Applehead

We're all just vegetables

[michaelsfish]

Masterlist

Michael Jackson

💕 - fluff ⚠️ - angst Moisturised Michael 💕

Baking with Michael 💕

Flustered Michael 💕

A Night for Michael ⚠️⚠️

If Tomorrow Comes ⚠️⚠️⚠️

The Cure (req) ⚠️💕

Somewhere Safe (req) ⚠️💕

Something For When I’m Gone (req) 💕

[michaelsfish]

SEND REQUESTS PLSSS

guys i wanna write sum but i deadass dont have any ideas PLS SEND REQUESTS (btw i cant write smut 🙏🏼)

[michaelsfish]

hello :))) i love your blog but i am so embarrassed to request since I’ve never done one before. please just ignore if this is cringe, but what do you think about michael and build a bears?? do you think he’d take you guys to make one of each other with like a voice message inside for one another? or do you think maybe if he’s away on tour he’d surprise you with one at your door that has a cute voice message in it? just the thought of him picking out an outfit for a bear 😭

Something for When I’m Gone

ok so basically this is the cutest idea in the world and tysm for requesting this, i had so much fun writing this, (2.5k words - got kinda carried away lol) ---------------------------------------------------

The night before Michael leaves for tour feels too quiet. The tour announcement had been everywhere for weeks, flashing on screens, radio mentions, headlines you tried not to read too closely because you hated it, it meant he was leaving again.

He’s finishing up packing his carry on, socks disappearing into an open bag, handwritten notes folded between clothes and toiletries chucked messily inside. You’re sitting on the edge of the bed pretending to scroll through nothing on your phone, but really just watching him move around the room taking him all in before he has to leave again.

“You’re doing that thing,” he says softly without turning around, zipping up one of his smaller bags.

“What thing?”

“The sad eyes thing.”

You huff a laugh, but it doesn’t really land. “I’m fine.”

He finally looks at you properly, and his expression shifts immediately like he’s caught everything you’re not fully saying. His eyes soften, but there’s still that familiar seriousness underneath it and for a moment, neither of you speaks.

Then he exhales and walks over, sitting down beside you on the edge of the bed. Close enough that his shoulder presses gently into yours, warm and steady. “I don’t like leaving you like this,” he says quietly.

You glance down for a second, then back at him. “I know. I don’t like it either, but I get it, you have to go, and I’m proud of you for it. I just… I’m going to miss you. A lot.”

That makes his expression soften even more “I told you to come with me,” he says, almost immediately, like it’s obvious.

You let out a small breath. “And I told you I have work, responsibilities. I can't just leave it all to go around the world with you” he tilts his head at you like that answer personally offends him. “That sounds like an excuse.”

“It’s called being an adult,” you reply, trying not to smile. He hums. “I don’t think I like adulthood.”

“You’re the one with a whole world tour,” you point out “that’s different,” he says quickly.

“How?”

“Because I said so.”

That actually makes you laugh, quiet and real, and he looks satisfied like that was the goal all along. He shifts a little closer. “You know, you could just come. Problem solved.”

“And do what?” you ask. “Watch you rehearse all day?” You raise an eyebrow at him. He gasps slightly. “Yes. That’s quality entertainment.” You shake your head, still smiling. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re overworking yourself when you could be with me,” he says, like it’s the most logical conclusion in the world.

You look at him. “I work because I have to.” 

He leans back slightly, studying you. “Can’t you quit your job and work for me instead?” he pouts. You raise an eyebrow immediately. “And do what exactly?”

He doesn’t even hesitate.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he says, counting on his fingers like he’s building a very serious proposal. “Personal cuddler. Professional kisser. Full time supporter of Michael Jackson.”

You laugh under your breath. “That sounds made up.”

“It’s not made up,” he insists, leaning closer again. “It’s a very important position.”

“Uh-huh.”

He narrows his eyes at you like you’re the one being unreasonable. “And massage therapist.”

“You already have actual massage therapists.”

“They don’t have an emotional connection with me though,” he says very seriously. That makes you laugh properly, and he immediately looks pleased. “See,” he says quickly, like he’s winning the argument. “You’re already laughing. You’re clearly qualified.”

You shake your head. “This is not a real job description.”

He ignores that completely and keeps going, ticking things off like it’s official. “Also, I need someone to talk to on tour. Someone to remind me to sleep. Someone to tell me when I’m being too much.”

You open your mouth to argue but before you can say anything else, he leans in and kisses your cheek.

Then again.

And again, just slightly closer to the corner of your mouth each time, like he’s spacing them out on purpose. “You’re distracting me,” you say, though your voice has gone softer. “That’s part of the job,” he replies immediately, kissing your temple this time.

“You’re just listing things you want.”

“Yes,” he says proudly. “That’s what a job is.” You laugh again, and he lights up like he’s done something right. He shifts closer, resting his shoulder into yours again. “So?”

“So what?” you ask.

“So are you going to apply or not?” he says, completely serious, you roll your eyes. “What’s the salary?”

He thinks for a second. “Unlimited kisses.” You narrow your eyes at him. “That sounds like a scam.” He leans in, softer now, and kisses your nose. “It’s a very generous package.” Another kiss to your cheek.

Then he pauses just enough to look at you properly again, smiling a little. “Plus,” he adds quietly, “I’d miss you too much if you didn’t apply.”

That one lands softer.

You bump your shoulder lightly into his. “You already miss me too much.”

“Exactly,” he says instantly, like that proves his case. And then, because he can’t help himself, he kisses your forehead again, slower this time, like he’s trying to save it.

You smile, shaking your head a little. “You’re impossible.” He doesn’t respond right away this time. His hand stays wrapped around yours, thumb moving slowly over your knuckles like he’s trying to remember how it feels.

“I hate this part,” he says quietly. You nod, your voice softer now. “Me too.”

A pause sits between you both, heavier than the joking from before. He leans his head slightly closer to yours, shoulder pressing into yours like he’s trying to close the distance in advance.

“I keep thinking about it while I’m gone,” he admits. “How quiet everything gets.” Your chest tightens a little. “It’s not that bad.” He gives you a look like he doesn’t believe that for a second. “It is when I'm used to you,” he says simply.

That makes you go quiet and he notices immediately. The smile he’d been wearing fades a little, replaced by something softer.

“Hey,” he murmurs, reaching for your hand. His thumb brushes slowly over your knuckles. “What’s going on in that head?” You stare down at your intertwined fingers for a moment.

“I don’t know.”

“You do.”

You let out a small laugh that isn’t really a laugh. “It’s just…” You swallow. “Every time you leave, I tell myself it’ll be easier because I’ve done it before.”

His eyes don’t leave your face, “and then?”

“And then it isn’t.”

The words come out quieter than you mean them to and for a second, he just looks at you. “I know.”

You close your eyes briefly. “I hate how empty everything feels when you’re gone,” you admit. “I hate that I get used to having you here and then suddenly you’re not.”

“I know,” he says again.

You laugh weakly. “That’s not a very helpful answer.” “No,” he agrees quietly. “But it’s true.” His forehead rests lightly against yours for a moment. “I wish I could tell you some magic thing that’d make it easier.”

You finally look at him.

“But I can’t.”

You lean into him slightly, your voice quieter. “What am I supposed to do when you leave?”

He pauses at that. Then, softly, like it’s something he’s already been thinking about, “I thought about that.”

You look at him.

And suddenly, there’s a faint shift in his expression again, something almost shy and embarrassed under all the seriousness.

“I might’ve… gotten you something,” he admits. You blink. “Something?”

He nods once, his face turning slightly red, like he’s already committed to it. “It’s stupid. Maybe. But I thought it might help.” You tilt your head. “What is it?”

He hesitates for a second, then suddenly stands up.

You blink as he disappears across the room toward his wardrobe.

“What are you doing?”

“Wait,” he says quickly.

You can hear drawers opening and closing, the occasional thump of something being moved around. A few muttered words under his breath. Then finally: “Found it.”

When he turns back around, he’s carrying a box, immediately, your curiosity grows, “Michael…” He walks back over and sits beside you again, the box balanced carefully on his lap. His ears are slightly pink now which is never a good sign.

“What is that?” you ask, already smiling. He shrugs, suddenly very interested in a random spot on the wall.

“Just open it.” he says quietly and quickly shoving the box in your lap, your smile grows “why are you acting nervous?”

“I’m not nervous.”

“You are.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

He points at the box “open it before I regret everything.” Laughing quietly, you lift the lid, at first all you see is soft tissue paper, you pull it back and immediately freeze.

Nestled inside is a teddy bear, but not just any teddy bear. A teddy bear that looks suspiciously familiar, you slowly lift it out of the box.

The bear is dressed in a tiny glittering jacket that catches the light when you move it. Tiny black loafers. Little white socks peeking out above them. And sitting tilted slightly to one side on its head is a miniature fedora.

He watches your face carefully, like he’s waiting for embarrassment or rejection, but it never comes.

You stare.

Then stare some more.

“Oh my God.”

Michael immediately hides his face behind his hands “I knew you’d laugh.”

“No.”

You turn the bear around in your hands because somehow it gets worse.

Or better.

On one paw is a miniature rhinestone-covered glove, not just any glove, his glove.Tiny sparkling crystals catch the light as you move it. 

You look from the bear to Michael then back to the bear. Then back to Michael “it literally looks like you.”

“It does not.”

“It has your entire wardrobe on.”

“It does not.”

“It has the glove.”

“Lots of people wear gloves.”

You stare at him, he cracks first and a small smile appears, “okay fine, I picked the outfit, so if it’s ugly don’t tell me.” You can’t stop laughing now, the more you look at it, the funnier and sweeter it becomes.

The little fedora. The glitter jacket. The tiny loafers. The damn glove

The fact that he had apparently spent actual time planning this made your chest feel strangely warm. “You made this?”

His shoulders lift in a small shrug, “I picked the outfit” the answer is quiet, almost shy. Like he’s embarrassed by how much thought he put into it and somehow that makes it even sweeter. Your eyes are full of adoration and a smile so wide your cheeks look like they’ll burst.

He notices immediately, and his shoulders drop a little in relief.

You run your fingers over the tiny jacket and then notice something inside the bear’s paw, a sound button. Your eyes immediately lift to him.

Michael suddenly becomes fascinated by the carpet, avoiding any eye contact whatsoever. “…Maybe press it, if you want.”

You look at him for a moment then press the button.

The button clicks and you hear a little rustle before his voice comes through, closer and slightly uncertain at first.

“Is it recording…? Okay. I think it is.”

A tiny pause.

“Hi.”

You glance at him. He’s still very focused on absolutely anything except you. The bear feels even more ridiculous and sweet in your lap now.

His voice rambles, warmer. “I don’t really know how to do this without seeing your face, it’s a bit awkward talking to this bear but um.”

A small nervous laugh under his breath.

“If you’re listening to this, I miss you already. Which is annoying, because I haven’t even left yet.”

That makes you smile despite yourself, he shifts beside you in real life, clearly seeing your reaction from the corner of his eye.

