completely exhausted, but incredibly safe.
"Never better," he mumbled into your hair, a tiny, watery smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "But... you're gonna have to help me put makeup on these tomorrow."
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!
Could u perchance.. do an mj x reader fic whether it’s before,during or after the Pepsi accident and Michael’s insecure to have us see him at first but eventually allows us to see him and take care of him 😋
So like a bit of angst and fluff
you're still you.
a michael jackson fic
summary ~ requested!
includes ~ angst // insecure michael // supportive reader
a/n ~ this one meant a lot to me! thank you for requesting this. also it's not proofread so bare w me if there are any mistakes.
————————————————————————
When Michael’s mother called, she spoke so carefully that you knew something was wrong before she told you.
There had been an accident.
There had been fire.
Michael was conscious, she assured you. He was being treated. The doctors were taking care of him, and you should not panic.
You panicked anyway.
By the time you reached the hospital, the story had already begun escaping into the world. People clustered beyond the entrance, carrying cameras and shouting questions at anyone who looked remotely important. Security guided you through a private door before anyone could recognize you.
You barely heard the instructions you were given.
All you could think about was Michael.
His hair catching fire beneath the stage lights.
His confusion.
His pain.
Whether he had called for you.
Katherine met you in the hallway. Her expression was tired but composed, and the moment she opened her arms, you fell into them.
“He’s all right,” she whispered, rubbing your back. “He’s shaken, and he’s hurting, but he’s all right.”
“Can I see him?”
Her hesitation frightened you more than the phone call had.
“He doesn’t want you to.”
You pulled away. “What?”
“He doesn’t want anyone coming into the room right now.”
“But I’m not anyone.”
“I know, sweetheart.”
“Did he say why?”
Katherine’s eyes softened.
You knew then.
The injury was on his head and scalp. Although the doctors had assured everyone that his face had been spared from the worst of the burns, Michael had still seen the panic surrounding him. He had smelled the smoke. He had felt hands pressing against his head and heard people speaking urgently above him.
Whatever he looked like now, it was enough to make him afraid of your reaction.
“I need to talk to him,” you said.
“He asked us not to let you in.”
“Then I won’t go in yet. But please tell him I’m here.”
Katherine squeezed your hand. “I will.”
You sat outside his room for nearly an hour.
His brothers came and went. Doctors passed through the hallway. Members of his team whispered to one another about statements, reporters and what could be said publicly. Everyone seemed to have a purpose except you.
You could only wait.
Eventually, Katherine came back out.
“He knows you’re here.”
You stood immediately. “What did he say?”
“He said you should go home.”
You stared at her.
“I’m not doing that.”
“I didn’t think you would.”
She gave you a weary little smile before returning to the rest of the family.
You sat down again.
Another hour passed.
You sent Michael a message through one of the nurses.
I’m not angry with you, and I’m not frightened of you. I only want to know that you’re okay.
The nurse returned several minutes later.
“He said to tell you that he’s fine.”
You looked toward the closed door.
“Would you tell him that he is a terrible liar?”
The nurse almost smiled. “I’ll tell him.”
The next message came directly from Michael, written shakily on a small piece of paper.
Please go home. I don’t want you seeing me this way.
You read it three times.
Then you turned the paper over and wrote beneath his words.
Then close your eyes. You don’t have to see me seeing you.
The nurse carried it inside.
This time, the door opened only a minute later.
Michael’s doctor stepped out, followed by a nurse. They spoke to you quietly, explaining what you should expect. His head was wrapped in medical dressings. There might be some swelling. The medication had made him drowsy and slightly disoriented.
None of it changed your mind.
The doctor opened the door.
The room was dim. Only a small lamp beside the bed had been left on, casting a soft amber glow across the walls. The curtains were closed against the cameras waiting somewhere beyond the hospital.
At first, all you could see was the shape of Michael beneath the blankets.
Then your eyes adjusted.
He was turned away from you.
The dressings covered much of his head, and a few dark curls remained visible near his neck. His shoulders were tense beneath the thin hospital gown. One hand gripped the edge of the blanket as though he had been bracing himself from the moment he agreed to let you enter.
The door clicked shut behind you.
Michael flinched.
You stayed where you were.
“Hi,” you whispered.
He did not turn around.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
His voice was hoarse and small. You had never heard him speak that way before.
“Probably not,” you said. “I’ve been told I’m very stubborn.”
“This isn’t funny.”
“I know.”
You moved closer, stopping beside the chair near his bed.
“May I sit down?”
He was silent for so long that you thought he might ask you to leave again.
Finally, he nodded.
You lowered yourself into the chair. You did not reach for him. You did not ask him to turn around. You simply sat beside him and listened to the soft hum of the equipment around his bed.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured.
Your brow furrowed. “For what?”
“For frightening you.”
“You didn’t do anything.”
“I knew there was something wrong.”
His fingers tightened around the blanket.
“The first time, I felt the heat. I thought maybe I was imagining it. Then they wanted to do it again, and I should have said something.”
“Michael.”
“I should have stopped.”
“You were performing. You trusted the people around you to keep you safe.”
“But if I had just—”
“No.”
Your voice came out firmer than you intended.
He went quiet.
“You are not going to lie here and blame yourself because somebody else’s equipment malfunctioned, or because of a decision that your father made for you,” you continued, gentler now. “You did nothing wrong.”
“You weren’t there.”
“I saw enough.”
His shoulders shifted.
There had already been footage. You had glimpsed only a few seconds before someone pulled you away from the television: the sparks erupting behind him, Michael continuing to dance, unaware that his hair was burning.
Those seconds had lodged themselves somewhere inside you.
“I keep seeing it,” you admitted. “Every time I close my eyes.”
“That’s why I didn’t want you here.”
You swallowed. “Why?”
“Because now you’ll see this too.”
He gestured weakly toward himself.
“You’ll remember me like this.”
Your heart broke so quietly that he could not have known.
“Michael, look at me.”
“No.”
“Please.”
He shook his head and immediately winced.
Your body reacted before you could think, one hand lifting toward him. You stopped yourself before touching him.
He noticed.
Slowly, Michael turned his face toward you.
His eyes were red and exhausted. There was swelling around them, and his skin was paler than usual. The dressings looked uncomfortable, stark white against him.
He watched you with naked fear.
Not fear of pain.
Fear of you.
You kept your expression soft, even as tears gathered in your eyes.
His gaze dropped.
“Don’t,” he whispered.
“Don’t what?”
“Cry.”
“I thought I had lost you.”
“You didn’t.”
“I know that now.”
