🍎 @ktrsis - Tumblr Blog

﹒dissonance. ﹒ — m. jackson

a small collection of headcanons and blurbs.

﹒who? michael jackson x wife!reader ﹒what? a collection of headcanons and blurbs about how i picture the wife!reader! kind of a analysis of their relationship. i really like writing about the intimate parts of their connection... (being super duper parasocial about this) ﹒tags. established relationship. fluff, lots of fluff. reader presents feminine + she/her pronouns. not much of a description of her otherwise for maximum immersion! ﹒notes. [leaving this empty for now bc i totally forget what i wanted to put here. but please remember i DO have things to say... just gotta remember them :sob:] ﹒era. any, but some events are described to have happened a certain year so imagine accordingly! or don't! hehe

the living area of neverland ranch was surprisingly cold, starkly contrasting the warm lights that decorated the endtables and counters. your face was stained with yesterdays tears as you sat on the floor. magazines and newspapers of various sources surrounded you like a ticks’ fresh bite. they all had one thing in common: the covers featured your face or your husbands. red and white and black text emboldened in pure spectacle stained the images, turning you into a zoo animal to be mocked and bewildered at. you’ve had enough at this point. admitting so came with great pushback, as it would confirm exactly what you’d been told since entering a relationship with michael; that there was no such thing as quiet fame. boundaries were a novelty of the past as evidenced by article after article hypothesizing the color of your underwear of if you were even wearing any. your hands trembled with devastation dressed up in the trench-coat of anger as you took the national enquirer by it’s scrotum and tore it to shreds. the bells of paper ripping raved through the walls, in its’ arms your irregular, quiet sobs. your head was far too clouded to realize michael had come up behind you and dropped to your level. “no, stop!” instinctual protest erupted as he gently took the hit piece out of your hands. “they’re saying terrible things about you, about us, just let me—” the feeling of michael’s arms looping under yours and lovingly forcing you to a stand was the last straw. words came wobbly and inaudible as ugly croaks took center stage. nevertheless, he kept you upright. your head quickly became dead weight once it hit the crook of his neck. all was silent from him until, “hey, hey, hey… shhh, it’s alright, mama… y’know i don’t like hearing you cry.” from beyond your view, michael gave an empty stare at the mess you’d made. in some way he felt at fault for your spiraling. the guilt caused him to run through the last few key moments of your relationship, the little things he didn’t think would have an impact, how he could’ve protected you better. perhaps he was trying to take on the burden to try to give it a face. after all, paparazzi were nothing but cameras on zombified bodies, right? he had every magazine and newspaper you gathered shredded immediately. furthermore, michael (lovingly) prohibited you from buying them again, or even looking in their direction at all. there were exceptions to this, as he understood your love for key publications, and subsequently bit the bullet and would scan them before you had a chance to read them. no enjoyment came out of this, but he did it for the purpose of loving you.

𝓜ichael's relationship with [name] permeated into every part of his life. As his rise to acclaimed fame continued, his bond to her tightened. They had a symbiotic connection very few understood. I think they liked it that way. We'd find them in the darkest corners of the room snickering to one another or discussing a heavy topic with grave detail. Nothing was off the table for them. They always had something to share. Sometimes I'd hear Michael subconsciously mention, "I'll have to tell [name] when I see her." It could've been about anything, we never knew. We'd be in the recording studio or in the car and his eyes would catch something that had her glint in it. I remember sitting them them at the City of Hope Gala, 1990. Michael typically hung onto her like his last saving grace. From across the table I could see her quietly watching stardom pass her by. She was always fascinated with celebrity life, to the point that I wondered if she understood her place in it. She was one of them, after all. Michael had come up behind her seat, leaning down and removing his sunglasses, as he always did when speaking to her. He must've whispered something particularly amusing as soon after they both broke out in a fit of laughter. I remember this so distinctly because it wasn't long until they pulled me into it. Both [name] and Michael sat on either side of me, wholly interested in everything I had to say. Michael's well-dressed mien contrasted sharply to the conversation at hand. He asked me, shyly, "Who here do you think wore their pants backwards tonight?" I could see a smirk on [name]'s face, like his question meant something completely different. I wondered if I was interpreting it wrong. She chirped up, "Definitely Don Johnson." to this, Michael interjected, "That was my answer!" To this day I wish I knew what my answer was, because it had both of them giggling to themselves all night. When the festivities came to a close they went out of their way to say their goodbyes to me. They brought me in for a hug - a group hug - and for some reason I wanted it to last forever. I left thinking about how great of parents they'd be, thinking of the silent moments they shared and selfishly wanting to be a part of it. Michael and [name] had built a world entirely between themselves far away from stardom.