“So… hi again,” he says on the recording, softer now. “Just press this when you want to hear me, okay? Or when you’re pretending you’re fine and you’re not actually fine.”

A pause.

“And eat properly. I’m serious.”

Another tiny beat.

“And don’t work too much. I know you will. But don’t.”

A pause

“Okay, I’m running out of smart things to say.”

That makes you let out a small, breathy laugh which he notices immediately, stealing a quick glance at you, unable to hide his own smile.

“…I miss you. That’s the main point but I’ll be back before you know it. And I’m going to hug you and kiss you so much you’ll get tired of me.”

Then, softer, almost shy:

“And I love you, so so so much. So… don’t forget that while I’m gone, bye love yo-” click.

The audio cuts off, signaling the time run out, silence fills the room again, but it’s different now, lighter.

You sit there for a moment, fingers still resting on the bear’s tiny glitter jacket, your thumb brushing over it slowly then you look at him, he’s still pretending he’s fine, still very interested in absolutely nothing.

But his ears are pink again, you don’t say anything at first, just hold the bear a little closer.

And then, quietly, “You’re ridiculous.” He exhales like he’s been holding his breath the whole time.

“Yeah,” he says softly, a pause then, almost embarrassed, “But… did it help?”

You don’t even hesitate, you just reach for his hand and squeeze it. Hard and he immediately leans into you, forehead dropping against your shoulder.

“Help?” you repeat softly. He hums a quiet yes against you. You smile a little, voice turning warmer, more certain. “Michael… this is actually the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me.”

He goes still for a second.

You gently bump his knee with yours. “Like, I don’t even think you understand what you just did.”

He lets out a small breath. “I think I might’ve overdone it.”

That makes you laugh softly under your breath. “No,” you say immediately. “You’re not allowed to downplay it.” He tilts his head slightly against your shoulder so he can look up at you a little. You soften even more.

“I’m serious,” you continue, quieter now. “I’m really, really grateful and really really in love.”

His ears go even pinker at that.

You glance down at him, fingers still wrapped around his, "It's not even a question,” you say softly. Your voice goes gentler, more certain. “I love it. I love you.”

A small breath leaves you, like you’re still processing it yourself, his grip on your hand tightens slightly at that. You look down at him properly, your thumb brushing over his knuckles the same way he does to you. He doesn’t say anything for a second, just stays there against you.

Then he lets out a small, shaky laugh, and squeezes your hand back. “Okay,” he murmurs. “Good.” A pause.

Then, even softer, “Because I was kind of freaking out that you’d think it was silly.” You shake your head immediately, pulling him just a little closer. “It’s perfect,” you whisper.

And he just stays there with you, forehead still against your shoulder, holding your hand.

--------------------------------------------------- tysm for reading hope you liked it 🫶🏼

[michaelsfish]

Heyyyy so I have a request. I was wondering if you'd be interested in writting a fic where teen Michael is hanging out with y/n and Joseph calls him over for some reason and when he returns his eyes are red like he'd been crying from whatever Joseph told him. I LIVE for angst and fluff

ok so i absolutely LOVE this idea, thank you for requesting this :))) Oh, and I wasn’t sure how you wanted their dynamic or relationship to be, so I tried to make it as flexible as possible. You can read it as either platonic or romantic. (1.4k words) --------------------------------------------------- Somewhere Safe

It was a hot summer day and Michael invited you over to hang out, Michael’s room was one of your favourite places in the world.

The moment you walked in, it felt different from the rest of the home.

There were books stacked on shelves and scattered on his desk, records leaning against the wall, notes with messy rushed handwriting everywhere and stuffed animals lined up neatly on a shelf. A few teddy bears sat on the bed, looking slightly worn from years of being loved. Toys and little trinkets he’d collected over time were tucked into corners of the room, giving it a warm, comforting feel.

The room reflected a side of Michael that most people didn’t get to see. People saw the performer, but here, surrounded by books, toys, and stuffed animals, he looked like what he really was. Just a teenager.

You could hear voices drifting up from below. One of his brothers was laughing loudly at something, someone else was arguing over what to watch on TV, and every now and then you could hear dishes clinking in the kitchen.

You sat cross-legged on the carpet while Michael was laying on the ground, his head near your leg, there were opened packets of chips and snacks around you guys. He was laughing about a prank he had pulled on his brother earlier, his smile bright and effortless.

“You’re so lame,” you teased.

Michael gasped dramatically. “I am not.”

“You are.”

“I got you to laugh.”

“Out of pity.”

He clutched his chest, “how could you.” Before you could respond, a voice cut through the air.

“Michael!”

The smile immediately disappeared from his face, he practically jumped to his feet from where he’d been lying on the floor beside you, the relaxed expression vanishing so quickly it made your stomach twist. You watched his shoulders tense as Joseph stood in the doorway.

Joseph was standing there, his expression hard and unreadable. His eyes landed on you for a brief second and the look wasn’t welcoming. If anything, it felt like annoyance, like your presence was an inconvenience. His gaze swept over you quickly before returning to Michael, a faint look of disapproval crossing his face.

“Come here.” Cold and sharp, it wasn’t a request, it was an order.

“Be right back,” he said quietly. You nodded, immediately feeling the shift in the mood, the front door closed behind him.

Five minutes passed.

Then ten.

You picked at the chips, no longer hungry.

When the door finally opened again, Michael stepped inside quietly. His head was lowered and his eyes were red as if he’d already cried and forced himself to stop. He walked past you and sat down heavily on the bed, his hand gripping the edge so tight his knuckles turned pale.

For a moment neither of you spoke. You pretended not to notice, giving him a second to somewhat recollect himself. Michael stared at the ground.

“You okay?” you questioned eventually, soft and carefully, his jaw tightened. “Yeah.”

It wasn’t convincing, not even a little, so you waited.

Eventually he let out a shaky breath, “he just…” Michael swallowed hard. “He said I wasn’t working hard enough.”

You frown, “but you’ve been practicing all week.”

“I know.” His voice cracked, immediately he looked away, embarrassed, “but he said that’s not enough.” The words came out barely above a whisper, “that I keep getting distracted.”

You hated hearing him talk like that, like no matter how much he did, he’d never be enough. For a moment, neither of you spoke, then a horrible thought crept into your mind.

Distracted.

By who?

The answer felt painfully obvious, you looked down at your hands, “oh.”

Michael frowned slightly, “what?” You forced a small smile “maybe I should go.” His head snapped up, “what?”

“If I’m getting you in trouble…”

“No.” The response came so quickly it almost startled you, Michael looked down at you on the ground, “no, don’t say that.”

“But your dad said you’re distracted.”

“No.” His voice cracked again “please don’t think that.”

You looked at him, surprised by the desperation in his expression.

“You’re not a distraction.”

“Then why would he say that?”

Michael swallowed hard, “because he thinks all I should do is work.” His gaze dropped to the floor, “if I’m not practicing, I’m wasting time. If I’m reading, I’m wasting time. If I’m resting, I’m wasting time.”

He laughed bitterly, “if I’m doing anything that isn’t music, it’s a distraction.”

Your heart broke, you remembered the look Joseph had given you in the doorway. It had been enough to make you uneasy for the rest of the afternoon. If that was all it took to scare you, you couldn’t imagine what it was like for Michael who had to face his father’s criticism every day. Slowly, you stood up from the ground, “maybe I should leave anyway.”

Before you could take more than a step, Michael reached out and grabbed your wrist, not hard but just enough to stop you.

You froze.

His hand immediately loosened, but he didn’t let go completely, “Please” the word came out small and vulnerable, “don’t leave.”

You looked back at him, his eyes were still red, “you’re the only person I get to just be myself around.”

Your chest tightened. Michael stared at the floor, suddenly unable to meet your eyes “when you’re here, I don’t have to think about all that stuff for a little while.” He shrugged helplessly. “So please don’t leave because of something he said.”

The room fell quiet, then, after a moment, you sat back down beside him on the edge of the bed and the tension in his shoulders eased almost immediately, like he’d been afraid you would go and for a while neither of you said anything.

Michael rubbed at his eyes quickly. “I shouldn’t even be upset about it.”

“You can be upset.”

“No, it’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid.”

He was quiet, then another shaky breath escaped him. “I just wish…” He stopped.

“What?”

Michael shrugged, “I wish he was proud of me.”

The sentence shattered your heart.

Because it sounded so simple. So reasonable. And yet somehow, with Joseph, it felt so impossible. Nothing Michael did ever seemed to be enough, no amount of practice, success, or hard work earned the approval he wanted most. Michael could spend every waking hour trying to make his father proud, and still walk away feeling like he’d fallen short.

The worst part was that he never stopped trying, he still hoped.

Without thinking, you reached over and nudged your shoulder against his, he looked at you.

“You know,” you said, “I think you’re pretty amazing.”

A tiny smile appeared. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“I cry one time and suddenly I’m amazing? What happened to thinking I’m lame?”

You groaned. “Are you seriously bringing that up right now?”

“Absolutely.”

“I was joking.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Michael.”

His smile widened slightly, “so now I’m amazing?”

“You were amazing before the crying.”

That earned a laugh, a small one, but real. You considered it a victory. Michael looked down again, his smile slowly dropping. “Do you really think so or are you just saying that because you feel bad for me?”

“Michael.”

“Hm?”

“I think you’re one of the hardest-working people I’ve ever met, actually no, you are the most hard-working person i’ve ever met.”

His expression softened as he blushed slightly.

“And you’re kind.”

A pause.

“And funny.”

He snorted “don’t push it.”

You laughed, for the first time since he’d come back outside, the tension in his shoulders eased. Not completely but enough.

You shook your head a little, smiling, “i’m serious, Michael I’m not just saying it to make you feel better.”

Your voice softened, “I mean it.”

He stayed quiet, so you nudged his shoulder gently again, just enough to keep him grounded in the moment.

“You don’t give yourself enough credit,” you added.

Michael let out a small breath, almost like he was trying to believe you but didn’t fully know how.

Slowly, carefully, he leaned his head against your shoulder, like he was exhausted and needed somewhere safe for a minute. You didn’t say anything, just stayed there.

After a while, he spoke quietly, “thanks.”

“For what?”

“For staying.”

“You don’t have to thank me for that,” you said gently. Michael stayed quiet for a moment, his fingers loosened slightly in his lap, like he was finally letting himself relax.

“Still,” he murmured. You rested your head gently against his as he lay on your shoulder. “I’m not going anywhere,” you said quietly.

A genuine smile finally appeared, the kind that reached his eyes and even though the hurt Joseph had caused wasn’t magically gone, for that moment, sitting together on those steps, Michael looked a little less alone.

------------------------------------------------ I hope you enjoyed it :))

[michaelsfish]

hey!

I was thinking abt something inspired by "The Cure", the new Olivia Rodrigo's song

what do you think?

