You’re one of the most famous playboy!bunnies in the early 90s, and one of the most sought after bachlorettes from the last five years. You don't really do much other than work and party. And you certainly don't date. Nor do you accept gifts, or romantic propositions.
That is until Michael Jackson requests to be on your show for the playboy channel. It's out of the orindary for him, but it's certainly not new for you. Especially when he asks you for a date the moment filming is done.
You usually decline, but something about Michael has intrigued you... so you don't say no. But you don't say yes, either.
writers note: This is set in 1990, and is not historically accurate and written purely for entertainment purposes. Facts for this AU: Michael is 30. He’s mid BAD tour, and taking a break. The FMC, Gabrielle, is 26, and this is written from her perspective. This fic will be a medium burn, with a lot of smexual tension/anticipation.
content warnings: none.... yet.
Chapter One
September, 1990, Los Angeles
“Can somebody get me some coffee, please? I’m exhausted,” I ease down into the make up and hair chair under the tent set up outside, near the pool, sliding my chanel sunglasses off as I sigh. I’m bare faced, in a matching pink juicy couture set, feeling a little hung over from the party the night before.
A nearby intern hurries away, returning a few minutes later with my usual order. An americano with low fat creamer, sweetened with brown sugar. “Thank you, baby,” I coo, patting the guy’s cheek, who can’t be all that much younger than me.
He flushes deep red, blurting: “anything for you, Gabrielle.” My brows raise, and his eyes flare wide. He bolts seconds later, shaking his head, and my make up artist, Liv, laughs softly as she gets set up.
“You gotta stop teasing those boys, G,” She says as she pins the shorter parts of my hair away from my face, then gets to work, moisturising my skin. “They’re obsessed with you,” she smirks as I try not to laugh too.
“I think it's sweet,” I murmur, sipping my coffee and close my eyes, allowing my make up to be done: thick winged eye liner, long lashes, and a bold lip. I barely finish half my coffee before my actual assistant rocks up, hair thrown up, big shades on, practically green from the hangover. She swaps out my hot brew for green juice, muttering something about vital nutrients, before she disappears inside the main house again, hand pressed to her mouth.
It’s five in the morning, with the sun just about coming up over the rolling hills and vineyards surrounding the secluded property. My malibu estate bustles with crew and equipment, all moving around, getting the set for my latest interview-skit ready.
This little show for the playboy channel is something i’ve been doing as a side thing to my major projects, like the movies and modelling, for a while. It started as a joke, I’d dress up in sexy outfits, ask male celebrities stupid questions. But it took off after the first episode, and a lot of big names ended up reaching out to Hugh, asking to be on it.
Over the last three years I've had rock stars, sports icons, rappers, politicians, A-list actors. Even a foreign prince once. MTV now airs a lot of the episodes, so i’ve had to tone down the nature of the questions, of course. But it's still pretty fun.
I have my guests come to the estate, bring their teams or whatever, submit their approved questions for review. It was very professional now, very organised and tame. Or rather, tamer than it was. Hugh had originally let me do it as a fun passion project, but since it brought in so much revenue, he’d wanted me to take it more seriously. And not ask the guests how big they were on screen.
I’m ready by the time my guest arrives. Dressed in a mini, warm pink chanel dress that has the logos delicately printed across the soft fabric. It’s short sleeved with a cute folded collar, buttons open at the front, so I can show off my cleavage. My heels are thin, slip on, with adorable little bows over the toes. Liv has pinned my hair up, with a few wisps framing my face, and i’m just having an frilly apron tied around my waist when one of the interns hurries over and whispers to us:
“He’s here.”
The crew settles into a strange quiet, anticipating my guest arrival. I fix my hair and step out into the early morning sun where my hired photographer is already snapping pictures, capturing the behind the scenes for the magazine.
He arrives with a full secutity team, and a very small entourage. My brows quirk as I take him in, smiling at all my crew, introducing himself to those confident enough to go up to him and shake his hand. I’d expected him to turn up in some extravagant outfit, but he’s just in a white button down shirt, slim black pants. White socks and black loafers.
“Michael,” I say, walking over to him, kitten heels clicking against the terracotta tiles lining the outdoor area. His head turns in my direction, and he stands up a little straighter, adjusting his shades, but not taking them off. “You’re right on time,” I smile, sticking out my hand for him to shake.
“I didn’t want to keep you waiting,” he says, gently taking hold of my hand and leaning down to kiss the back of it. My photographer snaps a few pictures from nearby, camera shutter clicking rapidly. “The property is beautiful,” he adds in that famous soft voice as he rights himself, tucking his hands back into his pockets.
I hum, glancing proudly towards the spanish style main house that Hugh had bought for me about a year ago. The exterior is painted in soft pink with dark wood detailing around the doors,windows and veranda. We’re surrounded by exotic foliage and a lot of roses and other flowers, it really is very beautiful. Like my own personal sanctuary in the middle of Malibu.