after parties were low on the totem pole of michael’s priorities. and, unfortunately, the scene he witnessed was a reason why. he wasn’t sure of your intentions on wanting to go. or, in his eyes, begging to go. how going to another stuffy venue with the same people you just saw compared to overly-buttery popcorn and reruns of m.a.s.h. latoya and janet weren’t helping his case either, as two became three once you joined them amidst the clinking of glasses and inaudible chatter. michael had found himself more occupied than he preferred, having swept the grammy’s of eight awards. this naturally drew anyone and everyone, so in awe, to try and get a word with him. truthfully, he just wanted to get home. his jacket was weighing down on his shoulders, and as the night turned to deep evening he was more restless than ever. he kept to a well-populated but reticent pocket of the party, lingering beside a round booth before being suggested (coerced) to sit by quincy. from across the way, you stood between latoya and janet, drink in hand and hair only slightly awry. from behind his aviators he retained his gaze on you, as if you’d slip from existence if he so much as glanced at the table in front of him. michael wanted you to socialize! or, that’s what he repeated ad nauseum internally. surrounding him were a myriad of fresh and familiar faces, all eager to pick his brain on the lightning-in-a-bottle named thriller. phil driscoll, al green, and the entirety of toto to name a few. in the shadowed tresses of his inner dialogue, michael felt guilty for not giving them his full attention. but it wasn’t his fault that you were a waning and waxing lighthouse in the thick of the seas’ densest fog. quincy’s rapid but unwieldy nudge pulled him back to earth, reminding him of where he was: not beside you. michael, in the blink of an eye, reassessed the motley crew at the table and settled himself in. he trusted you not to do anything reckless, unlike his sisters, but had offered little to no consideration of anyone else. it was clear you were off the market as you lovingly stepped out of the limousine on his arm earlier that night. surely, nobody would take your relationship status as a challenge… billy joel had other ideas. it was innocent at first, as all scenarios such as these begin. the three of you had migrated to the bar, and michael thanked his lucky stars there was a perfect pocket of space where he could observe from the corner of his eye. a cloud of curly brown hair was just under his nose moving closer and closer to you. a cluster of bodies obscured his view, and if you hadn’t suddenly looked up, michael wouldn’t have thought any different. you learned early on that his sunglasses were the only obstacle standing between him and the entire world reading him like today’s newspaper. so how unfortunate it must’ve been that you weren’t there to see his jaw tighten mid-conversation, lips flattening to a straight line. the way you laughed at billy’s jokes resulted in michael’s entire body coming to a standstill in the booth. while he was unable to hear it from his vantage point it didn’t matter, he had memorized the soundwaves to heart. at that point, the question and answer session had diminished to smaller discussions, leaving him with quincy absentmindedly swirling his whiskey on-the-rocks. the quiet clinks of the ice hitting the glass combined with the visceral sight of you mingling with a fellow musician finally made him snap. “will you stop that? it’s… it’s really annoying.” a chortle was earned from the producer, “oh, well, i’m sorry.” michael’s annoyance mixed in with the ambience like oil and water. quincy piped up again, voice low and all-knowing, “you’ve got nothing to worry about with billy.” “that’s not the point.”

#michael jackson x reader #michael jackson imagine #michael jackson x you #michael jackson #ktrsis writes

feverrootlips

ㅤㅤ✶ caution! vip access.

❛ 　bad era michael & secret girlfriend!reader . . .

in which╵busy promoting his new album and separated for days, michael invites her to one of his promo events, finally giving her the firsthand look into the stardom side of his world. except she is terrified of the public eye, a walking bundle of nerves and somewhat insecure—so arriving late quickly turns into a complete stress-fest.

contents╵hurt/comfort. fluff. secret relationship. depiction of panic attacks. minor age gap implied. a great deal of soft emotional intimacy and, arguably, babying. michael's religious use of petnames. reader is completely anxiety-ridden. emotionally channeled loverboy x overthinker. ( warnings ) unprotected hand holding and very “we just started dating” undertones lmfao

You couldn’t tell if it was nerves or impatience making your heart race. The feeling reminded you of your first day on the job. You hadn’t known how to act then either, convinced that anything could go wrong under the watchful eyes of people. Important people; if not in your life, then certainly in your boyfriend’s.

The smothered uproar outside the car’s reinforced doors grew louder as it pulled onto the narrow road that snaked around the building’s rear. The fact that the entrance was still nowhere in sight, yet the crowd jostling outside could already be heard, so euphoric and frenzied—it slightly shook the walls of confidence you’d carefully constructed around yourself, made of vague generalities and assurances that everything would turn out fine.

You usually weren’t good at firsts, whatever kind they were. In the secluded but spacious back seats, you chewed your nails in silence. It was only now that you became aware of one of your knees bobbing up and down in a nervous twitch. You'd catch yourself doing it, stop, and it would resume moments later, much as a manifestation of the nerves you were certain were slowly making knots of your insides. You were late. Not all of you. Just you. The swanky black limo had done its duty by simply waiting for your tardiness to end, and alas, it eventually had; twenty minutes past the appointed pickup time. Not the brightest of starts. You still still made the effort to prevent your tendency toward negativity from seizing upon that single fact as a potential catalyst for the rapid decline events might take from there. According to your catastrophe-prone self, anyway. All while your ride made more stops than your expectations had anticipated; it didn't feel as though mundane traffic was meant to be part of its everyday circumstances, too undignified for the rich. The plan was to avoid any main roads near the hotel entrance and eventually arrive through the back, where you would be taken in to avoid the crowds. All of that was supposed to have happened by 7:30. It was already 8:15.

People weren't simply gathered there, screaming themselves hoarse. The hotel in question happened to be hosting the world's most famous singer and, for all intents and purposes, global superstar, Michael Jackson. Three days had been set aside for preparations leading up to a participatory press conference and a small performance in the main square. Today was the first of them, the day the conference was due to take place.

«Beep beep!»

And you were his secret girlfriend, far too terrified of the tabloids' prying eyes to challenge the status quo. Not because Michael wanted it that way. If anything, he'd made it clear time and time again that your peace of mind mattered more to him than his own longing to stop hiding you.

«Beeeeeeep!»

But it was unavoidable for them to talk. And you weren't fully prepared for that yet.