Heyyy!! I don’t listen to Olivia Rodrigo like that, so I hope I did the fic justice. I tried my best to make it as similar as possible :))) (950 words)

The Cure Michael knew something was wrong before you said a word. He always did. The two of you were curled up together on the couch, one of his movies playing softly in the background, his arm wrapped around your shoulders while your head rested against his chest, and to anyone looking in from the outside it would’ve looked perfect. But your thoughts were anything but perfect, they were poison. They found cracks and reasons to worry when there weren’t any. They spent nights fighting bad thoughts in your room.

Michael was talking about something, some story from years ago that should’ve made you laugh, but you hadn’t heard half of it because you’d gotten trapped inside your own head again.

The moment he noticed your silence, he stopped speaking. “What is it?”

You immediately shook your head. “Nothing.”

His fingers began tracing slow circles against your arm. “It’s not nothing.”

You swallowed. “I’m okay.”

“No, you’re not.” His voice wasn’t accusing. It never was. It was gentle, patient and so soft.

You stared at the television screen. Michael waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Never rushing you or demanding answers, allowing you to collect your thoughts. Eventually your voice came out small. “Do you ever wish I was different?” The question made his hand stop moving.

When you finally looked up, he was staring at you like you’d just asked him whether the sky was blue. “What?”

You immediately regretted speaking. “Forget it.”

“No.”

You tried pulling away but he caught your hand before you could, “where did that come from?”

You shrugged but Michael knew you too well. The shrug only told him you were hurting. “You’ve been thinking again.”

You laughed weakly. “That’s kind of my thing.”

He smiled sadly. “Yeah.” You looked down. “I just…” Your voice cracked.

“Sometimes I think about everyone you’ve known before me.”

Michael sighed softly. Not annoyed. Just heartbroken that you were carrying this around by yourself.

His thumb brushed over your knuckles. “And?”

“And I wonder if they were easier.”

“Easier?”

“To love.”

The silence that followed made your stomach drop. You knew he was trying to find the right words. You hated that he had to. Finally he reached over and gently tilted your chin upward.

“Look at me.”

You did.

“Do you know what I see?”

You shook your head.

“I see the girl who stays up until three in the morning talking to me when I can’t sleep.”

“I see the girl who remembers every little thing I tell her.” His smile softened.

“I see the girl who loves people so intensely that it always ends up written all over her face.”

You blushing looking down but Michael held your chin gently, forcing you to look at him

“And I see someone who is so busy comparing herself to people she isn’t that she forgets how wonderful she already is.” Your chest tightened. Because no matter how many times he said things like that, they always sounded sincere. Like he truly believed them.

“I don’t feel wonderful.”

Michael’s expression broke. “Oh, sweetheart.” The nickname came out almost as a whisper. He pulled you closer until your head rested against his shoulder. For a while neither of you spoke. The only sound was the rain outside.

Then he quietly said, “You know, sometimes I think you believe my love is a test.”

You frowned. “What?”

“Like if you’re perfect enough, pretty enough, good enough, then you’ll get to keep it.”

Your breath caught because that was exactly what it felt like. Michael squeezed your hand. “But that’s not how love works.” You stared at him. His eyes were warm. “You don’t earn it.”

Your eyes prickled with tears, “you make it sound so easy.”

“You make loving come naturally.” His voice was soft. He brushed a strand of hair behind your ear. “I know some days your head tells you awful things.” Your throat tightened.

“I know some days you look in the mirror and only see flaws.” His hand found yours again. “And I know there are days when I tell you I love you and you believe me for five minutes before the doubts come back.”

You feel the lump in your throat, because he’d noticed. He’d noticed all of it.

Every time you asked for reassurance. Every time you doubted him. Every time you doubted yourself. Yet somehow he was still here. Still holding your hand. Still choosing you.

Michael leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your forehead. Then another.

And another.

Until you laughed through your tears.

“There she is.”

“What?”

“That smile.”

You rolled your eyes at his grin.

“I’ve been trying to get that back for twenty minutes.”

Despite yourself, you laughed again. The sound seemed to make him happier than anything else. Michael wrapped both arms around you and pulled you into his chest. “You know what?”

“What?”

“Just stay with me for a bit.”

A small laugh slipped out of you, shaky and tired. “I am with you.”

Michael shook his head a little, thumb brushing slowly over your hand.

“No, I mean really stay with me. Don’t go off in your head tonight.” You went quiet for a moment. “…I try not to.”

“I know,” he said softly, like he wasn’t blaming you for anything at all. He kissed the top of your head. “Just remember, you don’t have to carry anything alone, especially when you're with me.”

For the first time all evening, the tightness in your chest loosened. Not completely. The doubts were still there. The fears were still there. But with Michael’s arms around you and his heartbeat beneath your ear, they seemed quieter.

And for tonight, quieter was enough.

________________________________________ I hope you like it 🙏🏼

[michaelsfish]

If Tomorrow Comes

Pls read at ur own risk, this is an ANGST NO COMFORT fic

Summary: After your final argument with Michael, you’re left grieving his absence. A year later you discover a box of his hidden letters

word count: 4.9k 

Warnings: grief and loss, death of spouse, references to medical dependency / medication use (non-graphic)

2009

“Michael, look at yourself.” 

He didn’t answer. The kitchen was dim except for the light over the stove, casting long shadows across the marble countertop. He stood there with his back to you, one hand braced against the bench as though he were trying to hold himself upright. 

The sight of him made your chest ache. He was thinner than he’d been months ago. Darker circles sat beneath his eyes. His shoulders seemed permanently tense now, burdened by responsibilities he never allowed anyone else to carry. 

“Michael.” 

“I’m okay.” 

“You haven’t slept properly in weeks.” 

“I’m okay.” 

“No, you’re not.” 

His jaw tightened. You watched him reach for a bottle of water before setting it back down again, fingers trembling slightly. 

“You rehearsed for twelve hours today.” 

“I’m preparing.” 

“You rehearsed yesterday too.” 

“I know.” 

“And the day before that.” 

“I know.” 

“And before that.” 

His eyes finally met yours. Dark. Exhausted. Frustrated. “I know.” The words echoed through the kitchen. For a moment neither of you spoke. Outside, rain tapped softly against the windows. The sound filled the silence between you. “I just want you to slow down,” you whispered. Something flickered across his face. Pain. 

“Do you think I’m doing this because I want to?” The question caught you off guard. His voice had become dangerously quiet. “I have people depending on me.” 

“I depend on you too.” His eyes immediately dropped. The guilt on his face made you regret saying it. “I can’t do this tonight, Y/N,” he sighed, his head resting on his hand. He rubbed at his eyes and let out a shaky breath.

“Not tonight. I know what you’re saying, okay? I do. But I’m exhausted.” His voice was quieter now, rough around the edges. “Every conversation lately turns into this, and I just… I don’t have anything left to give right now.” He looked away, jaw tightening.

“I’m trying. Maybe it doesn’t look like enough to you, maybe it isn’t enough, but I’m trying.” A hint of frustration slipped into his tone. “And hearing that everyone depends on me like I’m supposed to carry it all… it just makes me feel worse.” His shoulders slumped.

“So please,” he muttered, tiredness outweighing the annoyance, “can we not do this tonight?”

“I know,” you said flatly. He looked up at that, like he expected something else. “You always say that,” you continued, voice even, almost detached. “And I always end up being the one who has to understand it.”

A pause.

“I get it. You’re tired. You’re overwhelmed. You don’t have anything left to give.” You nodded slightly, like you were listing facts rather than arguing. “But I can’t keep being the only one who shows up in these conversations.”

His mouth opened a little, but you didn’t let it go there. “It’s fine. Seriously. We don’t have to do this tonight.” Your shoulders lifted in a small shrug. “We probably shouldn’t be doing this at all, actually.”

You held his gaze for a moment longer, then looked away and turned toward the guest bedroom. “I’m going to sleep in there,” you said quietly, already walking. “If you need me, I’ll be there. You should actually rest properly tonight.”

As you said it, something flickered across his face before he could hide it. It wasn’t anger anymore. Not even exhaustion. It was that quiet, sinking kind of hurt he didn’t know how to stop showing.

His brows drew together slightly, like he was trying to process what you’d just decided without him. His mouth opened a fraction, then closed again, like any response he had didn’t feel worth saying out loud.

For a second, he looked like he might stand up, might call you back, might say your name in that softer tone he used when things weren’t already slipping away. But he didn’t.

Instead, his shoulders dropped further, the tension leaving him in a way that didn’t look like relief at all. More like resignation. He watched you for a moment too long as you walked away, like he was trying to memorise the shape of it, the distance growing between you in real time.

And when the guest bedroom door closed, he was still sitting there, staring at the space you’d just left behind him, jaw tight, eyes unfocused, like he’d just realised he’d lost the thread of something he didn’t know how to get back.

In thirty years together, it had never felt like this.

And it wasn’t a one time argument that came out of nowhere either. He almost wished it was. Something quick, something loud, something they could patch up after a long night and pretend didn’t cut so deep.

But this had been building for months.

Little moments that didn’t seem like much at the time, but stacked up anyway. The first time you went quiet instead of arguing back. The night he came home and you were already asleep on the other side of the bed, turned away from him. The conversation where you stopped asking “are you okay?” because the answer always sounded the same and never changed anything.

He saw it now in flashes, like his mind was replaying things he should have paid more attention to.

The sigh you tried to hide.

The way you stopped reaching for him first.

The silence that started sitting longer between sentences.

Each memory hit a little harder than the last.

Michael leaned back slightly, exhaling through his nose, but it didn’t do anything to loosen the tightness in his chest. He wished it was just stress from work. He wished it was something he could fix by sleeping, or by taking on more, or by pushing through like he always did.

But this wasn’t that kind of tired.

This was something that had been growing while he was busy surviving everything else, and now it was sitting right in front of him, undeniable, in the shape of the distance between them.

In the guest bedroom, you sat on the edge of the bed, but it didn’t feel like sitting so much as collapsing into place. The door was closed. The silence behind it felt heavier than any sound. At first, you tried to steady your breathing. You told yourself you were fine. That you were just tired. That it would pass in the morning like it always somehow did.

But it didn’t pass. It sank. Your hands curled together in your lap, fingers pressing so tightly into each other it almost hurt, like you were trying to hold yourself in one piece. And then it hit you all at once.

Not just what you said. Not just the way you walked away. But everything underneath it that you hadn’t let yourself fully think about yet. You didn’t know anymore if you were being too harsh. If you were the problem for finally sounding like you’d given up.

If maybe, just like every other time, you were supposed to swallow it back down. Smooth it over. Go back out there and make it easier for him to breathe, even if it meant you couldn’t.

Your throat tightened. Because that’s what you always did, wasn’t it?

You softened your voice when it got too real. You explained your feelings in smaller pieces so they didn’t take up too much space. You turned your hurt into something more “understandable” so it wouldn’t feel like a burden.

And the worst part was, you didn’t even know when it started. When loving him became something that required you to edit yourself. A shaky breath broke out of you before you could stop it. Then another.

And suddenly you weren’t just thinking anymore, you were crying. Harder than you expected. Like your body had been holding it in for months and just decided it was done asking permission.