A tear escaped before you could catch it. Michael turned his face away again.
“This is what I didn’t want.”
“You think I’m crying because of how you look?”
He said nothing.
You leaned forward, careful not to crowd him.
“I’m crying because I love you, and someone called me to say there had been an accident. I’m crying because I had to sit outside this room knowing you were hurt while you tried to protect me from seeing it. I’m crying because you’re in pain and I can’t take it away.”
His lower lip trembled.
“You’re looking at me differently.”
“I’m looking at you like I'm scared.”
“That isn’t what I mean.”
“I know.”
You allowed a moment of silence to pass.
Then you held out your hand between you, palm facing upward.
“You don’t have to let me touch you. You don’t even have to look at me. But my hand is here if you want it.”
Michael stared at it.
His fingers shifted against the blanket, but he did not reach for you.
You sat back and left your hand resting there.
Minutes passed.
His breathing gradually softened. The tension in his shoulders eased, though only slightly. You told him little things because silence gave his mind too much room to punish him.
You told him that his mother had made three different nurses promise to call her if he so much as sneezed.
You told him his brothers were arguing over who had reached the hospital first.
You told him that someone from his team had tried to hand you a prepared statement, and you had stared at him until he went away.
That earned the faintest sound from Michael. Not quite a laugh, but close.
“You frightened him,” he murmured.
“Good.”
“You can be very mean.”
“Only when necessary.”
His gaze drifted back to your open hand.
“I must look awful.”
“You look tired.”
“That means yes.”
“It means you look tired.”
“And the bandages?”
“They look like bandages.”
“The swelling?”
“It looks uncomfortable.”
“Me?”
You understood the question beneath the question.
Do you still see me?
You moved your hand a little closer.
“You look like Michael.”
His eyes filled immediately.
He reached for you.
His hand landed in yours with surprising urgency, fingers closing tightly as though he feared you might disappear. You held him just as firmly, lifting his hand to your lips and kissing his knuckles.
His eyes closed.
“You don’t have to pretend,” he said.
“I’m not.”
“You always tell me I’m handsome.”
“You are.”
“I’m not now.”
You studied him for a moment.
“No,” you said gently. “Right now, you’re hurt.”
His eyes opened.
“You’re hurt, frightened, exhausted and being very difficult. None of that makes you ugly. It makes you human.”
His face crumpled.
Michael turned away, but he did not release your hand. You stood and moved closer to the bed.
“Can I hold you?”
He hesitated.
“I don’t know where it hurts,” you added. “You’ll have to help me.”
“Everywhere,” he whispered.
You could hear the tears in his voice now.
“All right. Then we’ll be very careful.”
The nurse helped raise the bed slightly and showed you where you could sit without disturbing anything. Michael watched the entire process nervously, his embarrassment clear even through the medication.
Once you were beside him, you opened your arms.
For a few seconds, he remained still.
Then he leaned into you.
His movements were slow and guarded. He rested his cheek against your chest, keeping his injured head away from your shoulder. You wrapped one arm around his back while the other rested lightly against his forearm.
The first sob slipped out of him so softly that you almost mistook it for a breath.
Then another followed.
“I was so scared,” he whispered.
“I know.”
“I could hear everyone shouting.”
Your hand moved slowly along his back.
“I didn’t know what was happening. They kept touching me, and the pain was so bad. I thought…”
He stopped.
“You thought what?”
“I thought it had ruined everything.”
The words were muffled against you.
“My hair. My face. The performances. Everything.”
“Oh, Michael.”
“And then I thought about you seeing me.”
His shoulders shook.
“I knew you would try to be kind, but I thought you’d look at me and feel sorry for me.”
“I do feel sorry that you’re hurting.”
“That isn’t the same.”
“No, it isn’t.”
You pressed a kiss to his temple, far from the dressings.
“I don’t pity you. I’m not disgusted by you. I’m not disappointed in you. I’m just here.”
He cried quietly against you, releasing the fear he had tried to swallow for everyone else. You let him. You did not tell him to be strong or assure him that everything would immediately return to normal.
You simply held him.
Eventually, exhaustion softened his sobs into uneven breaths.
“You still love me?” he asked.
The question was so quiet that you almost wished you had misheard it.
You leaned back just enough to see his face.
“Do you honestly think a few bandages could change that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then I’ll tell you until you do.”
You wiped beneath his eye with your thumb.
“I love you.”
His eyes closed.
“I love you when you’re onstage and everyone in the world is screaming your name. I love you when you’re wearing pajamas and stealing food from my plate. I love you when you feel beautiful, and I love you when you don’t.”
His mouth quivered.
“You don’t have to earn it by looking perfect.”
“I want to be perfect for you.”
“I don’t want perfect.”
“What do you want?”
“You.”
Michael looked at you for a long moment.
Then he raised your joined hands and pressed his lips against your fingers.
“You really are stubborn,” he murmured.
“Extremely.”
“I told them not to let you in.”
“You underestimated me.”
“I should know better.”
“You really should.”
The tiniest smile appeared on his lips.
There he was.
You wanted to kiss him, but you waited.
Michael noticed. His eyes moved briefly to your mouth before returning to your face.
“You can,” he whispered.
“Are you sure?”
He nodded.
You leaned forward and kissed him gently.
There was no urgency in it. You kept one hand around his while the other rested against his shoulder. His lips were dry, and he tasted faintly of hospital water, but the moment he kissed you back, some part of you finally believed he was safe.
When you pulled away, his eyes remained closed.
“Still think I’m frightened of you?” you whispered.
“A little.”
You kissed the corner of his mouth.
“How about now?”
“Maybe less.”
You kissed his cheek.
“Now?”
A real smile appeared this time.
“You may need to keep trying.”
“Convenient.”
“I’m injured. You have to be nice to me.”
“I have been sitting outside for hours because you banned me from the room.”
His smile faded.
“I’m sorry.”
You brushed your thumb over his knuckles.
“I understand why you did it. But next time you’re frightened, let me be frightened with you.”
“I don’t want to burden you.”
“Loving you isn’t a burden.”
He lowered his eyes.
“You don’t always have to be the one protecting everyone,” you continued. “Sometimes you’re allowed to need somebody.”
“I need you.”
The admission was immediate and painfully sincere.
You leaned forward until your forehead rested carefully against his.
“Good,” you whispered. “Because you have me.”
Later, after the nurse checked his dressings and brought fresh water, Michael allowed you to help him drink. He complained that the straw was undignified, then became offended when you laughed.