The sudden brake briefly transformed your anxiety into adrenaline, your hand moving to grip the thin window frame before you craned forward hesitantly. The driver and his counterpart shared a series of indistinct curses, likely related to some unexpected shift in plans. Their mannerisms, in a way, comically at odds with the decorum you had expected from the mold of such professionalism. You attempted to peer through the front windshield. A horde of girls, what you estimated could easily have been the merger of four large groups into one, brazenly crossed into the hub of the gathering, which still felt a long way off to you. Perhaps it wouldn’t have seemed so on any other day, with the usual number of people on the streets. It would have seemed like a distance you could cover quickly, if you’d needed to continue there yourself.

It was as if your clumsy thinking had been too loud, because just as you’d begun to make out bits of the conversation, you suddenly found yourself brought into it. You quickly plopped back down between the two front seats, the hem of your dress undoubtedly wrinkling from the lack of care as you moved and forcing out a smile with the expression of a dazed girl with no idea what was ever going on. “Miss,” you lifted your chin in anticipation.

There was a beat in which the driver, the one addressing you, swung his head back toward the scene of chaos.

“It’s technically impossible to move on any road leading to the hotel right now, front or back. This is as far as we can go until the crowd thins out a bit.” “When would that be?”

You were pressing your legs together. "A good number of the crowd will still stick around, but it’s only a matter of time until the cameras leave and the road starts to clear up.” Naturally. Even with the man subtly encouraging the idea, there was no place for such a possibility in your mind. You were supposed—scheduled, or so you had been told—to meet before Michael went out to the public, so the thought never properly occurred.

“There’s really no other route?” “I’m sorry.” He shrugged. Your mind started working a mile a minute, filling the car back with a deep silence. In your search for a solution, you contemplated mustering up the nerve to ask for a foot escort, the detail of having someone accompany you gaining appeal the more time you spent watching out the window. People really did seem to be going crazy out there. You ended up biting your tongue because, indeed, it required some nerve you didn’t have and you didn't know these men. Not to mention they didn't know you either, which would make your request seem like a senseless act of bravado. "You’d have to hop out here and cross the road, but traffic’s barely moving, so you’d be fine. Head up the slope around the building, the guy waiting for you should be by the back parking entrance, next to the main doors.” You heard him explain.

For someone who had known exactly what she wanted up until that moment, only now did you second-guess yourself. What’s more, just as you had chosen for the secrecy to be, it was only fair that this was how you were treated. You never demanded for it to be any other different way, either; just normalcy. No caveats to your decision to love Michael on the down-low, just because of who he was. Still, you got that electric jolt running through your limbs the moment they basically invited you to leave the car. The security man had kept chattering away. Surely you knew yourself well enough to realize that you’d figure out your way to that damn door, one way or another.

“You show up, they’ll keep you waiting either way. Maybe you slip through early if you’re lucky. Depends. There's gotta be a line as you probably know. Still, I can't say anything, you’re in that small group that gets close enough to see him like that.” A raucous cackle.

It was the same man speaking to you; what could be described as a half-hearted attempt at small talk. He glanced in the rearview mirror and offered what was objectively a compliment. You felt the heat creep into your cheeks, sitting somewhere between irritation and disbelief rather than anything resembling embarrassment as a response.

“But hey, lucky girl. Good for you.”

Lucky girl.

It was the rage in your tight fists what pushed the car door open, paying little heed to the men's initial reaction. Any effort to argue with you was lost amid the cacophony of noise the moment your heels touched the asphalt, followed shortly by the door closing behind you.

There wasn't much of a chance to assess the surroundings before you had to dash across the street so a car creeping past inches away wouldn't run you over. Good God.

You checked both directions at least half a dozen times before deciding which way to squeeze your way through. Out of uncertainty, you just kept going, an invisible clock counting down every deliberate move you made. You felt terrible. It wasn't just about how much you'd waited to reunite with Michael after the two long weeks of being apart, but there was a commitment at stake, and the moment you failed to fulfill, you knew it could automatically reflect on him. Seeing the throng of people waiting for his appearance outside, the significance of his visit couldn't possibly be compromised by any mishaps like this, ones you might be responsible for. Ones you might cause if he ended up lingering for your sake, because you knew him well enough to consider the possibility. No, not quite that, he was a professional; how would you delay him? Something like a very heavy ball sank into your stomach, knocking the rhythm out of your breathing in a spontaneous twinge.

A sturdy shoulder jolted you slightly off balance, and thank goodness there was a lamppost nearby for you to catch yourself against before losing your footing entirely. When you glanced up, there were people atop the fence; some clinging to it fireman-style, others balanced along its crest, and still others climbing. You thought of the number of injuries that always resulted from this kind of irrational folly.

You made yourself a way through a narrow sort of passageway along the side, and the air you’d unconsciously been holding in did not leave your lungs until you were safely through. You could feel your impatience building as your door came into hazy view ahead. The only thing left to do was push through the crowd, somehow get past the fence, go down the small ramp leading to it, and you’ll be there. Luckily unscathed. Easy enough for a retired crazed teen like yourself.

“Hey!! Hey, your camera got any battery left?” You flinched as a voice burst out right beside your ear, much too loud at such close range. Your neck twisted. “You got one? Please tell me you got one. Can we use it real fast?”

“No, I—”

In what was meant to be the kindest reply you could muster, a yank at the back of the capelet you wore over your dress sent you slightly stumbling backwards. You swallowed your frustration as you adjusted your stance, one hand now gripping the hem of your dress in a tight fist. Did somebody just grab at you? You couldn’t even turn on whoever had been the careless idiot. Not with the place so absolutely packed.

Were you even heading in the right direction anymore? Where exactly had you turned off? Was it the main entrance? You couldn't help but wonder when your sense of orientation had become so rusty. Something quite humiliating, coming from a grown, mature woman like yourself. Then again, maybe this really was insanity and you had let yourself get a little too swept up in the impulse to abandon the car and walk.