You pressed your hand over your mouth, trying to stay quiet, but it didn’t help. The sobs came anyway, messy and uneven, shaking through you until your chest hurt with it.

Because you didn’t even know what was true anymore.

Were you finally allowing yourself to express your emotions?

Or were you just being cruel to someone who was already barely holding on?

The confusion made it worse. It twisted everything together until there was no clear right answer, just guilt and exhaustion and love that didn’t know how to sit comfortably in your chest anymore. You leaned forward, forehead dropping toward your knees, breath breaking in waves you couldn’t control.

And in that moment, the only thing you were sure of was that you didn’t recognise where you stood in your own life anymore, or how something that once felt so safe could feel like this.

Michael didn’t sleep. He couldn’t sleep. He told himself he would. He lay there in the dark for hours, staring at the ceiling, listening to the quiet of the house that felt too empty without you in the bed beside him.

Every time he closed his eyes, the argument came back. Your voice. Disappointed.

“I depend on you too.”

He turned onto his side, then back again. The sheets felt wrong. Too big. Too cold. Like the space you usually filled had turned into something he couldn’t ignore. Down the hall, the house staff moved quietly, aware of how this beautiful home, once full of unconditional love, is now a place where they have to walk on eggshells..

He tried to get up once. Stopped halfway. Sat back down. His hands shook slightly as he pressed them against his face, dragging down slowly, like he was trying to wipe the feeling away and couldn’t. He took out his notebook and pen, and started writing, writing what he couldn't say, on some nights he would write until he naturally falls asleep but tonight felt different, sleep wasn't coming long after finishing his writing.

Eventually, he called out to a nearby staff, wrapping up for the night, voice rough and low, asking for something to help him sleep. “Please, please give me some milk... Just make me sleep”, the staff nods solemnly, knowing what he means by milk (propofol). Michael knows he shouldn’t. He knows how much you hate when he relies on his medication.

It didn’t feel dramatic to him. It felt necessary. Like he was drowning and just needed air.

The room dimmed further as time passed, though he wasn’t sure how much of it he was actually aware of anymore. Everything felt distant, softened at the edges, like he was slipping further away from himself without meaning to.

His breathing started to slow before he fully realised it was happening.

The tension that had been sitting in his shoulders for months, maybe longer, began to loosen in small, uneven pieces. Not all at once, not like peace arriving, but like something heavy finally slipping from his grip after he’d held on too long to something he didn’t have the strength to carry anymore.

The thoughts that had been crowding him all night started to blur at the edges. Your voice, the argument, the weight of everything unsaid between you, it all softened into something distant, like it belonged to another version of him, another moment he could no longer quite reach.

For the first time in what felt like months, there was no pressure to respond. No expectation to fix anything. No version of himself he had to keep holding together.

Just stillness. Quiet, unfamiliar, and deep enough that he didn’t have to fight it anymore.

And as it pulled him under, there was a brief, faint sense of relief he didn’t have the awareness to question.

And then there was nothing. _____________________________________

1 year later

One year later, the house still didn’t feel like it had accepted what happened.

It hadn’t changed in any obvious way. Nothing was gone. Nothing had been replaced. It was all still there in careful, frozen placement, like moving anything would make the absence louder than it already was.

But you noticed it in smaller things. The way silence didn’t feel like rest anymore The way certain rooms felt like they were holding their breath. The way you still caught yourself listening for footsteps that never came.

You stopped counting time properly after a while. A year wasn’t a year. It was just a long continuation of the same night that never fully ended. And no matter how much time passed, you still came back to that last conversation in pieces you couldn’t control.

“I depend on you too.”

Your own voice, calm and tired, like you had been speaking from somewhere far away. Sometimes you wondered if that was the moment everything broke, or if it had already been breaking long before you said anything at all. That question never answered itself.

The phone rang before you had time to think. You stared at it for a moment too long, like recognition came before willingness did.

Latoya.

You almost didn’t answer, you knew what was coming if you did. Eventually you picked up.

“Hey,” her voice came through carefully at first, softer than usual, like she was testing how much strength you had left to give. Then it steadied. “I’ve been trying to reach you.” You didn’t say anything right away. Your grip tightened slightly around the phone, like holding it too loosely might make everything slip further away.

“I know you’ve been there,” she continued, quieter now. “I know you’ve been staying locked up  in that house, around all of it. But you can’t keep doing this to yourself.”

A pause.

“I need you to hear me. He’s gone. And I don’t mean that in a cruel way. I mean it in the only way it is.” Your throat tightened, but your voice still came out flat and cold. “I know that.”

“No,” she said gently, but firmly enough that it cut through. “I don’t think you’re letting yourself know it. There’s a difference.”

Silence stretched between you.

You turned slightly, looking out at the room without really seeing it.

“I just…” her voice softened again, “I’ve seen you. I’ve seen how this has been sitting on you. And I’ve seen everyone around you trying to hold you up while you’re still holding onto him like he’s going to come back through the door.” Your chest tightened at that.

“He wouldn’t want this for you,” she added, more quietly now. “None of us do. You’re not meant to disappear into this.” Your jaw clenched slightly. “I’m not disappearing,” you said, but it didn’t sound convincing even to you.

Latoya exhaled.

“You are hurting,” she said. “And so is everyone else. Everyone is grieving him in their own way. But you…” her voice softened again, “you’re stuck in it. You’re still living like the argument is something you can fix if you just think about it enough.”

Your eyes burned slightly, but you didn’t let anything fall. “You don’t understand,” you said quietly. “I understand more than you think,” she replied. “And I’m telling you, gently but clearly, you need to come out of this space you’re in. Even for a moment. Just breathe somewhere that isn’t inside all of this.”

A long pause followed.

But instead of easing, something in you tightened. “No,” you said, voice breaking slightly now. “You don’t get to tell me to just move on. I can’t just… leave it behind. I can’t act like it didn’t happen.”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” she said quickly, softer again. “I’m saying you’re allowed to exist outside of it too.” But it didn’t land. Not in the way she meant it to. Because in your mind, letting go sounded too close to forgetting. And forgetting felt worse than hurting.

“I can’t,” you whispered, more to yourself than to her now.

The silence on the other end changed slightly, like she understood she couldn’t reach you in that moment the way she wanted to. “I know,” she said finally, quieter. “But I need you to stay here with us too. Not just there with him.”

And after that, neither of you spoke for a while. The line stayed open. But you felt further away than ever. _____________________________________

You found the box by accident. It was tucked away in a place you hadn’t fully gone through since he was alive, like your mind had quietly agreed not to touch certain spaces yet. A closet you didn’t need. A shelf you didn’t look at properly. Purposefully avoiding it.

It was just there.

Plain.

At first you didn’t understand what you were looking at. Then your name. Written on the top in his handwriting. And your stomach dropped before you even opened it. You sat on the floor because your legs didn’t really agree with standing anymore. And for a long time, you just stared at it.

Inside were letters. So many of them it didn’t feel real at first, some were dated years ago and some more recent to his final days. Some were stacked neatly. Some were folded messily like he had written them in moments he didn’t fully plan. Some were sealed. Some weren’t.

All of them addressed to you. You didn’t open the first one straight away. You held it instead, like touching it properly might make it become something you couldn’t take back.

When you finally did open it, your hands were shaking before you even read a full sentence.

January 12th 2001

She fell asleep on my shoulder tonight while we were watching television. My arm went numb after forty minutes, but I didn’t move because she looked peaceful. Sometimes I look at her and wonder how I got this lucky.

You picked up another one, 

November 26th 2007

My love,

I saw you this morning before you saw me. You were making tea and you looked tired, but you still did that thing where you try to pretend you’re fine by moving a little faster than you need to. 

It doesn’t work, by the way. I notice everything. 

I wanted to tell you I love you then, but I didn’t want to interrupt your thoughts. You always look like you’re somewhere else before the day even starts. So I’m writing it instead. I love you. Even when you’re quiet. Even when you’re busy. Even when you think I don’t see you trying so hard. I see it. 

Also, you drank my coffee again. I’m not mad. I’m just observing.

Another one

April 7th 2005

Okay, I need to say this calmly,

We need to talk about the blankets. Because I am starting to believe you are physically incapable of staying on your side of the bed. But I know how you feel about this topic so I have avoided it

I woke up again with exactly 12% of the blanket and you wrapped like a very comfortable burrito on the other side. This is not sustainable. I am a world-famous man and I am losing battles to blankets.

Anyway, I still love you. Unfortunately.

Please fix this behaviour before it becomes a global issue.

You ugly laugh/cry at that. 

December 30th 2008

We argued about something stupid. I don’t even remember what it was anymore. She’s asleep beside me right now. I keep looking over to make sure she’s still there.

I hate it when we argue

There were letters from good days. From bad days. From nights he couldn’t sleep. From mornings where he tried to convince himself things would be better if he just kept going.

You read slowly and carefully. You couldn’t make yourself rush something that felt like it had been waiting too long to exist in your hands. And between every page, something tightened in your chest.

But then you stop, because you see another letter dated ‘25 June 2009’ your hand freezes it already felt like too much. Your hand shake as it opens up the letter 

My love,

I can’t stop thinking about tonight. I replay it in pieces I didn’t even realise I was keeping.

Your voice saying you were tired. In a way I didn’t know how to respond to properly in the moment. And me, sitting there, knowing I should have said something different and not knowing how to find the right words fast enough to stop it from becoming what it became.

“I can’t do this tonight.”

I hear myself say it now and I wish I could reach back into that moment and shake myself. Not because you didn’t deserve space. You did. But because I think I misunderstood what you were actually asking for.

You weren’t asking me to be perfect. You were asking me to stay. And I didn’t do that well enough. I let the moment get too big between us, and then I just let it stay there.

I’ve been thinking a lot about communication lately. About how I always assumed I had more time to get better at it. That I could learn how to say things properly later, when things were calmer, when I wasn’t so tired, when life wasn’t pulling me in ten directions at once.

But “later” has been doing a lot of work in my life. Too much, probably.

I keep thinking I need to come back to you properly. Not just physically, but emotionally. Fully. Without all the noise in my head making everything harder than it needed to be. I wanted to tell you that. I still want to tell you that.

Because the truth is, I didn’t want that to be the end of the conversation between us. I didn’t want it to sit like that, unresolved, unfinished, hanging in the air between two people who have known each other too long to leave things like that.

I regret letting you walk away feeling like I wasn’t trying.

Because I was. I just wasn’t doing it well enough in the moment you needed it most. And I think that’s something I will carry for a long time. I wish I could explain how much I’ve been thinking about changing things. Not in a dramatic way. Not in a “start over” way. Just in a “do it better this time” way.

Listen more. Stay longer in the hard moments instead of stepping away from them. Actually say the things I think instead of assuming you already know them.

Be present. Properly present. Not half there. Not distracted. Not always slightly ahead of myself. You deserved that version of me more often than you got it. And I hate that I only fully realised it in the quiet after you stopped looking at me the same way.

There’s something I never properly told you.