You adjusted his blankets. He insisted he was not cold, although he stopped protesting the moment you tucked them around him.
When the medication began pulling him toward sleep, you returned to the chair beside his bed.
His fingers tightened around yours.
“Where are you going?”
“Nowhere. I’m sitting down.”
“You’ll stay?”
“As long as they let me.”
“And if they tell you to leave?”
“I’ll hide in the bathroom.”
His sleepy laugh filled the dim room.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“And yet, you love me.”
“I do.”
His eyes began to close.
You thought he had fallen asleep until his voice reached you again.
“When the bandages come off…”
“Yes?”
His fingers shifted nervously between yours.
“What if it’s worse?”
“Then I’ll be there.”
“What if I don’t want to look?”
“Then you don’t have to look until you’re ready.”
“What if you look first?”
You lifted his hand and kissed it again.
“Then I’ll tell you the truth.”
His eyes opened slightly. “Which is?”
“That you’re still you.”
He watched you through the haze of exhaustion, searching your face for uncertainty.
Whatever he found seemed to soothe him.
“Come closer,” he murmured.
You shifted the chair until it touched the bed.
“Closer.”
“I cannot physically move the chair any closer, Michael.”
He gave you a weak, dissatisfied look.
You smiled and leaned over the railing, bringing your face near his. He relaxed immediately.
“There?”
“Better.”
His eyes closed once more.
You stayed beside him as his breathing became deep and even, your hand held securely in his. Every so often, even in sleep, his fingers tightened as if checking that you had not left.
Each time, you squeezed back.
The world outside was already turning his pain into headlines, photographs and statements. By morning, strangers would debate what happened and what it meant for his career. People would study every image and search for something dramatic to consume.
But inside the room, he was simply Michael.
Frightened.
Tender.
Alive.
And loved.
Just before dawn, he stirred. His eyes opened slowly and found you with your head resting beside his arm.
“You stayed,” he whispered.
You lifted your head, blinking away sleep.
“I told you I would.”
In the pale morning light, his bandages were still there. The swelling was still there. Nothing had magically healed overnight.
But when Michael looked at you, the fear in his eyes was quieter.
summary: during michael’s invincible album release, he does a meet and greet with his fans. not only does he meet the cutest little boy, but his mother might also be a sweet lil thing too..
sorry guys been xtra busy recently. more stories and the requests coming next week, also thank u for all the requests i’ve seen them and will be writing𑣲⋆
“are you okay, baby” you said quietly, crouching slightly to whisper in the boys ear.
“i’m okay mama, it’s just very loud” zain whispered back, his head slightly bowed, the fedora tipping slightly.
you grabbed his tiny hand tighter, squeezing it to reassure him that you were there protecting him and nobody would hurt him.
you and zain were stood around 6 people away from michael, his cd signing allowing 500 lucky fans to get into the store.
when you had heard of the chance to meet michael, you did absolutely everything in your power to do so, for your little boy.
zain had loved michael from the moment he had first heard him on the tv when he was 1 years old. he had heard black or white, standing infront of the tv watching the music video whilst shaking his little shoulders, asking you to replay it multiple times before it became practically engrained into the walls.
it was then you went down a rabbit hole with him, playing every michael jackson song that was available to play at his request, his favourites accumulating to don’t stop till you get enough and remember the time.
he had even stood in the living room trying to copy the dangerous dance breakdown, eventually almost mastering it to the best of his toddler abilities.
he had become one of michael’s biggest fans, and he was only three and a half years old.
now you both were stood in the music shop, blessed to receive access after you had bought the invincible cd the day before, your son had been wrapped up in your arms as he bounced up and down, so excited to get his hands on the music.
the line finally began to shorten after what felt like years of being stood in the same spot, the sequins on zain’s white glove digging into the skin of your palms. his tiny suit ruffled every time his legs moved, restless from standing still for so long.
the table became easier to see as you got closer, michael sat there whilst his hands signed the cd alongside listening attentively to what the fan infront of him was saying, nodding politely.
you picked zain up, placing him onto your hip so you could talk to him closer.
“okay we are nearly there now, don’t worry baby. can you see him right there” before pointing towards michael.
“oh my gosh mama! he’s right there!” he squealed slightly, his hands grabbing your shoulders and wrapping around the back of your neck to hug you.
you giggled at his excitement, so happy to see your son laughing and getting tense with energy.
the joy ran like honey through your veins, it had been a difficult few months. struggling with money in order to put food on the table for your son and you and paying for clothes and bills. but you had finally gathered your footing, starting a new job that payed exceptionally, now able to fund zain’s michael jackson obsession.
the large, burly security guard stood next to the large sign beside the table, gently guiding you and your son forward and putting space between you and the person behind you, probably wanting to protect the little boy that shuffled his feet in anticipation along the carpeted floor.
michael’s eyes scanned the room, moving down the line towards the people he was about to meet. his dark brown eyes glinting and glittering under the bright lights before locking onto someone, the little boy dressed up as him. he laughed out loud, his hand coming up to cover his mouth as he stared in shock.
michael tried to focus on what the man standing in front of him was saying, his hands signing the cd with the all too familiar signature, but his mind and eyes kept wandering back to the little boy.
you moved forward, going up the steps of the platform to the table, guiding your son towards the table. your heartbeat began to race, an unexpected nervousness overcoming you at the sight of the handsome king of pop.
the cloth covered table covered the majority of zain’s body, only his bright eyes and fedora peeking over at him, his hands gripping the table so tight his knuckles nearly turned white.
“come on, honey, he can’t see your outfit” you said, laughing quietly at his pose.
your hands went under zain’s arms, placing him onto the table infront of you, hands resting gently on his lower back to steady him and make him feel safe. a symphony of ‘awh’ echoed behind you, the cuteness of the moment forcing everyone to look.
michael laughed loudly, his head tipping back before his head came forward, looking over zain’s outfit in awe.
“you look like me!” michael exclaimed, his voice going a tiny bit higher, his finger grazing zain’s tiny knuckles.
“well… i-i… mamaaa” zain stuttered, turning around suddenly and burying his face into your neck.
he had become all of a sudden to nervous to even look michael in the eye, one of his favourite people ever was stood infront of him but all the attention was too much.
“it’s okay, baby. look, show him your dance moves, you said to me before that you wanted to show him something didn’t you?”
your comforting hand running over the length of his back, trying to coerce him to turn around to look at michael, who was staring at him in awe and you with a certain look in his eye that you couldn’t quite name.
zain turned, his back pressing against your chest as he leant against you. he looked at michael, a tiny hand coming out for him to shake.