You hated to admit that exasperation was starting to win out, and you fought to keep it all together. Still, you needed to get there first.

Just one door to open, then you could allow yourself some pathetic tears before putting your act together and giving your boyfriend a few words of encouragement for his outing, as the very least you could do. A few words, a quick hug or none of that. Whatever you could manage, given what you knew was a very strict schedule and the fact that you didn't want to ruin any timetables. You would keep your word like a grown-up; that much was certain.

But they yelled, kicked, and shoved their way through, nothing but shoulders and backs surrounding you as your only support. Curses spilled under your breath as you tried to escape the gathering, the panic in your movements now increased by the recklessness of the people, as you’d already come to expect there. God, you hated this. Some of them were not particularly gentle.

People shouted, some of them at the top of their lungs. You crammed yourself into what you imagined would be a once-through aisle between the crowd, exerting an effort that seemed futile in comparison to the collective ecstasy, your features occasionally contorting as you pushed to stay ahead. At some point, you let out remarks that bordered on genuine anger.

Someone had even struck you on the temple in an outburst, and now the hand you had been using to ensure your dress stayed close to your thighs had switched to pressing against the pulsating area.

Perhaps the most embarrassing part was found in the absurd contrast between other people's casual attire and your own, conspicuously elegant. Well, not quite that; but there was no denying the obvious extra care you'd put into the way you were presenting yourself tonight. The realization now felt strangely pathetic. A pitiful effort against the tide of misfortune that reminded you of fate's unfairness whenever you tried to force yourself within an orbit you already knew was not yours. You had seen it play out among the barrage of what-ifs before leaving home, but only now did it dawn on you that maybe this was just how things were meant to go when one piece of the puzzle was simply incompatible with the rest. Your chest tightened immediately afterwards.

By the time you finally gained access to the hotel, your lateness had thoroughly solidified. Very much so. Michael's customary triumphant appearance before the public now merely lingered as an afterimage amidst the bustle of the ground floor and whatever follow-up gathering had now become the center of attention. No cameras rolling or live television crews inside the building.

They say everything pleasant seems to end as quickly as it comes, and vice versa. That good things are worth the while and once they finally arrive, they fly by. As much as you had heard about it, your day’s complete and unexpected turn had plunged you into the most excruciating wait you had likely experienced in a very long time. Not exactly a wait, though, considering you hadn’t stopped moving until now, and still things were not especially looking up after that. Your gaze zipped around everywhere, almost trying to pierce through the walls in search of a familiar face.

Which, unfortunately for you, were few and far between.

You just stood there, unsure of what to do, phone in hand and barely any charge left. You had not tried calling his personal number; probably because, as the voice in your head reasoned, it would be anywhere but with him. Even if there was a chance otherwise, you would rather not be the incoming call right now.

The lump in your throat never dissipated, instead swelling until the slightest attempt to speak threatened an especially ugly crying fit. You batted your lashes through a forming crystalline layer as you came to accept that your search had been aborted.

Inexplicably enough, you found yourself more in his shoes than your own. Your hands tingled with a new sensation, though they were just as paralyzed as the rest of you; thinking about the two weeks that had passed without seeing Michael and about the sort of negligence your actions might speak volumes of. Negligence that hardly fit the mold of someone attentive, someone who cared for another person.

Except you did care, deeply so, and maybe that was why the feeling of failure settled so heavily in your chest.

An overwhelming urge to flee from that place washed over your tentative limbs. Caught up in the momentum, you gave it no pause for thought and had already spun on your heels, heading back the way you came, your pace now doubled. Only the floor existed before your eyes, and you snub everyone and every pair of rushed feet that brushed by with such drive that anyone who had witnessed you striving for the exact opposite just minutes earlier would have been baffled.

Not for all the world would you walk out the same door. Oh, you had zero interest in wading through a wave of fans again, however much it might’ve shrunk since Michael’s exit. Just the mention of his name in your head sent a jolt through your chest, the weight of guilt and shame drowning out all rational thought.

A turn down a corridor, which you flew past in a daze, then another. A new corridor. A flight of steps down. The light density dimmed. Another turn.

But then, a collision with a chest broke the sequence, and a hushed exhale made it to your ears. “Whoa, careful.”

“Sorry—"

As if a last-minute realization had just hit, a quietness quickly settled after. It was Quincy Jones, his producer. You pretended to adjust your bag, feeling like a deer in headlights.

“Hey there, little lady. Where’d you get to? Got lost?” You eventually looked up, the corners of your lips too frozen in place to smile in response to the one the man in front of you was offering.

More silence. Suddenly, you held his gaze at a loss for words, confounded by your own behavior while bracing yourself for a reprimand.

“You alright?"

“Hey— I’m sorry. Really. It’s good to see you, but I need to go.” Hurried words pushed past your lips, trying hard not to falter in their delivery. «Tell him I truly am» got stuck on your tongue, though.

Your body was already facing away once more by the time the man's bewildered words at your unusual brush-off reached your ears in full, but you chose to keep going. It would’ve remained that way if a second obstacle hadn’t stopped you in your tracks immediately after.

“There she is."

A smiling Michael looked down at you; his windswept curls a clear indicator that he had already been outside for a while. It was a heartwarming sensation to see him standing there, physically.

“You leavin’ so soon?” He said, tongue in cheek.

For better or worse, you had this uncanny ability to make it all part of your normal demeanor, so you went along with the spontaneity of the surprise encounter like you weren’t absolutely freaking out on the inside.

Your answer came out as a hasty mishmash of awkwardness and silly truism. “Oh my gosh, I was looking— for you. You’re already done. How’d it go?”