After everything started feeling too loud in my life, I kept imagining a different version of it. A quieter one. One where we weren’t always being pulled in different directions.

I’ve been thinking a lot about what comes after the final album and the tour, and I want you to know this isn’t just something I’ve imagined in passing, it’s something I’m going to do. 

Once everything is finished, once the work and the noise and the constant movement finally stop, I’m taking us away somewhere no one will recognise us. Somewhere quiet, private, completely ours. 

I want us to leave all of this behind for a while and live properly, without anything or anyone pulling at us. No expectations, no schedules, no version of me that belongs to anyone else but you. 

Just you and me, waking up without pressure sitting on my chest, having mornings that don’t belong to the world outside, eating slowly, talking properly, being together without interruptions or distance between us. 

I want to grow old with you Y/N. I want to be the nagging old husband that you complain about to everyone but secretly still smile at when I’m not looking. I want us to argue about the smallest things just so we have an excuse to sit next to each other again five minutes later like nothing happened. I want young teenage couples to look at us and roll their eyes because we’re still holding hands in public when we’re too old to care what anyone thinks.

I’m going to make that real for us. I don’t want it to stay something we only talk about when everything gets too much. After this is done, I’m choosing that life. I’m choosing us.

I used to picture it in detail more than I probably admitted. Not just the place. But the feeling of it and I wasn’t just thinking about escaping anything. I was thinking about coming back to us. Properly. I think that’s what I was trying to move toward even when I didn’t say it out loud.

Even after tonight.

Even when I didn’t know how to fix what I had already let slip. Because I didn’t think I had run out of chances yet. I still don’t think that.

I want to try again. Better this time. Clearer. More honest. Less distracted by everything else.

I want to come back to you and actually say, without getting lost in my own head, I’m here. I’m listening. I’m not going anywhere in the middle of this conversation.

I think I’m finally starting to understand how to do that.

And I wish I could show you what that version of me would have looked like in real time, instead of just leaving you with the version that was still learning how.

Because that wasn’t the end of what I wanted between us. Not in my mind. Not in my plans. Not in the future I kept building quietly in the background of everything else.

Tomorrow I’m going to wake up and be better for you, I promise. Not in a perfect way, not all at once, but in small, real ways that actually last. I’m going to come back to you properly this time, not halfway, not distracted, not already thinking about what comes next.

And if I mess it up, I’ll try again. That’s the part I think I’m finally starting to understand. I just want us to feel like us again in the way we used to, when things were simpler and we didn’t have to fight so hard just to reach each other across the room.

So I’m going to try.

Properly.

For you.

And I hope when you see me tomorrow, you’ll let me show you instead of just telling you.

From your dearest husband, Michael 

Ps: I hope you're aware of how much I love you, my love for you never stopped, never faltered even if it feels like that sometime, and I know even though you get overwhelmed sometimes you still love me.

That I never doubted.

The letter slipped from your hands before you even realised you’d let go of it, like your body had simply given out under it. For a second, there was nothing.

No thought. No sound. Just this strange, hollow stillness in your chest, like something inside you had gone quiet all at once. Then it hit.

‘Tomorrow I’m going to wake up and be better for you. I’m going to try harder. I’m finally starting to understand.’

You let out a sound so piercing it breaks the silence of the house that has been ongoing for too long. You break down completely, hugging your knees, crying, sobbing. It came out sharp, uneven, like your body didn’t know how to carry what your mind had just been handed.

You pressed a hand over your mouth, like that could hold something in, but it didn’t help. The sound still came through, broken and disbelieving, spilling into the quiet room that suddenly felt too small for what you were feeling.

“No…” you whispered, but it didn’t sound like denial. It sounded like shock trying to find its footing. “No, no, no…” you rambled louder holding your head in your hands

The letter still somewhere near your knees. Your mind kept catching on the same thing.

He was trying, really trying, he had been planning it, thinking it through, choosing it, choosing you, a version of him that came back properly, and it was too late, the thought didn’t arrive loudly, it just settled in, quiet, permanent.

You pressed your forehead into your hand, breathing uneven, the guilt coming in waves you couldn’t stop. The distance. The words. The way you had walked away not knowing it would become final in a way neither of you had meant.

“I didn’t know,” you said out loud, like saying it could somehow change what it meant. Like it could reach him anyway. But the room didn’t answer.

Because he was there in a way you hadn’t been allowed to see properly when he was alive. Not the version of him you argued with or the version of him that felt out of reach. But the version that loved you so carefully it almost hurt to read.

The guilt didn’t come all at once. It built slowly, like it had been waiting for space to finally exist. At first it was just sadness. Then confusion. Then something sharper.

You started rereading conversations in your head. Replaying the last months of that year. Looking for things you might have missed, things you might have said differently, things you might have softened instead of standing your ground on.

Because you had stood your ground. You remembered that clearly now. You had been tired. You had been overwhelmed. You had been trying to hold something together that felt like it was slipping no matter what you did.

And you kept wondering if you had been asking for too much. Or if you had finally been asking for something real. That question didn’t settle either. It just stayed with you.

And in the end, all that was left was the quiet certainty that no answer you found could ever reach back and change what had already happened. _____________________________________ ... yh idk what to say

im sorry guys im just a sucker for angst 💔

@umafanficdoidaqualquer @vunhun

[michaelsfish]

A Night for Michael

Sorry guys this ones a bit of a sad one 😔

Summary: Its 2026 and your at the Michael movie premiere, but, someones missing :((( angst word count: 3.8k (oh just a note, i know theres complications about the Michael movie, and like how its not accurate and very sugarcoated, but for the sake of this fic pls pretend it was perfect) --------------------------------------

The lights of the 2026 premiere shimmer like something out of a dream.

You stand just outside the entrance for a moment longer than you mean to, fingers tightening around your clutch as the noise of cameras and voices rolls through the air. Flashes of cameras going crazy to catch a shot of the late Michael's wife’s rare appearance. Interviewers and journalists shouting over each other 

“Y/N! Y/N look here—just one question!”

“Is it painful for you to watch someone else portray him?”

“Do you think the filmmakers exploited his life for profit?”

“Why appear now after staying private for so long?”

It is loud, celebratory, and overwhelming. But underneath it, there is something else too. Something quieter that you feel more than hear.

History.

Inside, the film is about to premiere. A story of him, ur best friend, ur husband. Of Michael. Except none of this feels right. He should be here beside you, shoulder brushing yours as you walk in, leaning in close to whisper that he already wants to leave, not even ten minutes into the night. His hand would be wrapped tightly around yours, like if he let go for even a second, you’d disappear into the crowd.

And then it hits you, sharp and sudden, twisting your chest into something hot and angry.

Why did he disappear?

How did he have the nerve to leave you standing here alone like this, in a world too loud, too bright, too full of people who don’t understand what he meant to you?

The anger should stay sharper than this, but it doesn’t. It softens against the weight of everything that came before it, against the long, careful process that made this film what it is. Because none of it was sudden. None of it was distant. It was built piece by piece, in the spaces between conversations, in the quiet insistence that if his story was going to be told, it had to be told right.

And your children, Prince and Blanket, are the ones who helped shape it into reality. You still remember the late-night conversations, the drafts scattered across kitchen counters, Blanket’s quiet intensity when he talked about preserving every detail with care, Prince’s steady determination to make sure it felt honest, not just polished. Nights where conversations never quite reached an ending, weighed down by the unbearable reality that Michael was truly gone, until eventually everyone would drift back to their own rooms, carrying their grief in silence, each person mourning him in their own way.

They had carried his legacy like something fragile and sacred at the same time.

And then there is Jaafar. Michael’s nephew. The one who stepped into Michael’s shoes on screen. The resemblance is almost painful in motion. The way he embodied his uncle doesn’t feel like imitation, but something closer to inheritance, as if fragments of Michael are being carried forward through him impossible to miss.

You finally step inside.

The auditorium glows gold and soft red, filled with family, collaborators, and people who once knew him in different chapters of his life. The Jackson family is scattered through the crowd, but you spot them easily. Familiar faces, familiar grief softened by time but never erased. 

Jackie, Jermaine, and Marlon stand together in a loose cluster, talking quietly like they’re trying to keep the night lighter than it feels. Jermaine, as always, has done something unpredictable with his hair again, and it almost distracts you for a second before Jackie nudges him mid-conversation like he’s given up trying to figure it out.

A little further over, Katherine Jackson stands with La Toya beside her. Katherine holds herself with that composed presence she always has, like she’s learned how to carry an entire family’s history without letting it break her posture.

Prince catches your eye first from near the stage and gives you a small nod, like he is grounding himself through you. Blanket is beside him, quieter, hands folded, eyes flicking between the screen and the seats as if trying to hold everything together at once.

Then you see Jaafar.

He is already in costume for the Q and A afterward, still carrying traces of Michael even when he is just standing still. The way he tilts his head slightly when listening. The softness in his focus. The way his eyes light up when he smiles. It hits you in a way you are not prepared for.

Because for a second, it is not 2026.

It is years ago.

1970.

It is laughter in a sunlit room. It is running through corridors barefoot because someone dared someone else to race. It is a boy with a quiet smile and a loud personality whose only fault was loving too much.

Michael.

Your chest tightens before you can stop it.

“Hey,” a voice says softly beside you. You turn and find Katherine watching you, steady as always. She studies you for a second. “You alright, sweetheart?” You swallow. “It is strange, isn’t it?” you manage, voice a little uneven.

Katherine nods once. “Yeah. It always is for us.” You glance out toward the crowd, cameras flashing somewhere in the distance. “It feels like he should be here.” 

“I know,” she says quietly. No hesitation, no attempt to fix it. A pause settles between you. Then Katherine adds, softer, “But he is here. Just not the way people expect.” Your eyes drop for a moment. You do not answer straight away. Before the silence can sit too long, another voice joins in.

“I keep thinking I’m going to see him walk in late like he always did,” La Toya says as she reaches you both, shaking her head a little like she is trying to smile through it. “And he’d act like nothing was wrong. Like he was here all along and we’re all just going insane.”

A small, breathy laugh slips out of you before you can stop it. La Toya notices. “See? You remember it too. He used to drive us all crazy.” “He drove everyone crazy,” Katherine says, but there is the faintest hint of warmth in it.

La Toya steps closer to you, her voice dropping a little. “He’d be so proud of you being here tonight. You know that, right?” That lands heavier than you expect. You blink, looking down. “I just wish…” You stop yourself before you finish it.

Katherine reaches for your hand, gentle but firm. “We all do.” La Toya nods. “But you know what he was like. He’d hate all this fuss and then secretly love it at the same time.” That finally pulls another small, shaky laugh out of you.

Katherine squeezes your hand once. “Come on,” she says softly. “You do not have to carry it all standing here.”

All together you start walking further down where it was filled with more interviewers and journalists, the press. 

“Y/N! Over here!”

“Can you look this way?”

“Y/N, do you think you’ve ever fully processed his death?”

The last question hit you hard but there was no time to react, you weren’t new to all this and you knew any sort of reaction you gave would be picked on like crazy in the media tomorrow.