“hi, i’m zain” he whispered, the other hand coming up near his mouth.
“hi zain, it’s lovely to meet you! you look amazing, your mama said you wanted to show me something?” he leant closer, his other hand coming up to bend the small fedora back to uncover his face.
zain shuffled forward a little bit, before getting into position. he span in a circle, the cloth bunching under his feet, before he brought one hand to his lower stomach and one hand to his hat, his leg propping out. zain ended his quick performance with his hand grasping the little fedora and tilting it down to block his face, and then coming up to a point.
michael clapped, getting to his feet to give him a proper standing ovation. he wrapped the boy up in his arms, giving him a hug and a kiss on the top of his head, a huge smile painted across his face.
“wow, that was amazing! you could take my place one day.”
looking at the interaction between michael and zain, any random person would think it was between a father and son the way he cared so much. he held his hands in his, nodding along and consistently complimenting zain, whether it was on his dance moves, his outfit or his cute curly hair.
“and mama must be very proud of you, huh? at having a son with such god given talent” michael said suddenly, pulling you out of your thoughts, your eyes meeting his.
“oh he’s amazing, he’s loved you since he’s been able to move around, always dancing in the living room to your songs, aren’t you?” you tickled zain’s sides lightly, causing a high pitched giggle to fall from his mouth.
“is that so, zain? well you have made my day with your little dance moves and your cute little smile” michael said, “guess we know who he got that from”
his eyes locked onto your face, more specifically your shiny lips, before running up and down your body, taking in your full appearance.
you shyly dipped your head, a small, nervous tilt of your lips making you look even more prettier to michael. the black zip of your bag brushed against your hands as you opened it, reaching into grab the cd and place it on the table.
“zain was so excited to come here, dressing up as you was his idea actually. but it was a surprise cause he usually doesn't like wearing this stuff” you looked at zain, his hands locking infront of him as he swayed from side to side.
michael’s hands took the cd off of the table, before taking the cap off the pen and bringing his head down, writing a little message to zain with absolute concentration before signing off with his iconic signature.
you turned your head to zain, tilting his hat back and pulling his jacket down as it had ridden up to his waist in all of the chaos. you asked how he was, wondering if this was becoming too much for him before he smiled at you, confirming that he was as happy as can be.
“here you go, little man”
he placed the cd in zain’s hands, his large eyes scanning over the writing before turning it towards you.
“mama, what does it say?”
you and michael burst into laughter, zain’s head tilted as he looked at you with confusion.
“we will read it later baby, come on”
the security guard motioned to michael that it was time for you to move on, the moment stopping all too soon for his liking, but he understood the need to keep on time.
“well it was lovely to meet you zain, and you too mama, you have raised him beautifully” he whispered towards you, his hand taking yours in a handshake before bringing it to his lips.
you felt your body get hot, eyes widening in shock, a slight sweat building up on your brow bone as you grew increasingly flustered.
turning towards zain, a nervous laughter bubbling in your chest as you moved to pick him up off of the table.
“say bye, zain” you whispered in his ear.
zain shot forward, wrapping his arms around michael’s neck in a hug, his face buried into the crook of his shoulder.
michael’s large hands moved to his back, one supporting his back, the other engulfing the back of his curly hair. his eyes shut as a warm smile grew on his face at the young child’s sweetness.
“bye zain, thank you for coming today”
zain moved backwards towards you, his legs wrapping around your waist and head resting against your chest, your hands moving to grip his back slacks to hold him up.
he waved a small goodbye, his eyes filling with tears at the departure.
“bye mikey!”
you smiled at michael, before walking down the steps, around the back of the set up to leave the store.
zain stifled a small cry, his lip trembling and a few tears slipping down his chubby cheeks.
“mama, i miss him already” he muttered into your shirt, your hand resting on his head.
michael’s doe eyes followed you out, before turning slightly to his head of security and whispering something into his ear before getting a nod in return.
the man gripped the walkie-talkie on his waist and brought it up to his lips before saying something inaudible into it.
as you walked closer to the door, whispering comfort into zain’s ears as he sobbed gently into your neck, a man dressed in black stopped you, the words ‘SECURITY’ painted across his chest.
“are you zain’s mother, the little boy michael just met?” the man said, sounding very serious, a pit forming in your stomach.
“oh um.. yes i am, is there a problem?” your voice twinged with confusion, wondering if you had done anything wrong.
he glanced around to see if anyone was nearby before reaching into his pocket, pulling out a folded note and placing into your slightly closed hand that rested on zain’s hip.
“have a good day, ma’am” ,turning and walking back to the cd signing.
staring in confusion at the man’s back as he walked away, you glanced back at your son, a deflated look painted across his face.
“let’s go and get something to eat, and we can read what michael put on the cd, yeah?”
you walked into the cozy restaurant, being led to a booth in the corner, placing him along with your bags into the corner and sitting down yourself.
you read zain the menu, allowing him to pick what he wanted before reading it off to the waiter along with your own order.
the day had clearly began to wear on zain, his eyes beginning to droop and gradually becoming more clingy and wanting your affection.
you wrapped your arms around his shoulder, guiding him to lean against you as you held the cd in your hands.
“should we read this together then, baby?”
zain nodded his head, his legs swinging over your thighs and getting more comfy so you can read the message to him.
“okay, it says: dear zain, thank you for showing me your dance moves, i was very impressed at how good you are - especially that spin, that was amazing. i might have some competition!
keep dancing, keep smiling and i hope you enjoy this album, maybe you can make some new moves for me? love, michael jackson”
zain’s smile widened, his pearly teeth showing, “mama, he said that i was amazing?”
“he did, baby! you must have blown him away with your coolness!” you giggled, ruffling his curls as his eyes squinted due to his grin.
you turned the cd in your hands to look at the full thing, before flipping it onto the back, black marker standing out against the blue background.
your eyebrows furrowed at it, wondering how you had missed him writing on the back.
‘mama, there is something very special about your son, the way he allows the music to take over his body is amazing, it reminds me of when i was a child. he has a beautiful spirit and i hope he keeps that for the rest of his life. you have done an amazing job at raising him.
take care of yourself, michael’
you read it in your head, a warmth in your chest growing. someone else had noticed the spark in your boy, the ever growing spark growing brighter in his eyes as he grew older, something different from the other children in his class.
remembering the note that had been placed into your hand and then stuffed into your bag as you focused on finding somewhere to eat in the big city, slipping into the black purse and pulling out the note.