You began to consider how ridiculously out of touch you were acting.

“It went great. Hi, pretty angel.” But Michael’s tone struck you as soft and slow. He looked at you like his brain was memorizing every detail of your face for the first time in ages, taking his sweet time to do so.

That was usually how he acted with you when he found you particularly gorgeous. That, and the fact that he was probably tired, showed in the sparseness of words when he greeted you; even so, the contrast in the way he received you was unmistakable, because despite your clumsiness in finding the right words, he seemed genuinely captivated by the sight. The part of you that liked him a lot found that really cute.

His brow kept a light frown while his lips remained slightly parted, as though hesitantly waiting for you to make a move while holding himself back from going first. You could tell he’d been longing for your presence the whole time. His eyes lingered on the color of your nose and your dress longer than necessary. He also noticed your hands on its edges, which you hadn't even let go of then, for comfort's sake, but chose to keep it as a mere observation.

“Hello, you.” You replied shyly, the words rolling out of your tongue as an unspoken yet now familiar sound between the two of you.

Michael was nowhere close to being angry, but you debated with yourself whether what you sensed was disappointment, and you were growing increasingly certain it was. You remained tongue-tied. What to say now? How have you been?

But he went on, undeterred. “I’ve missed seeing you, baby.” He confessed, softer now. You could see his body language slacking off, betraying his exhaustion. “You look real pretty.”

Your spiraling briefly stopped on the sultriness in his tone.

“You're sweet” was your strained reply.

He got briefly interrupted by a quick exchange with Bill, a few steps beside him, his fingers absently tugging at the neck of his elegant shirt as if he could finally breathe easier once it loosened. You thought he looked handsome. The second he turned back to you, Michael very purposefully wrapped his arms around your waist, all warm smiles and breathy little laughs as your feet lifted slightly off the ground. It took you a moment to adjust, though not nearly enough before hugging him back just as tightly. A quiet laugh slipped out despite yourself. You hadn’t realized just how badly you’d missed him until now. Even then, guilt nagged at you for getting off this lightly while he continued being unfairly kind, not once mentioning the obvious fact that you’d shown up late to his press conference.

The hug lasted longer than it normally would, both his big hands still resting on your bare back after it had faded. Furtively, wanting to seize the design of your beautiful dress. “I thought you were gonna come see me before I left… that's a shame. I really wanted to see you, prettiness."

There we go. Your heart skipped a beat.

“I’m sorry, Mike.” You made the best attempt at a smile, but your lips barely managed an awkward, tense line.

One of his hands slid up behind your neck, where his thumb began fiddling with the gold chain around it. You were turning to mush right there. His face had suddenly taken on a look of wistfulness, lost in thought for a moment, but it soon broke into a playful grin in reference to your clothes. “Can’t hold that against you, lookin’ beautiful like that.”

He giggled again, but it did not reach his eyes. During the few seconds he had fallen silent, you caught sight of his features sagging a bit, not exactly out of any kind of performer’s fatigue.

“Did I maybe expect too much with that?” he suddenly asked, as if testing the idea. Although there wasn’t a hint of bad intent behind it, that was still enough to do you in.

"M’ sorry."

That alone was, too, enough to make his shoulders straighten. Something inside him had registered the seriousness in your words the second time you apologized.

“That’s alright, baby.”

“Are you sure?”

Michael was momentarily quiet, his gaze more intent on you now.

“Yeah, why would I not?”

A flicker in his eyes shifted when he noticed the pattern of your breathing, and with that, the caressing movements of his palms against your skin slowed to allow him to focus on this farside of the atmosphere he had been distracted enough not to perceive until now.

Bill was gone by then. When you finally let yourself scout your surroundings for the first time since your frantic stampede had led you there, you realized the hallway was significantly calmer than the rest of the hotel lobby you’d been searching through. You were someplace not far from the vip parking lots, where a few of Michael's people had indicated was the most discreet way to access his suite earlier that week.

"Hey, now… sweetheart?” The gentle rub of his thumb on your nape brought you out of the panic-stricken confines of your mind.

Well, matter of fact, people out there could be so harsh. What kind of good girlfriend failed to arrive on time despite being chauffeured in a private limo? Certainly not a very good one, if this was how you had greeted him after weeks apart. And had someone grabbed at you?

None of that made it to your tongue, though.

Michael's jaw unclenched, the sight belying the sudden urgency with which his full attention turned to you once he realized something was wrong. Knowing how your mind was prone to unravel by nature, and since you were so painfully obvious when you put on a front, it usually didn’t take him long to see through it. He was extra careful when it came to your poor handling of nerves, and he also knew what kind of a toll it took on your body.

“Look into my eyes, are you okay? What's wrong?” He repeated.

“What? Nothing’s wrong.”

“Baby.”

Your vision glossed over with tears. The thing is, you still gave him the firmest nod ever, anyway. Even cleared your throat, just in case that might somehow make you look more collected.

But the anguish in your face affected him right down to his core. Your legs were already carrying you forward when Michael felt compelled to start walking, not without first taking your hand gently and sticking as close to you as the fact that some other people were still around would allow, because you were being watched, and he knew how you felt about that.

His security entourage systematically began to follow.

There was a staircase, the kind used on either urgency or special occasions. Opulent shades of red and a few touches of gilded detail caught your eye first. It evoked the hotels you’d seen in movies. The walk to his suite was uneventful, yet it was over before you knew it.

“Michael,” His head turned immediately.

Though your mouth closed as soon as it opened.

"Hold on to my hand." His whisper faded into the stillness of the air, growing so faint its end was barely audible. “That's it, hold on.”