Flashes go off in sharp bursts. You try to keep moving, but it is impossible not to feel pulled in every direction at once. Everyone's saying your name.

“Do you think the film gets Michael right?”

“Is this premiere reopening old wounds for you?”

“Y/N, what would Michael think of this tonight?”

You pause as the questions overlap, your name being called from every direction, cameras flashing without a break.

When you speak, your voice is calmer, more measured.

“I think people will always have their own opinions about him,” you say gently. “But this film wasn’t made to answer everything or to change that. It was made with a lot of care, and a lot of love for who he was to us, not just who the world thought he was.”

You take a small breath, holding yourself steady under the lights.

“For me, what matters is that so many of the people closest to him helped shape it. It came from conversations, from memories, from trying to be as honest as possible with something that is never simple to tell.”

A brief pause.

“So I just hope people watch it with that in mind. Not as a final version of him, but as one way of remembering a life that meant a lot to a lot of people.”

You feel Katherine beside you before you see her. Steady. Present. La Toya is on your other side, close enough that you can hear her small, grounding “you’re okay” under her breath.

And then it becomes a blur of familiar faces moving through the same chaos.

Actors you recognised from the long nights of rewatching footage and personally meeting to make sure they completely encompassate the character they are playing. Colman Domingo pauses for photos, composed and calm in a way that almost feels unfair in all this noise. Nia Long gives a soft smile toward the cameras before leaning slightly closer to speak with someone off to the side. Juliano is there too, still carrying something of Michael's childhood in the way he stands, quiet but playful, like he is trying to stay inside the memory he helped recreate.

Ahead, the Jackson brothers is gathered in shifting pockets of movement.

Jackie, Marlon, and Jermaine stand together for a moment, Jermaine still somehow managing to distract everyone with his hair again, and Jackie and Marlon arguing, most likely over something that no one cares about.

Prince and Blanket are a little further in, staying close to each other. Prince’s posture is steady and humble. Blanket watches everything carefully, like he is noticing details everyone else is rushing past.

Jaafar moves through it all like he belongs in both worlds at once. When he catches your eye, he softens immediately, going back to all the conversations he has with you to perfect playing his uncle the best he can. There is a small nod, subtle but certain, like he understands exactly what this moment feels like for you without needing to say it out loud.

Someone calls your name again.

“Y/N! Over here!”

A wave of movement follows as you are guided forward again, the press finally loosening behind you. The sound shifts almost immediately. Not questions this time.

Cheering.

Your eyes lift before you even realise you are looking for it.

Fans packed behind barricades, signs held high, hands reaching out, voices overlapping in pure noise that is somehow warmer than what you just walked through.

“Y/N!”

“We love you!”

“Michael forever!”

You stop for a second without meaning to. La Toya glances at you and hesitates, like the words are too heavy to say out loud. When she finally speaks, her voice is softer than before, almost fragile.

“They’ve been waiting for this… for you,” she says, watching your face carefully, like she is trying to steady you with her gaze alone. A shaky breath slips out of her.

“You know, Y/N… ever since Michael,” her voice breaks and she looks down for a second, gathering herself, “ever since Michael passed away… it was like something in you went with him. Like you didn’t really leave, but you weren’t fully here either.”

The words land quietly at first, then all at once.

Your chest tightens in a way you can’t hide. For a second you just stand there, staring at the fans, your mind trying to catch up to what she actually said. Your fingers curl into your palm, nails pressing lightly without you noticing.

Your lips part, but nothing comes out right away.

When you finally speak, it’s barely above a whisper.

“I miss him,” you say, voice cracking on the edge of it. You blink quickly, like you can stop anything from spilling over if you just hold it in place. “I miss him so much it hurts in places I can’t even explain.”

“God I hate him so much” You let out a small, uneven breath, shaking your head slightly. You lift your hand, a small wave at first. The crowd erupts louder.

And then you’re moving again, gently guided forward by someone holding your arm.

You don’t resist. You just go with it. La Toya stays beside you as you walk, not saying much now, just keeping pace.

Ahead, you can see the entrance to the cinema where the film is being shown. People are gathered, lights brighter up there, voices louder again as you get closer.

Your breathing is still uneven, but you try to steady it. You keep your eyes forward and follow where they’re taking you, step by step, toward the screening.

You take your seat labelled with your name in it, sitting between Latoya and Marlon, Marlon gives you a warm familiar smile as the lights start to dim.

At the front, the director steps up first, speaking about the film, about Michael, about his work and legacy. Then the producers follow, talking about what it meant to bring everything together for tonight.

You listen, but it all feels slightly distant, like you’re hearing it through water. Then there’s movement at the front again. Prince steps up first, then Blanket beside him.

For a moment, they both just look out at the audience. Then Prince speaks first, his voice steady but emotional.“Thank you for coming tonight,” he says. “This film means a lot to us… to our family. It’s about our dad, but it’s also about everything he left behind for us.” They continue acknowledging the whole cast and thanking them.

Blanket takes a small breath before speaking, glancing briefly down and then back up. “And… we just want to say thank you to everyone who’s been here for us,” he says. “Especially our mum.”

There’s a pause. Prince looks toward your section of the room.

“She’s been everything to us, and we know this is hard for her,” he says simply. “But she is the strongest person we know. She’s kept us together.” Blanket nods slightly.

“And she’s been the best mum… and the best wife to our dad,” he adds quietly. “Even when things were really hard, she never stopped loving him.” The room is quiet for a second, then soft applause starts to build.

You don’t move right away. You just sit there, taking it in, your hands resting in your lap as people around you turn slightly in your direction. Marlon grinning and nudging you “Alright,” he murmurs with a small laugh, “I see what’s going on here… they’re trying to make you cry in public on purpose.”

You shake your head, smiling.

“If you start crying, I’m gonna start crying so you better not,” he adds lightly.

Eventually silence washes over the room like a held breath finally released. The screen flickers alive. For a second, anger flickers through you before you can stop it. And as much as you love Marlon, it’s not him you want here. It should be Michael.

He should be sitting there beside you, nudging you every few minutes during the film, leaning in to whisper something funny about a scene, or quietly complaining about the acting just to make you laugh. He should be there, like he always used to be. You shake your head, and look up at the screen.

On screen, little Michael appears.

Juliano.

The moment he steps into frame, something inside you fractures softly rather than breaks. It is not just the performance. It is the way he holds himself. The way his big brown bambi eyes search the world like it is both too loud and too beautiful at the same time.

He reminds you so much of him that it feels unfair.

Your breath catches.

Latoya notices first. She leans slightly toward you but does not interrupt. Just shifts closer, like an anchor without words. Marlon glances back too, softer now, like he understands without needing explanation.

“I’m fine,” you whisper automatically.

No one believes you.

You do not believe you.

The screen continues.

Young Michael smiles.

And suddenly you are somewhere else again, not watching a film but remembering a real moment that never fully stopped existing in your mind.

You are sitting across from him when he was still just Michael to you, not an icon, not a legend, just a boy with too much weight on his shoulders pretending it was normal.

He’s trying to act serious, but it doesn’t last long. You nudge his foot under the table. “You’re not concentrating at all.” He looks up immediately, pretending he’s been paying attention the whole time. “Yes I am.”

“You weren’t even looking at the page.” He glances down, then back at you, caught. “I was thinking.”

“About what?”

He hesitates for half a second, then says quickly, “Important things.” You squint at him. “That’s not an answer.” He smiles, a little cheeky now. “It is. Just a secret one.”

You shake your head, trying not to laugh, but you fail. “You’re so weird.” “Yeah,” he says, leaning back a little like he’s proud of it. “But you’re still sitting here talking to me, so it can’t be that bad.”

And he grins at you like it’s the easiest thing in the world to make you stay.

Back in the cinema, your hands are trembling now. You press them together so tightly it hurts.

On screen, the story moves forward. Pain and joy braided together. Fame and isolation. Love as both a gift and a burden.

And then he is there.

Not Michael, not exactly. But something close enough that your heart does not know how to separate the image from the memory. Jaafar moves across the screen with care, not imitation, but interpretation shaped by love and responsibility. Still, your mind does what it always does when it is overwhelmed.

It goes backwards.

Again you are not in a cinema.

You’re outside a house you barely remember the address of anymore, young and breathless, arguing over nothing important except everything feels important then. Michael is laughing at something you said, head tilted back, sunlight catching the edge of his hair.

“You always make everything sound like a story,” he says, smiling. “And you always act like you belong in all of them,” you reply.

He looks at you for a second longer than usual, grin softening a little. “As long as you're in them, I do belong,” he says quietly blushing.

You roll your eyes, but there’s a smile you can’t hide. “You’re so corny.”

“Was it?” he says, stepping a little closer. “I thought it was pretty good.”

The memory shifts again.

Years later, it’s quieter. You’re sitting on steps somewhere, shoulder to shoulder. He nudges your arm gently. “Be honest.” You glance at him. “That sounds dangerous.” He laughs softly. “It’s not. Not with you.”

You pause for a second, then look at him properly. “Fine. Ask.” He hesitates, then says a little softer, “Do you ever think we’ll still be like this when we’re older?” You bump his shoulder lightly. “Like what?”

“Like this,” he says, smiling at you now. “together.”

You don’t answer straight away. You just look at him for a moment, like you’re trying to figure out why that question feels heavier than it should. Then you shrug a little. “I don’t know about the future.”

His smile fades just slightly.

You bump his shoulder again, softer this time. “But I know you. So yeah… I think you’d still find me.” That makes his expression change. He looks at you properly now, like he’s hearing something he didn’t expect.

“Yeah?” he asks quietly. “Yeah,” you say, like it’s obvious.

He lets out a small breath, almost a laugh, but it doesn’t fully come out. Instead, he just looks at you for a second too long. “You make it sound easy,” he says. “It kind of is,” you reply.

A comfortable silence settles between you.

He shifts a little closer, knees almost touching yours now. “You’re really confident about that,” he says, softer, teasing but not quite. You raise an eyebrow. “About what?” “Me,” he says simply, like it’s not a big deal to say it.

That makes you pause.

You look at him again, really look at him, and your voice comes out quieter. “Maybe I just like you too much to imagine you disappearing.” His smile goes still for a moment, like he doesn’t know what to do with that honesty.

“Oh,” he says, barely above a whisper. You laugh a little, nervous now. “Don’t make it weird.” “I’m not,” he says quickly, but he’s still looking at you like that.

Another silence.

Then he shifts closer again, slow this time, like he’s asking without words. His hand rests lightly on the step beside yours, not touching you, just close. “Can I try something?” he asks softly.

You tilt your head. “Try what?” He doesn’t answer right away. He just looks at you, then down at your mouth for a split second, then back to your eyes.

That’s enough of an answer. Your breath catches slightly. “Michael…” 

“Just tell me no,” he says gently, still not moving. You don’t.

Instead, you lean in first, just a little. It’s small, hesitant, like both of you are checking if this is real. When your lips meet, it’s soft and unsteady and over too quickly, like neither of you knows how to make it last yet. When you pull back, there’s no big reaction. Just quiet.