‘please call me, i would love to meet you and your wonderful son again. - michael’
the number underneath was written in big bold letters, a contrast to the cursive writing on the cd, obviously written by the security guard.
smiling at not only the note on both the cd and the paper, but also at your sons excitement, the plates clinked against the table.
grabbing the knife and fork and cutting your sons food into smaller pieces, passing the fork to him to eat.
defending michael on internet isn’t enough, i need a gun.
fuck netflix and fuck all of you guys who are abandoning mike after this nasty documentary.
netflix isn’t innocent! after the biopic was released, everyone now wants to have a piece of michael to profit, he’s INNOCENT, everyone already knows and coming back and talking about these accusations years later and making a documentary about it is ridiculous, disrespectful and disgusting! worse, releasing this doc in JUNE.
Michael didn't deserve and doesn't deserve to go through this, let him rest in peace, he's already suffered a lot here on earth. May God bless him and may the world be a better place.
Synopsis: Grammys '84. You're attending with your boyfriend (reluctantly) and unfortunately, you have to throw hands about your man.
Pairing: Thriller ear!Michael Jackson x black fem!reader
Drea's Note: I saw two posts asking for a fic where reader beats tf outta Diana and I came to deliver. PLUS, I'm in a petty mood after constantly seeing ppl leave the fandom bc of the #that documentary.
Word count: 2.2k
Award shows. Oh, how you hated them. The pretence, the press and especially being around so many coked-up celebrities never felt right to you. Of course, they’d never admit to being drug-addicted losers, but you knew better. What kind of normal person sniffles and fiddles with their nose without actually needing to blow it? Right right. You hated it. As simple as that. You hated it all, loathed it even. But your boyfriend wanted you to be there for him. It’s the Grammys after all, and his latest album is nominated in pretty much every major category. He’s going to win it all. That’s a given. He’s going to sweep up every award, and you’ll be there to kiss him in front of the cameras every single time he gets up to collect another golden gramophone.
Maybe, just maybe, you like that, but that’s a big maybe. Showing off who you are to the rising star. You don’t want to admit it, but your ego inflates every time someone reminds you that you’re dating Michael Jackson. Of course, there's no guarantee that he’ll marry you—he’s yet to bring that conversation up—but who gives a shit? Michael Jackson is yourboyfriend. Yours. And that’s all that matters.
The car ride to Shrine Auditorium and Expo Hall is tedious and silent. You’re stewing in your own self-pity. The idea of simply jumping out of the car crosses your mind. Michael notices.
“Oh, come on. Don’t be like that.” He mutters, plucking at your Afro to fluff it up at the back.
“Shut up, Mike. I don’t want to do this.” There’s no venom in your words. Michael knows that. He merely scoffs and lifts your knuckles to his lips.
“You gonna be in a mood all night? The cameras are gonna catch every scowl.” He pecks each knuckle on your hand.
Instead of responding with sarcasm, you turn to him and smile obnoxiously in a silent “I’ll pretend’ manner. Michael snickers. His lips are still lazily grazing your hand as he stares at you. God, you’re so annoyingly sassy, but he loves it. He loves how blunt you are—maybe because he’s had to be sweet and gentle all his life. You’re unmoving, like a mountain withstanding a lightning storm. So sexy. So infuriating. The car drives over a speed bump, breaking the slight sexual tension that had been building between you both. When it turns the corner into the Expo hall parking lot, you swiftly remove your hand from his delicate grip.
Cameras flash in a staccato motion. It’s overwhelming. Nauseating. Michael steps out of the car first, aviators hiding his gorgeous eyes. The cameras flash faster than before, journalists asking senseless questions all at once. Michael pays them little mind, flashing his oh-so-charming smile at them, giving them little satisfaction. He rushes to your side of the car before opening the door for you. He whispers a quick “smile, woman,” into your ear and you oblige. Photographs of you both entering the Hall are taken. Every move you make, every breath and every micro expression is documented. You’re already over it.
The ceremony—to you at least—is lacklustre. A few performances here, award winners there and unnecessary speeches flow through the Hall at a painfully laggard pace. You’re nearing the brink of sleep, but you fight it off. Can you imagine what the press would say if they caught you slumped in a theatre chair at the Grammys? Not only would that embarrass you, but your loving partner. You blink a few times, and finally, finally, Michael’s name is said.
“Male Pop Vocal Performance goes to Michael Jackson!”
And then another.
“The Grammy for Record of the Year goes to…Michael Jackson!”
And another, and another, and another until your lip gloss has finally gone dry from pressing chaste kisses on Michael’s perfectly sculpted face.
Your eyes stay fixed on him, blue-black and gold military-esque jacket glistening under expensive lights. He looks ethereal. Otherworldly. You have to admit you’re enjoying yourself now. Watching your man win 8 awards in one night gives you an indescribable high, a high he seems to notice because when he wins Album of the Year, he dedicates it to you. You kiss the bottom of his chin, a light red lipstick stain glistening on his as he accepts the award onstage. His speech is short but cutting, telling the crowd—and those watching at home—how much you inspired him throughout the album’s creation.
And soon after, the show ends, and the cameras stop broadcasting. You just have to suffer the post-award show interviews, and then you’ll be free from this glitz and glam-covered purgatory. Right?
Wrong.
“We’re going to the after-party,” Michael bounces. he hops smoothly, as if his bones are made of springs.
You want to melt there and then. Michael practically skips to your shared limousine, holding the door open for you to enter. He jumps in after you.
“I’m not going. No way.” You murmur. Michael shakes his head, holding your hand as he did on the way here.
“It’ll be fun! Drinks, food, music and dancing,” he practically sings, words dancing in the air like magic dust, “Please?”
“You’re way too jolly for my liking,” You scoff. He’s used to this, you getting all irritated by his famous lifestyle. He understands. He really does, but tonight is different. He won 8 Grammys for god’s sake; first person to do that, ever. Let alone being a black man to set that record. He’s elated, buzzing with justified pride. You can literally feel him vibrating beside you. “But fine. We’ll go to the damn after-party.”
Celebrities dance and sing alone to their own song in the warmly lit club. Alcohol flows through the room in waves and bodies sway in their elegant outfits. Some stars have changed into completely different attire. Show-offs.
You mingle as much as you can. Michael stays beside you for the most part until he’s swept away by David Bowie. He says something about “wanting to introduce Michael” to a few friends. Your arm reluctantly unhooks itself from Michael as you dolefully watch him vanish into the crowd. With a frustrated smile, you find an empty seat near the back booth in the club. A few stars greet you. Some stable nearby chairs and make small talk with you while others remain standing. You notice a few snorting coke by the bar, sipping on something strong right after.