The near-total absence of people along the way was strangely humorous to you, not in a funny way. You thought of how easy the switch from the mess you'd been in earlier to your current scenario seemed.

He gave a long squeeze around your fingers, still entwined with his.

You picked out the door to his room before anything else could clue you in, and one of the many weights lodged in your stomach eased at the mere thought of having a little privacy. He held it open for you, the interior revealing a glimpse through the narrow gap.

"You're with me, baby.” You heard that enveloping dulcet of a voice of his edge closer, so you’d be able to fully understand his low tone.

You adored the sweetness it could acquire at times, mostly because you knew it was a feature that surfaced with you alone. The effect on your body whenever Michael spoke to you that way was nearly addictive, almost a habit; to intentionally word things, ask, or act in certain ways just to provoke it.

“I’m gonna stay here tonight. Have somebody let them know for me, please.” Michael had turned around to address one of his escorts, presumably the chief bodyguard, who leaned in to receive the instruction.

The man politely objected.

Michael was adamant that nobody disturb him.

He gave a curt nod.

«All right. Good evening, Mr. Jackson. »

“Thank you.” You heard him mutter back.

An unhurried hand on your waist guided you inside. The light from a couple of lamps bathed the large room in a mellow glow, reducing its vastness to a way more intimate space. Or you just felt at ease because, in your rattled system's sudden appetite for familiarity, you found traces of him all around the room. It felt like shelter from your paranoia.

He let the door slip closed before you had a chance to check if the security staff were still nearby, “keeping tabs on your every move”. So paranoia it was.

He first noticed the way your retinas seared into the doorknob.

“Nobody out there, sweet face. They’re not literally around all the time. I can tell them no whenever I want, so if you…”

“No, no—it’s fine, I know. They’re just doing their job.” Such a brazen lie, especially through forming tears. You hated it when the cracks started showing.

"Oh, baby.”

He walked towards you while fumbling with the couple of buttons at his collar. “Baby,” His hands now cupping your burning cheeks. "What happened? M’ not upset, I'm not mad, I promise. I was expectin’ to see you, yeah, but I just figured somethin' must've kept you, that's all.” These were less questions than assertions, born of his growing unease over you shaking like that. “Dunno what, but that’s okay.”

“No, really, Michael, I’m fine…” you insisted, your voice slurred. You had no idea how obviously your chest was heaving. He did.

“You’re not cryin’ those pretty tears for nothing.”

“I’m not crying.”

“I had a car come pick you up. Did it take a while to get there?” Not only the concern; but a spark of resentment in his question was palpable. He was probing the depths of your so painfully visible self-reproach. And you looked overwhelmed, to boot.

Your jaw remained clenched shut, not a word to be uttered lest it snap. You hated it. Could a person like Michael possibly get mad at you?

“Please, talk to me.”

“I—no, it— it just took longer than I thought. I didn’t... I didn’t mean for it to. Then the traffic—everything was completely backed up...” Your hands fluttered up and down. “The car wasn’t moving, and I knew I wouldn’t arrive on time if I didn’t try to and just...”

A sort of strained whimper escaped your throat, Michael’s features tightening subtly as one hand moved to the back of your head while the other peeled away the thin layer draped over your shoulders; all too leisurely. Across from you, he was giving you the time to sort through your emotional turmoil, his firm hold on your body a testament to his prior experience with episodes like these.

“I got you, it's okay…”

“So I climbed out of the damn car and—it was a stupid thing to do, I know—but I was gonna be late. Not like things would've gone any different anyway…"

The fluency in his gestures faltered for an instant. “You got out of the car?” He blinked. “You mean you entered the hotel by yourself?”

"Snuck in as best I could, yeah."

“You snuck in?

It was the casual way you corrected him. You and the word “snuck” shouldn't go together in this context.

“It was so crowded,” A nervous sound in between. “Everybody kept pushing, and I—I couldn’t tell which door it was anymore. The one they told me to go to, and...”

Your voice hitched during the hasty explanation. You had promised yourself to be a fully-fledged, poised adult, and yet there you were—unrelentingly sobbing out an hour and a half of pent-up stress.

“Y’need to get some air, sweets.” His voice careful, soft. He combed through your hair, his free hand gently cradling your cheek.

His thumb brushed away the tears streaming down your face, then moved up to lovingly trace your brow. “You couldn’t have controlled that. That was security’s responsibility. They were supposed to get my girl here safe, and they messed that up.”

That slipped under your radar differently, as though he had merely jotted down a quick mental note, too occupied to dwell on it any further for now. A negative one, to judge by the brief way he had averted his gaze. To think the people responsible for his safety—and, by indisputable association, yours—had shown such disregard towards you, like you were somehow lesser than him. His mouth ran hot with words just thinking about them standing in the room, knowing whatever he said to them next would be the last thing they ever heard as part of his team. He couldn't stand the idea of seeing you in such a state and the cause being someone else, nor the fact he hadn’t been there to keep you from having to worry about so much as a hand near your perfect hair. He was nervous.

It had reached a point where you’d gotten so worked up outside that you just cried. You felt beyond ridiculous now, considering how much of a habit something like this must be for him.

“You wouldn’t know, sweetheart. I don't expect you to understand all this right away,” You hated how he could decode you so easily. “I don’t want you pushin’ yourself for me. Just seeing you, holding you like this... s’all makes me happy.”

Michael’s eyes roamed over your damp face, finding something beautiful in the way it glistened in the gloom. He hadn’t once stopped caressing you, whatever the form, and as the conversation went on, he had unconsciously closed the space between you so much his neck bent down almost at a right angle.