He’s smiling. Not his usual grin. Something softer. “Okay,” he says quietly. You let out a breath, trying to hide your smile. “Okay what?” 

“I think I found my answer,” he says, still looking at you like he’s not planning on looking away anytime soon.

You do not notice you are crying until Latoya gently slides her hand into yours.

She does not say anything.

She does not have to.

Latoya reaches over a moment later, placing a steadying hand on your shoulder, grounding you between them like they are holding you in place so you do not drift too far into memory.

And slowly, the present returns.

The film is still playing.

Jafaar is smiling again on the screen, playing tricks with your fragile mind.

You swallow hard.

“He looks like him,” you whisper without meaning to.

Latoya nods once sadly. “Yeah.”

You look back at the screen and feel something shift inside your chest. Not healing exactly. Not closure. Something more complicated than that.

Understanding, maybe.

Or acceptance that love does not stop just because time does.

The screen fades to black at the end of the premiere segment.

Applause begins, slow at first, then rising like a wave.

But you stay seated for a moment longer.

Because for a second, in the quiet after everything, you swear you can still hear him somewhere in the memory of the room. Still your sweet lover boy, still your best friend, still Michael. -------------------------------------- 😢

[michaelsfish]

Flustered Michael

Just a short little thing i HAD to write after seeing a tiktok compilation of him getting all flustered and shy.

(CAN WE TALK ABOUT HOW BIG HIS HANDS ARE LIKE EXCUSE ME)

____________________________

Michael had millions of fans screaming his name wherever he went, but somehow, when he got shy, he turned into the most adorable person you’d ever met.

You noticed it the first time during a quiet afternoon at home.

Michael was sitting beside you on the couch, flipping through a notebook filled with song ideas. You leaned over his shoulder and caught sight of a little doodle in the corner of the page.

It was two stick figures, labelled ‘MJ’ and “Y/N”, holding hands with little hearts around your heads.

Your lips twitched. “Michael.”

Immediately, his eyes widened “what?” he asked innocently.

You pointed at the drawing, his gaze followed your finger, then, without missing a beat, both hands flew up and covered his face completely.

“No, no, no…” he groaned from behind his fingers. You burst out laughing. “Did you draw us?”

“No.”

“You absolutely did.”

“No.”

“Michael.”

He peeked through the tiniest gap between his fingers. “…Maybe.”

Your heart practically melted. There was something unbelievably cute about the way he hid behind his hands whenever he was embarrassed, it was just his instinct and you loved it.

A lot.

Which unfortunately meant you couldn’t resist teasing him.

A few days later, you were looking through old photographs together. You picked up one from years ago, Michael looked gorgeous in it. You smiled. “God, you're unbelievably beautiful.”

The reaction was immediate. Both hands. Face covered. Gone.

“Michael!”

“No.” His voice sounded muffled behind his palms.

You gently grabbed one of his wrists. He resisted. “Let me see your face.”

“No.”

“I just gave you a compliment.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you hiding?”

A pause. Then quietly: “’Cause you make me nervous.” You nearly stopped breathing.

“Me?”

A nod.

“You’re Michael Jackson.”

Another nod. “That doesn’t stop you from making me nervous.” Your entire soul turned into mush. Years could pass and it never changed.

If you called him handsome?

Face covered.

If you kissed his cheek unexpectedly?

Face covered.

If you caught him staring at you?

Face covered.

One evening you found him watching you from across the room while you read a book.

You looked up. He immediately froze. You smiled. He smiled back. You wink.

Slowly, dramatically, his hands began rising toward his face. You started laughing before they even got there. “Michael, don’t you dare.”

Too late. Face covered. You crossed the room and sat beside him. You gently pulled at his wrists. “Come here.” After a moment, he let you move his hands. His cheeks were pink. Actually pink. You stared. “Oh my goodness.”

“What?”

“You’re blushing.”

His eyes widened. The hands went right back up. You laughed so hard you nearly fell over. From behind his fingers you heard an exasperated, “See? This is exactly why.”

You leaned against his shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I’m really not.”

He shook his head. But when you slipped your hand into his, he squeezed it tightly. A tiny smile appeared beneath his fingers. And even though he tried to hide himself whenever he got shy, you secretly thought those moments were your favourite.

Not the concerts. Not the fame. Not the legendary performer everyone else saw. Just Michael.

Blushing, smiling, hiding behind his hands because you told him he was pretty.

[michaelsfish]

Baking With Michael

2nd fic!! hope you guys like it :)) Summary: A simple act of baking with ur bf turns chaotic Crack and fluff no warning word count: 1k

------------------------- “MICHAEL STOP!” you shoot out your hand stopping Michael from putting in cups of salt he thought was sugar, the salt goes all over the kitchen.

“Y/N!” Michael shouts, “that was salt you dimwit” you say “no it was definitely sugar” you sigh, “fine if it was sugar” you smirk grabbing a handful of the salt that spilled all over the table, “eat this” you grin forcing the fistfull of salt into his hand.

Michael stared down at the mound of salt now in his palm “Oh um” Michael reddens, knowing hes wrong “heh thats not really sanitary tho”, he stammers, avoiding ur eyes.

“Go on,” you said, trying not to laugh. “If it’s sugar.”

“I don’t think proving points like this is very mature.”

“You literally almost put three cups of salt in the cookies.”

“Okay, but in my defense, they look exactly the same.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“They do!”

With a dramatic sigh, Michael pinched the tiniest grain of salt between his fingers and touched it to his tongue. Immediately his face scrunched up. “BLEGH!”

You doubled over laughing. “Maybe next time you’ll listen to me.” Michael crossed his arms, pouting. “You didn’t have to laugh that hard, it wasn’t that funny.”

“I absolutely did.”

For a moment he just watched you giggle, and despite himself, a smile started tugging at his lips. “You know,” he said, “you’re kinda mean.”

“Only because you’re kinda dumb.”

“Wow.”

“Sorry. Very dumb.”

Michael gasped dramatically, placing a hand over his heart. Before he could think of a comeback, the kitchen door suddenly creaked open.

Two heads peeked inside. Marlon and Randy. Both immediately locked onto the first tray of freshly baked cookies cooling on the counter.

“Absolutely not,” you said.

“We didn’t even do anything!” Randy protested.

“You were literally looking at the cookies.”

Marlon pointed accusingly. “See? No trust in this family.” Michael narrowed his eyes. “What are you two doing in here then?”

“Just checking on the baking.”

“You’re checking on the cookies.”

Randy slowly started inching toward the counter.

“No.”

He froze. “I wasn’t moving.”

“You were.”

Marlon suddenly lunged. At the exact same moment, Michael dove across the kitchen. The two brothers collided into each other with matching yelps.

“GET OFF!”

“YOU GET OFF!”

While they wrestled dramatically on the floor, you casually reached over and picked up one of the cookies. You took a bite. Michael looked up from where he was trying to push Marlon away.

“Hey! That’s one of mine!”

“You mean one of ours?”

He opened his mouth to argue, then paused.

“Okay, fair.”

You broke the cookie in half and held a piece out toward him. Michael smiled. A genuine, soft smile. The kind that made your stomach do a weird little flip.

He accepted the cookie piece carefully, his fingers brushing yours for just a second. Neither of you said anything. Unfortunately, Marlon immediately ruined the moment.

“OH MY GOD THEY’RE BEING GROSS.”

“We are not!” Michael shouted.

“THE HAND TOUCH.”

“SHE WAS JUST PASSING ME THE COOKIE!”

Randy pointed dramatically. “I SAW IT.”

Michael grabbed a dish towel and threw it at both of them. The kitchen erupted into chaos again while you laughed at them. And somewhere in the middle of the yelling, Michael glanced over at you. Just for a second. Then he smiled again. This time a little shyly.

Then Marlon snatched a cookie off the tray.

“Oh, come on!” Michael shouted.

“EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF!” Marlon yelled, sprinting across the kitchen. Randy grabbed another one and followed.

“Get back here!”

Michael lunged after them, nearly slipping on a dusting of flour that had spilled earlier. You laughed so hard your stomach hurt as the four of you chased each other around the kitchen island.

“Protect the cookies!” Michael cried out to you as Marlon tried to snatch another one.

“I’M TRYING!”

Suddenly, a small puff of flour hit Michael square in the chest. Everyone froze. Randy slowly lowered the flour-covered spoon in his hand.

“…oops.”

Michael looked down at his shirt.

Then up at Randy.

A dangerous grin spread across his face.

“Oh, it’s on.”

Chaos erupted.

Flour flew through the air like snow. Dough was launched across the kitchen. Marlon shrieked as a blob of cookie batter landed in his hair. Randy retaliated by throwing a handful of flour that completely missed Michael and hit you instead.

“RANDY!”

“I THOUGHT YOU WERE MICHAEL!”

“HOW?!”

Within minutes the kitchen looked like a disaster zone. Eventually Marlon and Randy retreated, laughing hysterically and carrying the stolen cookies they’d fought so hard for.

“You two are cleaning this!” Marlon called.

The door slammed behind them. Silence settled over the kitchen. You turned toward Michael. Then immediately burst out laughing.

His curls were dusted white with flour, dough smeared across one cheek and the tip of his nose.

“You look ridiculous.”

Michael pointed at you.

“Have you seen yourself?”

You glanced at your reflection in the oven door and gasped.

Your face was covered in flour, a streak of batter running across your forehead.

“Oh my gosh.”

Michael laughed, a warm, genuine laugh that made you smile despite the mess. “You’ve got some right here.”

He stepped closer, gently brushing a bit of flour from your cheek. The laughter faded.Suddenly you were both standing very close. Close enough to notice the flour on his eyelashes. Close enough to see the way he was smiling at you.

Neither of you moved away. Michael’s eyes flickered down to your lips before meeting your gaze again.

“Hi,” he said softly.

You smiled.

“Hi.”

He laughed nervously.

“You know, these cookies would’ve been terrible if you hadn’t stopped me.”

“You’re welcome.”

“And maybe…”

He hesitated. “Maybe you’re not as mean as I said.”

You grinned. “Maybe you’re not as dumb as I said.”

He puts a hand over his heart dramatically “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Oh, shut up.”

Michael’s smile widened. Then he leaned in.

The kiss was sweet and soft, both of you smiling before it was even over. When you finally pulled apart, Michael rested his forehead against yours.

“You know,” he said, glancing around the completely destroyed kitchen, “I think we’re in a lot of trouble.”

You looked at the flour-covered counters, the dough on the floor, and the handprints somehow stuck to the ceiling.

Then you looked back at him.

“Worth it.”

Michael laughed and kissed you again, both of you still covered head to toe in flour and cookie dough as the ruined kitchen sat forgotten around you.

------------------------- TY FOR READING!!!!