“Good lord, get me outta here.” You mumble inwardly, pinching the bridge of your nose, disconsolation evident in your mannerism. You can hear your boyfriend's heavenly laugh in the distance. Too heavenly for your liking. A piercing pang drops in your gut and, without further thinking, you get up and stride confidently towards the sound of Michael laughing again. When you make it to him, you see her.
Diana fucking Ross.
“Oh hi!” She gleams mockingly at you, waving her hand in your direction while her other hand caresses Michael’s shoulder. “I didn’t think you’d be here, y/n.”
“Hi,” you mimic her tone, although less enthusiastically. Michael stiffens when he glances in your direction. Your jaw is clenched, and your hands are balled up in tight fists. “Didn’t think you’d be up at this hour either.” You smile wickedly.
Diana laughs it off, her lanky fingers still raking sensually over Michael’s shoulder. Michael doesn’t even move. He remains still, an awkward grin plastered on his even more awkward face. You’re not surprised he’s not moving. Michael has never been good with situations like this, and you’re well aware of the history between him and Diana. Fucking weird either way. There isn’t any situation where a woman should be all ‘touchy feely’ with a man 14 years older than him.
“What’s got you laughing so much, babe?” You question his loud chuckles from a minute earlier. Diana responds for him.
“A little inside joke between us from years ago!” She keeps up the pretence, You wouldn’t understand, sweethearts!”
Sweetheart? Who is she calling sweetheart?
“I have time.” You pry.
“Ah, it's nothing serious.” She grins.
“Seems serious enough to have you eye-fucking my boyfriend.” You quip.
Michael’s eyes widen behind his aviators. The three of you stand in thick, unbreaking pressure unnoticed by the rest of the party. Rage envelopes you in a fuzzy hug. Diana’s hand continues its journey around your man’s shoulder. Her thumb and index finger circle his chin, and without warning, she puckers her lips and kisses Michael right above his chin, leaving a purple lipstick stain on his lower's lip in its wake.
The damn within you cracks. Anger as thick and hot as molten lava seeps from every orifice and pore.
“You fucking bitch! I’m gonna fuck you up—” You lunge forward, your hands grabbing Diana’s hair as you drag her to the ground. The music keeps playing, muffling Diana’s pained and shocked screams. She’s completely taken off guard. Never in her life has anyone of Michael’s dates or girlfriends stood up to her like this. In fact, none of them stuck around long enough to have to deal with bullshit like this.
You straddle her on the floor, fists bashing at every inch of her face and chest. Each blow to her face is met with a curse and wince from her. Diana’s eyes water in agony. She cries for help, but her wails are nullified by the beating rhythm of music. Ironically, Michael’s ‘Beat It’ bounces out of large speakers, loud and deafening. Michael freezes completely. The only thing he manages to move is his hand as he disgustedly wipes Diana’s lipstick stain off his lip. He watches the scene unfold before him, eyes glistening—not with sorrow but with endearment too shameful to admit. You’re going batshit crazy on Diana right now, and he…likes it?
“Heavenly Father…” He mutters in absolute awe for you, “What a woman.”
One loud piteous cry from Diana eventually draws people’s attention, specifically David—who had been the one to take Mike away from your hold hours again. He hooks his arms under yours and drags you off of Diana. You don’t go out without a fight, kicking at her mindlessly as David drags you away. One kick in particular hits her ribs, drawing out a sharp cry from her.
All eyes are on you now. The music has stopped, and murmurs about the debacle travel to and fro. Michael eventually snaps out of his daze. His body shakes off the last remnants of sudden paralysis as he crouches down in front of Diana—not to check on her but to inspect your violent artistry. His large sunglasses hide the glint in his eyes. Diana shields her face in both hands, embarrassment evident in how she curls into herself on the floor.
Behind Michael, David still holds you back. He repeats “calm down” in your ear whenever you try to pounce. Your chest heaves energetically, hands grabbing at David’s arms when you finally try to get yourself together. He doesn’t mind. He’s seen shit like this before. If he was honest, what you did is nothing compared to what he’s witnessed on past occasions.
Soon enough, Michael is at your side, replacing David’s hold on you in a subtle manner. Instead of holding you in an undertook like Bowie had, he lovingly places his warm hands on your waist and hugs you from behind.
“Woman, you’ve done it this time,” Michael whispers. Someone rushes to Diana’s aid while another calls for medical attention. He rubs gentle circles over your hip bone with his thumbs and sighs, looking around the room. Cops could be on their way, though the chance of that is unlikely. Having police in a drug-ridden club would look bad for the Academy and the club itself.
“Who’s she feeling like? Kissing on my man? In front of me!” You lunge forward, but Michael holds you back.
“Enough, pretty thing.” Mike’s tone is stern now. As much as he’d like to entertain this further, he’s aware of how damaging this could be for you both. “Let’s go. She’s not going to press charges.”
“And you know this how?” You scoff and reluctantly ease up in his hold.
“Trust me.” He doesn’t explain further. You know what he means, and you hate it. As much as their…relationship irks you, you know Diana’s got a soft spot for him. If need be, he’ll toy with her heartstrings to get you off the hook.
The limousine ride to your hotel room is quiet. Michael massages your bruised knuckles and chuckles to himself.
“Ain’t shit funny,” you mutter, a faint smile splayed across your makeup-shone face, “I could go to jail.”
“Shoulda thought of that before you went all ‘Muhammad Ali’ on her.” He huffs, spreading his legs and shifting in his seat. He clears his throat when you notice it.
“Really, Mike? You’re sick.” You giggle.
“Might need you to beat up on me too.” Michael jokes bashfully, leaning in to kiss you.
“Boy, wash your face first…and scrub them lips extra hard.” You push him away. He pouts in mock offence but understandably nods and snickers, leaning back in his seat as the car rolls forward through the late night.
⋮ ⌗ ┆ summary: gentlemen can still get their dicks sucked. michael thinks he’s exempt because you’re too pretty. AHNT! wrong.
⋮ ⌗ ┆ smut, oral sex (male receiving), a very shy and flustered michael because I genuinely don’t think he’d be any way else at this age, female reader. wrote this with the “it’s wonderful day!” interview in mind.
Michael isn't sure how he got in this predicament.
One second she'd been curled against him on the bed, tracing lazy shapes against his chest while the television hummed quietly somewhere in the background. The next, her lips were brushing against his ear, soft and plush and devastatingly warm, whispering something sweet as melted honey that made his stomach flip straight into his ribs.