“I could stay around you forever and still want more.”

All you managed to do was pathetically nod.

Michael grunted, a frustration-filled, low sound. He pulled you in, leaving no room for the chance that you could be pressed even closer together. Not in an uncomfortable way, though.

Physical contact said a lot about a person, and over time, you had learned Michael craved it more than anyone you knew. Constantly. In how he lingered over every hug, how his lips would brush your ear every time he confessed something to you in public, or the fact that he simply could not sleep without finding warmth around your waist. His hands always found you somehow; while kissing, while watching television, even while standing still. Your hand in his, your waist beneath his palm, like a cog in his system that kept everything running smoothly.

The first time you hugged had happened during a somewhat comparable situation. You weren’t having an easy time of it either; your cat had been sick for days, right around the first recording sessions for the album. And yet, a single impromptu phone call on your part was all it took for him to show up at your doorstep, holding a rose in one hand and a bag of pet treats in the other. Right then and there, you burst into tears. You were first to reach, burying yourself in his arms. He absolutely didn’t shy away, as you had fleetingly feared he would, instead pulling you closer and whispering repeatedly through your tears that everything would turn out okay eventually.

Nothing solid had yet developed between you beyond the “too-much-to-be-coincidental” stage, but that night he stayed with you. He showed you the most genuine and heartfelt attention you had ever been given so far in your life despite the fact that you still called each other friends at the time. Slept on the couch after having assured you that he'd periodically get up to check on your pet so you could have some shut-eye.

And just as he’d promised, everything did turn out fine. Your cat started recovering a few days later.

“I’m so sorry you had to handle that on your own, sweet girl.” He planted a kiss on your hair and held it for a few seconds, some of his loose ringlets grazing the exposed part of your face. “I jus’ want you to be okay right now. Y’breathin’ alright for me?”

But regardless of your answer, he could already get a sense of it, so close to your chest. You were starting to come back down to earth.

"Don’t say sorry.”

“How’re you now?” He prompted, once more.

You stayed in his arms for a couple of minutes, completely silent.

“I'm fine, Michael,” You eventually assured.

He soothed your back. You could almost feel the chill seeping from his clothes, just like the expensive cologne that smelled inexplicably like him.

“Are you?”

“Yeah, it’s easier now.” You muttered timidly, answering one of his previous questions.

“Mmh,” A faint variation in his tone sarcastically conveyed just how much he couldn’t stand your tendency to downplay your feelings. “I’m here for you."

“I know. Thank you.”

“You don’t thank me. I don’t want you sad.”

Sniff.

His palm swept from your hairline to the ends of your hair, two fingers catching lightly in the strands before repeating the motion. “I got you, baby girl…”

At last, you exhaled a long, uneven sigh.

“I’m sorry if I ever made you think I’d get upset over somethin’ like that.”

The fact that Michael was so adept at apologizing was more routine than you’d like, often chastising him for it. One corner of your lips twitched upward at his comment, reminded of the expression he had worn in the hallway, though you stayed silent nonetheless.

"None of it was your fault." You spoke softly.

Tilting your neck slightly upward as you distanced yourself a bit from his chest, you peered through a veil of his curls. The sight of a smile forming on your face, however small, lit him up enough, and his countenance shifted quickly.

“There y’are, pretty girl.”

Michael snickered softly at how close your faces were. He used the moment to kiss the tip of your nose, loudly exaggerating the smooching noise.

The gesture had you giggling too.

“You were getting a little grumpy when I ran into Jones, though. Don't lie now."

“Grumpy?”

Your boyfriend’s voice hummed melodiously. You sensed a wave of shyness in his pause, which made you squint your teary eyes mischievously.

“No, no, never.” He protested, mildly flustered by your accusation.

Ever the gentleman, he denied it as a shameless snort escaped your lips.

“I couldn’t be, are you serious…” His suppressed smirk when you pulled away again to look at him betrayed his claim entirely. “You’re too emotionally tactical.”

Even though you were now used to his effortless gift for flirty banter, this particular choice of words elicited a proper laugh from you.

“Emotionally tactical.” You echoed. “Gotta be my birthright, yeah.”

As laughter spread across your face, Michael watched you proudly, quietly huffing out in amusement.

“You’re so adorable. I love your laugh.”

I love this, I love that. You’d eventually implode with love.

Sometimes you just had no chance against that smile. Dejected, you let yourself bask in the moment before the amusement subsided naturally. Your shoulders were hunched in fluster.

Visibly endeared by the sight of you, his gaze lingered.

“What?” It came out lightly, your voice cutting through the silence that had briefly formed.

“You’re jus’ pretty.”

As he moved to brush away the damp streaks on your cheeks, he mumbled a soft “such a cute smile”. Chances were that your makeup was probably more of a smudged mess than anything remotely presentable on your face.

He grabbed your hand again, causing you to follow his lead to the bed. You plopped down on the edge; he joined your side, his fingers gently tracing your knuckles.

“Are you hungry?” A certain tone underscored the intent behind his statement.

“Just a little.”

“Alright, baby. What d’you want?”

Your face, however, twisted in confusion. It surely wasn’t that late for the next meal. “Weren’t you going to…”

“No, none of that,” was the flat reply. When you gave him a quizzical look, he had already angled his head at you, eyes fixed from beneath the loose curls escaping his now-messy ponytail. “I don’t gotta be anywhere else.”

You spotted the lie as soon as it rolled out. Whatever plans had been in place for later, the brevity of his response made it clear to you that they had fallen through, likely not up for consideration anymore, just in case you felt tempted to ask.

You took a few seconds to respond, only to redirect the conversation. “Sorry I wasn’t there before you headed out.”