[michaelsfish]

Moisturised Michael

First fic 😏 lowkey guys idk how to do this so pls bear with me if the layouts a bit funky. Summary: Michael feels a bit insecure about his skin, so you decide to help him minor angst, crack, fluff No warning, use of baby? Word count: 2k

-----------

“Joseph isn’t wrong”, Michael breaks the silence.

You looked up from your phone at your boyfriend, you were laying on his bed in silence while he was working on something on his table, and you saw him staring at himself in the mirror, slowly turning his face from one side to another observing his skin.

“What do you mean?” you softly ask making eye contact with him through the mirror, knowing nothing good can come after a sentence starter like that.

Michael sighs and rolls his chair around so he’s facing you on his bed instead of facing the mirror, “my skin its… I feel like everytime i look at it there's more and more acne, and it's just so dry and flakey all the time.”

You open your mouth but Michael speaks again clearly wanting to just vent “you know what Joseph said” he scoffs, not waiting for an answer “he said, ‘I don't know what's more noticeable your fat nose or your pimples’, Y/N i just wanted to die when he said that, and thats not even the worst bit, he told Randy that its contagious and now Randy keeps running away from me”

Michael rants on his head cowering in shame, “I just don't know what to do” Michael covers his face with his hands, a habit of his when he's embarrassed.

You get up from the bed walking towards him “Oh Mikey” you start, “your dad always tries to make you feel horrible for the most stupidest things,” you sit on the end of the bed, right in front of Michael's chair, legs dangling, “as if 99% of normal human beings don't get pimples” you roll your eyes.

Michael still doesn’t look up, “Michael” you say once, slowly he raises his face but doesn’t meet your eyes, You soften your voice a little, “Michael,” you say again, quieter this time, and this time he actually looks at you.

His eyes are a bit glossy, not quite tears, but close enough that it tightens something in your chest. You just look at him properly, realising this is deeper than a bit of acne.

“You know what I see when I look at you?” you ask. He hesitates. “What.” “Not what Joseph said. Not any of that.” You lean forward slightly, resting your elbows on your knees.

“I see someone who’s been dealing with growing up too quickly, someone who was forced to perform and entertain before learning to read and write, someone whose too kind for their own good. And I see skin that’s having a normal human reaction to stress, hormones, life and everything.”

Michael lets out a small, humorless breath through his nose, like he wants to believe you but can’t fully get there yet.

You continue anyway.

“And I also see you standing in front of a mirror like you’re on trial. Like you’re supposed to be perfect all the time or something.”

He looks away again, jaw tightening. “Hey,” you say gently, reaching out and lightly touching his wrist. “There’s nothing contagious about you but your smile,” you say. “And Joseph is just being nasty. That’s it. It doesn’t make it true.”

Michael swallows, his voice lower now. “But what if everyone thinks it is?” You shake your head

“Trust me, no one does and you can’t be mad at Randy”, you grin, “he’s just a little kid who doesn’t know better, pretty soon he’ll probably be rocking his own acne.”

Michael lets out a light chuckle shaking his head and a pause sits between you both. The room feels lighter now. You tilt your head slightly.

“Can I tell you something practical too, for your dry skin, or do you just need me to sit with you for a bit first?”

That question seems to catch him off guard. His shoulders drop a fraction. “I don’t know,” he admits. “Okay,” you nod. “Then I’ll stay here for a minute. And you can tell me when you’re ready.” Michael stays quiet for a moment, like he’s trying to decide whether he wants to speak or not. You gently bump your knee against his.

“Also,” you add, lighter now, “I’m not just going to sit here and listen to you insult the face I love and do nothing about it.”

Michael slightly blushes and gives a small, confused look. “What do you mean?”

You wink. “I mean. I have solutions.” He gives a skeptical half-breath. “I’m scared, what do you mean solutions”

You grin. “First: you stop listening to Joseph. Second: I become your extremely qualified skincare professional.”

That gets an actual reaction out of him. A tiny, reluctant smile. “Extremely qualified?” he repeats, raising an eyebrow in amusement. You nod confidently. “Yes. I’ve watched at least… several videos. And I have opinions.”

Michael lets out a quiet laugh through his nose, “You’re ridiculous,” he mutters, but it’s softer now. “Correct,” you say immediately. “Now come here.”

He hesitates. “Why?”

“Because I’m going to make you glow,” you say like it’s obvious, winking at him as he blushes and shakes his head.

After a second, he slowly rolls his chair closer to you. You stand up and gently guide him by the shoulders toward the edge of the bed, making him sit properly.

“Okay,” you say, clapping your hands once like you’re starting an important mission. “Skincare emergency. Do you have anything or am I improvising?”

“I have… stuff,” he says cautiously, pointing vaguely toward a drawer. “Perfect. That’s all I needed.”

He watches as you open the drawer like you’re about to uncover ancient treasure, pulling out a slightly chaotic mix of products.

“Why do you have three different moisturisers?” you ask.

“I don’t know,” he says immediately. “They just appeared.” You check the bottle and turn to him, giving a blank look “Mikey, baby, these are expired by like 3 years.”

Michael groans, “it was probably Latoyas or Janets” You sigh, “I need to have a chat with them, why are they setting my man up” you bite back a grin shaking your head with hands on your waist.

“Theres only one thing left to do” you smirk mischievously “raid Janet's room” you grin and Michael mirrors the grin, always ready to do anything that involves annoying his sisters.

Michael sits up straighter immediately. “Oh, we are so doing that,” he says, like all previous emotional distress had just vanished. You point at him. “Quiet. We gotta be quick and silent.” He nods seriously. “Yes sir.” he salutes

The two of you walk out of his room, except, only you're walking like a normal human and Michael is tip-toeing and trying to be quiet but somehow makes it worse, like exaggerated slow steps and dramatic pauses at every corner.

“Stop walking like that,” you tell him looking at him dumbfoundedly. “Shhhhhh,” he had the audacity to say, somehow his shushing being louder than you.

You shake your head as you reach Janet and Latoya’s room and pause at the door. Michael leans in.

“They definitely have alarms,” he whispers. “Heck I would too if I had siblings like you guys,” you say back. That makes him snort quietly.

You slowly push the door open. Inside is exactly what you expected, slightly chaotic, very organised chaos

Michael steps in first like he owns the place. “Okay what are we stealing”

You grab his sleeve. “WE are not stealing anything, we just need to find the skincare, borrow it and return it exactly where it was.” “Pfftttt boring” he rolls his eyes

He immediately heads to Janets desk, scanning like he’s on a mission. You follow, opening drawers carefully.

“It shouldn’t be too hard to find…” you mumble, he ignores you completely and points. “Creams and serums” You follow his gaze. There it is. Perfectly arranged bottles, serums, moisturisers.

You whisper, “Oh, she’s serious about this.” Michael nods solemnly. You gently open a drawer and he immediately hovers over your shoulder.

“What if she has a camera in there?” he whispers."Don't be silly” you whisper back. “You can never be too careful,” he shrugs You ignore him and start inspecting. Cleanser, Serum, Moisturiser, that's all you needed at least.

Michael picks up a bottle. “This one looks expensive.” “Put it back,” you whisper immediately.

He clutches it closer. “But I wanna use the expensive one” “Michael, unless you want all hell to break loose, put it back, you know Janet does NOT play like that.” He pauses, considers, then nods. “Okay fair.”

He puts it back… then immediately grabs another one. You sigh. “Michael.” “What? This one is smaller. Less suspicious.” He carefully reads the label ‘moisturiser’ he beams proudly he grabs 2 similar bottles one which is labelled ‘cleanser and the other ‘serum’

His face lights up instantly. “Yes, this is what we needed.” You skim over the label and nod, “yes this works, good job Mikey” he blushes at the praise, “Okay. We leave. Slowly. Quietly.”

“Mission successful.” Mikey grins You both quickly hurry back to his bedroom.

You lay him on his bed and sit on his lap straddling either side of him “Sit still. No sudden movements. I am now operating.”

Michael relaxes into his pillows watching you with cautious amusement. “Is this gonna hurt”

You look at him with a deadpan face, “there is no way you asked me that Michael, im not gonna answer that” He snorts.

As you gently start cleaning his face, his expression slowly changes. The tension in his jaw eases first, then his shoulders.

“Cold,” he complains suddenly.

“You’ll survive,” you say, trying not to laugh. “Be strong.” “I am strong,” he says automatically.

“Mm-hm. Strong and slightly dramatic.” “I’m not dramatic.”

You pause, look at him, then continue rubbing in the cleanser with a completely straight face.

He goes quiet for a second, then mutters, “This is humiliating.” You lean back slightly, studying him. “No, this is self-care. Very different.”

A beat.

Then, softer, you add, “Also you’re kind of cute when you’re complaining.”

He freezes for half a second, then looks away, “Don’t say that,” he mutters.

“Why?”

“Because I’m already struggling to control myself, when you're sitting on top of me all touchy with my face.”

You pause for half a second, the bottle of serum in your hands.

“…Excuse me?” you say amused

Michael immediately looks like he regrets having a mouth.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he says quickly, voice cracking slightly as he gestures vaguely at everything. “I just mean, like, you’re- this is- my face is wet and you’re very close and I can’t think properly.”

You stare at him for a moment, then break.

A laugh slips out before you can stop it. “Michael.”

“I’m being serious,” he insists, but he’s turning red now, which completely ruins any attempt at seriousness.

You lean in a little again, deliberately slow, just to see what he does.

His eyes flick up to yours, then immediately away again, biting his lip.

“I’m going to finish your skincare before you say something even worse,” you say, still smiling.

“I’m not saying anything worse,” he mutters, too fast.

“You already did.”

He groans quietly and covers half his face with his hand for a second before you gently pull it away.

“Stop hiding,” you say softly. “I’m literally trying to help you.”

He exhales, finally settling again, letting you finish properly.

For a moment, it’s quiet. Just the small, careful movements of your hands and him sitting there, less tense than before, like the earlier weight has been rinsed off a little at a time.

When you’re done, you step back slightly and tilt your head.

“Done,” you announce.

Michael blinks. “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” you say. “You are now officially… moisturised.”

He narrows his eyes and looks at himself in the mirror. “I look the same.”

“You’re not supposed to look different,” you say. “It’s skincare, not magic, and besides, why would i even want to change your beautiful face”

He blushes and looks up at you properly.

“…Thanks,” he says after a beat, quieter now.

You shrug like it’s nothing, even though it isn’t.

“Don’t get used to it,” you say lightly.

He smiles a little. “Too late, same time tomorrow.”

Before you can respond, a voice suddenly echoes down the hallway.

“WHERE IS MY SKINCARE!”

Both of you freeze. “We are so dead”

----------- TY FOR READING this was my first fic so feedback would be greatly appreciated, pls interact, and i hope u enjoyed this fic

:))))))

[michaelsfish]

Welcome

Hey guys, i haven't written fanfics since a million years ago but smth about MJ makes me want to write millions, pls if u have any requests/recs feel free to ask, i dont rlly know how tumblr works but ill learn as i do this. i dont think ill be able to write any smut lol but im all for angst crack and fluff (making out is probs as far as ill go) but yh anyways glad to be back 🫡