He didn't even fully process the words, only the feeling of all the blood from his head rushing straight to his pants.
A featherlight breath against his skin.
A little kiss tucked just beneath his ear.
The way her voice wrapped around him slow and warm, making him melt before he even realized he was melting. And somehow after that, she was on her knees between his legs.
Michael sat frozen at the edge of the mattress, staring down at her with wide brown eyes while she looked up at him like he'd hung the stars himself. The lamp beside the bed washed everything amber gold, catching in the blush already flooding his cheeks and the nervous shine of his bitten lips.
She looked downright lovesick.
The kind of gaze that made his pulse scramble like frightened birds in a cathedral. Her pupils looked enormous beneath her lashes, soft and syrupy and practically heart shaped with how fond she seemed of him. It made him duck his head immediately, one hand flying up to cover his face as a helpless laugh escaped through his trembling fingers.
“Baby..” he laughed weakly, voice embarrassingly breathless. “Don't look at me like that...”
“Why not?”
“‘Cause...” He peeked at her through his fingers only to instantly regret it when she smiled. “You know why.”
Her hands settled on his thighs then, thumbs smoothing absent little circles against the fabric of his jeans while his knees twitched under her touch. Michael inhaled sharply, shoulders pulling inward with shy tension as she started inching upward, slow enough for him to want to instinctively close his thighs as his stomach tightened when her fingers brushed his belt.
“Can I taste what's in here, angel face?” she spoke softly, tilting her head.
Michael made the tiniest strangled sound. Immediately his head tipped back with embarrassment, curls tumbling across his forehead. “Don't say things like that..”
“Like what?” she asked, all faux innocence and sparkling eyes.
“Those cute names when you're being..” He swallowed hard. “..dirty.”
A grin tugged at her lips. “I think you like it.”
Michael shook his head too fast to be believable. “N-no! I’m a gentleman.”
“Liar.” Her fingers hooked lightly into his belt loops now, teasing without actually pulling. The anticipation alone had him squirming beneath her touch, one leg bouncing nervously while he tried very hard to avoid looking directly at her.
It didn't help that she looked beautiful like this.
Too beautiful, and the thought escaped before he could stop it.
“You're too pretty to be down there..” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “Messin' with something so.. perverted.”
She blinked up at him, trying not to laugh. “Perverted?”
Michael groaned softly and buried his entire face in both hands this time. “Please don't make me repeat stuff.. I’m really shy..”
The sound of her laughter was gentle, fond. She leaned forward just enough for her cheek to brush against his knee affectionately, and Michael nearly folded in on himself from the sheer tenderness of it.
“You’re shaking, Mikey..” Her hands left his belt slowly.
For a second Michael thought maybe she'd noticed how overwhelmed he was getting. The poor boy could barely breathe correctly anymore, all flushed cheeks and twitching thighs and nervous little laughs muffled behind his hands.
But then she reached for one of them.
Michael peeked through his fingers just in time to see her guiding his larger hand into her lap, her own looking impossibly small wrapped around it. Long fingers. Elegant fingers. The kind that belonged behind piano keys beneath stage lights.
“Mama..” he whispered, already embarrassed again.
She ignored him completely and instead, she turned his hand over gently and pressed a kiss to the tip of his thumb and Michael visibly melted.
Another kiss landed against his index finger.
Then his middle.
Then the next.
Slow little kisses. Unhurried and affectionate enough to make his pants feel unbearably tight. Michael stared down at her in stunned silence, lips parted slightly while heat crawled all the way down his neck. This was almost worse than the teasing because it was too sweet. Way too sweet.
His thighs shifted restlessly beneath her as she kissed the tip of his pinky last, eyes never leaving his face once— she was watching every single reaction bloom across him in real time.
Michael tried to hide again instinctively, but she still had his hand still holding him there. Her gaze dropped briefly and she took his longest finger gently between her lips, and Michael forgot how to breathe for a solid three seconds because all he could focus on was her mouth.
The softness of it. The shine of it. The way her plush lips looked wrapped around his finger while she looked back up at him through her lashes. She started sucking, bobbing her head up and down on the digit as her tongue swirled a little too good around the flesh.
Michael sucked in a shaky breath so suddenly it almost sounded painful. His free hand immediately covered his face again, utterly overwhelmed.
“Hoh, God..” he laughed weakly into his palm, voice trembling around the edges. His thighs tried to cave inward again, only stopping because she was still between them.
And she looked entirely too pleased about that fact.
This time her hand slid upward, fingers disappearing into the curls at the nape of his neck gentle and possessive in the softest way possible. She tugged him downward carefully, and Michael followed without resistance, folding toward her like he was helpless against gravity whenever she touched him like this. One of his hands caught against the mattress beside her head to steady himself.
He looked unbearably pretty up close with his flushed cheeks, heavy lashes and hips parted slightly from nervous breathing.
And still shy. Still hiding little fragments of his face from her whenever she looked at him too lovingly for too long. Her thumb brushed along his jaw and Michael's eyes fluttered shut the second her lips met his.
When she pulled back barely an inch, his eyes opened slowly. Dazed. She smiled at him so fondly it nearly finished him off right there. “Can I make you feel good, my angel?” she asked softly.
He ducked his head immediately, forehead nearly falling against her shoulder while a breathless giggle escaped him in pure embarrassment. “You already are..” he mumbled shyly.
Moments of movement and shuffling pass before Michael's breathing is completely uneven now.
Every inhale came sharp through parted lips, every exhale trembling back out because he couldn't quite steady himself anymore. His face stayed turned away half the time, curls falling over his eyes while little helpless sounds kept slipping from him no matter how hard he tried to swallow them down.
“Mm.. mm—baby.. baby—” The words barely even sounded intentional. More instinct than speech as his fingers flexed uselessly against the sheets beside him before curling tight enough to wrinkle the fabric. A second later they were in his hair instead, tugging lightly at the curls near his temple while he whines under his breath in disbelief. A completely overwhelmed sound, genuinely not able process how good this felt.
Her tongue swirls around the sensitive head of his pretty mauve flushed brown tip, the wet warmth of her mouth enveloping him completely. Her small hands grip his base firmly, matching the rhythm of her mouth’s movements.
Michael squeezed his eyes shut again, brows pulling together while another soft moan escaped him, quieter this time. Almost ashamed of itself with pink flooding across his cheeks, lips parted helplessly and chest rising too fast beneath the open collar of his shirt.
Every little reaction crossed his face openly before he could hide it. And god, he kept trying to hide it. Every time a sound slipped out, he’d duck his head immediately afterward, one hand covering his mouth like maybe he could physically stop himself from making another. It never worked.