“It wasn’t a big deal, sweetness, just a little work thing.” The familiar depth in his eyes now seemed sharpened by the concern behind his gaze. You thought he almost looked intent on directing the tension your state caused him somewhere other than the hands touching you, too risky not to channel calm into you somehow. He was skilled in the way his fingers drew patterns against your skin, as if its sensitivity might etch them there long-term.

“Just wanted you to understand my side’s yours now too.”

Silence.

A tight shift ran through his jaw. “I really don’t want the tour to come between you and me.”

You could sense the hint beneath what he was trying to say, your own frame flagging in silent alarm at the idea of having somehow prompted such a thing. Still, you couldn’t hide a subtle smile at the weight of emotion on his countenance, exposing the way he held onto the silence between his words and what felt, to him, like your pivotal response. Your hand returned his active affection with a brief squeeze of his, and you caught the immediate gleam that softened his expression in return.

“But it’s okay, really. I get that’s a big deal.” You said.

Michael arched a brow, then asked softly. “What d’you mean?”

“I know touring takes a lot out of you, it wouldn't be fair for me to tie you down by what I might prefer.” The unsure giggle you tacked on at the end failed to lessen his fleeting discontent, as evidenced by the way he frowned.

Everything you’d mentioned had already consumed a significant, if not huge, portion of his life, including the part of it where he was supposed to have the ability to choose what he wanted. Turning you into an afterthought, something only to be considered in his spare time. That would be unfair. He’d dig deep into the constraints of his schedule to find as much time as possible to see you, as he had before and as he always would. More especially after today.

“Touring’s secondary, angel, I thought you knew that.” Michael leaned into your level. You tried gulping the knot in your throat, too caught off guard to interrupt at all. He himself seemed unsure about continuing with what came next, and you found yourself thinking about the strange paradox of someone so close to nervousness when speaking about his feelings for you, especially considering how widely enough known it was that, at heart, he was such a lover boy.

“Why would touring matter more like you do? I meant what I said, that I love your smile." A beat. "I love you.” He added, practically breathing out the words.

Maybe it was the frustration in how he said what you received as a new confession, or how near he was, desperate for you to recognize the sincerity of his words, but a warmth in your chest softened the room's lighting further. For the first time, amid the chaos of your nervous system, dried tears on your cheeks and the worn novelty of your dress after having been jostled outside the hotel, you saw Michael as the man who loved you. He no longer simply looked at you representing a very private, cherished keepsake of his life, but in denial of any idea you might have that he wasn't in love with you like a complete fool. Hopelessly so. So smart a girl you were; how did you manage to miss it sometimes? You weren’t his girl for nothing.

A tender kiss against your lips silenced any thought of objection. The first since he’d gone away to promote his latest album. Your hands slid up his shoulders, allowing yourself the indulgence of savoring him, like the time you’d spent apart had rendered Michael some kind of opulence in your eyes. You felt his loose curls tickle your jaw, which he now held in one of his warm hands. The feeling was addictive, your limbs growing increasingly restless as the magnetic pull between you intensified.

Unfortunately for you, he created some distance before you could fall into any deeper intensity. “Easy, baby,” His lips drew back towards your face, now brushing lightly against your cheek. "We got all the time in the world for that. Y’need some rest tonight, alright? It's been a long day."

“I do need rest.”

“Mhm, that's what you need." He confirmed with a small nod and a bit of a chuckle, pleased now with your atypical honesty. Even then, both your hands remained locked.

Michael was convinced your skin was incredibly velvety, the softest thing he had ever touched; he couldn't get enough of feeling it.

The curve beneath your neck was a perfect example of that, fitting so naturally against his own profile whenever exhaustion weighed heavily on him after a long day of meetings, rushing around, schedules and people he did not know demanding all of him and more.

“So, how about toasts?”

Your grin resurfaced at the mention of the little favorite. Going to bed with a stomach full of toast in a luxury hotel was the last thing you would’ve imagined, though the idea felt far less absurd with Michael sharing them beside you.

“Toast sounds like a perfectly respectable dinner right now.” You said with playful exaggeration, despite the lingering weariness on your face.

“C’mere.”

You watched, confused, as he rose up to face you. A rush of panic ran through you at the thought of leaving the room now, but no. “Mm?”

You could’ve sworn sensing a hint of apprehension as he debated his next move. His arms were scooping you up princess-style before you could even try naively asking a second time.

“Micha— my legs function, by the way.”

“Yes, they do.”

That clearly wasn’t the point.

“You’re acting like I’m gonna collapse.” Michael smiled against your temple.

“Not at all.”

“Mike,”

“What? I wanna go to bed, too. Been a long two weeks without you tucked against me.”

A flush of blood crept up your checks at the candor of his words, making you suddenly aware of the smudged mess on your face.

“Michael, I can’t get into bed looking like this.” You gave him an incredulous look, searching for the playful glint in his. “I need five minutes and a sink.”

“Can help you with that.”

“Are you planning on carrying the sink in there too?” His cackle rolled through the living room. “I can definitely take care of your pretty face with some makeup remover wipes.”

“Do you even have those?”

“Regular wipes it is, then. Which shirt d’you want, sweet face?”

author's note╵helloeleoelllooo, first time publishing! reblogging is so very appreciated. here goes 8k words of my brain trying to thaw out from the creative slaughter of uni exams, have mercy. the beggining somehow spiraled into a much more narration-heavy style, but the heck we move. this scribble freaking novella chapter was heavily shaped by beabadobee and the softest of abba songs. thank you and goodbye. let me know if you want a slot on the future taglist! warmest love,

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