“Please..” he whispered at one point, though it didn't even sound like protest. More like he was overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of being wanted this way.
Her mouth is filled with the prettiest cock she’s ever had— slender but long, with a graceful curve that hits the back of her throat perfectly. And such a precious shade of cooked honey, the head thick and smooth. His pelvic area is impossibly smooth, completely hairless and perfectly groomed. She can see every detail of his erection without obstruction; the way his shaft rises from the clean shaven pelvis as her hands run over his smooth pubic bone, feeling how soft the skin is stretched tight over the area.
Another broken little moan caught in his throat.
Michael swallowed hard afterward, eyes glassy when they fluttered open again. He looked almost distraught from pleasure alone now.
“This is so..” He exhaled shakily, unable to finish the sentence.
Dirty.
Dirty and deply intimate in a way that made his stomach twist itself into knots. Michael looked almost painfully pretty like this. Completely unraveled by tenderness and desire all at once. Every soft sound leaving him admittedly was very pathetic and he couldn't understand how he’d ended up here at all. With a beautiful girlfriend who likes, no—loves him enough to put his.. thing in her pretty mouth. They’ve been intimate before this, but he’s still so shy when they do fool around he’s just like this every time. He hasn’t even seen what in between her legs looks like yet but he’s felt it before with his fingers.
A particularly shaky moan slipped out of him then, and he immediately groaned afterward biting the knuckle of his pointer finger. “I can't hold it.. I can't hold it..” he mumbled weakly against his skin, mortified. But even then his thighs trembled.
Michael’s breath stutters as his entire body tightens for a brief, helpless second before he loses whatever shaky control he’d been holding onto. He sits up almost involuntarily, pulled by instinct more than thought and immediately folds forward over her, shoulders hunched, curls falling around his face as he cradles her head with both hands. He’s cumming.
“Lord—have mercy..”
His fingers press gently into her hair, careful not to mess it up too bad while his forehead dips close. He tries to steady himself against her, a soft broken sound caught in his throat, as he stays there feeling her tongue roll against the underside of his dick. He.. doesn’t quite know how to come back down from the intensity except by holding on.
And that’s what he does until he bashfully lets her pull away, a big flirty smile on her face as she wipes the corner of her mouth.
“What? Don’t look at me like that..” His little accent is thicker now.
“We’ve been dating for months and you’re still so precious! Come hereeeee~! ♪ ” She chirps going in to tickle him, to which he preemptively starts screaming.
❛ michael jackson 𝑥 female !reader ❜
....✉︎ an extremely overworked, sleep deprived, and substance dependent michael and worried girlfriend reader.
....✎ tw: implied substance abuse. mention of medication. angst. sad. fluff if you squint
“you need to stop doing this to yourself, michael"
the concern in your voice brings michael back to reality. he glances back at the television and swears you just put the movie on. how is it playing the end credits already?
"i'm getting worried about you..." your robe flows in the air as you stride toward him from the living room doorway. he doesn't remember you changing into a nightgown.
you stood in front of him blocking his vision from the screen. and he just looks up at you, eyebrows knit together, mouth agape – trying to find the words to say. it's rare that he's rendered speechless.
as you look into his eyes, a nauseating wave of sadness washes over you. he just seems so...exhausted. without any of his usual makeup, you can clearly see the weight of the world on him. his usually bright doe eyes looked cloudy, lost, and confused. you can barely recognize him with his eyes sunken and red.
it's clear to you that he hasn't been getting sleep again. and it made you want to cry because he's still trying so so so hard for you. you don't know why he said yes to a movie night with you when it's obvious that he hasn't slept in days. pushing himself to spend time with you on his only free day.
but that's just the kind of person michael jackson is. he will do what he wants, even at the cost of himself.
with that, you let out a deep sigh as you knelt in front of him. he leans forward to meet your forehead, and he closes his eyes at the feeling of your palm resting against his jaw. relishing in the comfort that you were providing as you held his face in your hands.
“you didn't even notice you fell asleep, michael" you try to sound stern.
as a response, he takes your hand and softly presses his lips against your palm. "you worry about me too much, baby" he reassures. or tries to.
"i'm your girlfriend. it's my job to fuss over you"
he smiles at you, pulling you up from the floor and into his lap. your arms wrap around his neck as you plant yourself atop his legs.
“baby i swear i'm okay, just a little loopy. that's it."
you're not convinced. and how could you be? he just finished a tour with his brothers, and here he was again, knee deep into making another hit album. not to mention, still recovering from an accident all those months ago. you can't tell which of his medications are doctor or self-prescribed.
truthfully, his passion is one of the reasons why you fell in love with him in the first place. his hunger for greatness is one of the reasons why he’ll continue to insist that everything is fine. that he is fine. but michael is anything but okay, and everyone around him knows that. you're just the only one who cares enough to stop him.
“sorry I fell asleep baby, I really didn’t mean to”
he must think you're mad at him for falling asleep on your date because he sounds defeated. he searches your eyes for a response, but you don't think he'll remember any of this. you simply pull him tighter and press a small kiss on his forehead, making sure he feels loved instead.
“don’t beat yourself up over it, mike” you're up on your feet as you take his hand, urging him to follow suit to your shared bed. you have him change into comfier pyjamas before you make him drink a melatonin tea.
as you both lay down in bed, duvet engulfing your bodies, he asks you one last question.
"you're not sick of me yet, are you?" his voice cracks at the slightest, and your heart breaks. you turn to face him, and your eyes soften as you trace the baby hairs that frame his face.
“of course not, silly goose. i love you too much. i'm here forever” you force out a smile, but your brows dip in worry.
he's too tired to respond, so he just nods repeatedly. ultimately relieved to hear you say that. this time, he pulls you closer and engulfs you into his arms, head resting atop yours. you can hear his heartbeat as you rest your ear to his chest. when it slows down, you suspect he's finally asleep.
so you let yourself cry a little, soft sobs escaping your mouth as you try to hold in your tears. but your emotions betray you, and soon enough, a part of michael's shirt dampens with your tears.
but michael wasn't asleep just yet. and he can tell he wasn't meant to hear this part.
"i'm here for as long as you're here...so i swear to god michael, you better not leave me alone on this earth" he knows what you mean – what you're silently begging for, what your grief-stricken tears are about.
so right there and then, he promises to be better starting tomorrow. he wants to be here with you for a long, long time.
૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა
author's note: i must love pain because what the hell.
Millie @istayuptoolateonthisapp15 - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