“Thank you, that’s kind,” I purr, looking back to him and giving him a slow once over as everyone gets back to work in the background.
Michael’s a little taller than I expected him to be. With my little heels on, my eyeline brushes his chin. His dark curls are half tied back, with a few pieces framing his face. He’s very handsome. Broad shoulders. Rich brown skin. Great smile. His cologne wafts gently on the breeze, and I breathe in discreetly. It’s an intoxicating woody-amber scent, suits him.
“Shall we get started then?” I ask, fixing him with a stare. He just nods, having just patiently waited whilst I’d sized him up.
Within half an hour we’re set up in front of the cameras in the summer house’s kitchen. Big lights pointed at us, crew standing behind the scenes, ear pieces in. “and…. rolling.” The snapper claps, and I get to work.
“Hi darlings, I’m Gabrielle Almasi, and welcome back to my little show,” I say, looking deep into the camera lens, coy smile on my lips. I pause as the sultry theme music plays for about four seconds. “I’m very excited to be here today with a very special guest, the King of Pop himself, Mr Michael Jackson.”
I bite my lip and grin, clapping softly, as the camera pans to Michael who’s stood to my right, an apron over his casual clothes that says Kiss the Cook, dark shades still on. He smiles, showing teeth and lifts a hand to the camera in a simple wave.
“Isn’t he just delicious?" I smirk, grazing a hand over his shoulder as the camera shifts back, putting us both in frame. He chuckles softly. “Speaking of delicious things, today we’re going to be doing one of my favourite things to do with a gorgeous man in the kitchen…” I lift the plate of premade chocolate chip cookies. “…a little bit of baking.”
Michael huffs, biting his lip as he smiles more. There’s soft laughter as I give a dramatic wink.
“—and cut!” my director calls. I put the plate back down, sending a brief glance towards Michael to see how he’s handling this so far. He’s still smiling, looking amused, and itches the bridge of his nose, licking his lips. “Perfect as always Gabrielle, ready to roll for the next part?” The director asks me, but it’s mostly for the crew and Michael to hear.
“Whenever you’re ready," I say softly.
The crew kicks into action to prep for the next take, getting out the ingridients, and setting it up on the counter as my make up and hair gets touched up. In the corner of my eye, I notice Michael looking my way.
He’s a few metres away, with one of his team is checking in with him, murmuring softly. His head is turned in my direction, and even with those shades on, I know he's looking at me, scanning me, or perhaps sizing me up, like I did to him earlier.
I don’t meet his gaze, and instead mind my own business until we’re ready to shoot again.
When the cameras begin rolling, I start talking through what we’re going to be making. “See I don’t know about you girls at home, but I like making my cookies just how I like my men,” I say, adding some of the dry ingridients together.
“and how’s that?” Michael asks, large hands resting on the counter, watching me.
“Rich and dark.” I peak at the camera with an innocent smile as Michael chuckles, “So today we’re going to be adding extra brown sugar, cocoa powder, and a lot of yummy chocolate chips.”
We get started on actually making the cookies, and I set my attention, inbetween giving instructions, to asking Michael questions. “So Mikey— is it okay if I call you Mikey?” I ask.
“Call me whatever you want.”
I giggle softly, “okay,” I glance at him as I pass him the melted butter and sugar to mix, "are you an eater?”
His brows raise over his sunglasses, “Pardon?”
“Because we’re making a lot of batter, honey. So I want to know if you’re a good eater.” I smile, speaking softly.
He bites his lip as he grins, “I’ll eat as much as you want me to,” he says softly, mixing the batter well.
I grin, “you know, I love it when a man has a great appetite.” I toss some hair way from my face as I return to looking at the camera to briefly give more instructions. Michael grins handsomely. “So, handsome, you’re mid tour,” I continue, and he hums, nodding, still mixing after I add in some dry ingredients. I ask him how it’s going, and he answers, talking through the rehearsals, excited fans and the long hours. I like his voice, how gentle it is.
“Your stamina must be amazing, all that singing and dancing… how long do you think you can last?” I eye him through my lashes. This is part of the skit. The flirting, the looks.
“As long as the show needs me to.”
“Wow,” I muse, impressed, “So it varies? Whatever the show needs, you can do?”
“I like to keep my girls happy.” He looks to me from the mixing bowl, and I feel his gaze warm my face even from behind his shades.
I grin at that. "And you don’t take any stimulants to help with that?”
“No, never.”
“So it’s all you, all natural…all night long.”
“You could say that,” he grins, looking as if he’s trying not to laugh.
I give him a slow once over. “You must keep your girlfriend very happy.”
“Actually, I don’t have a girlfriend.”
“Oh, so, not yet,” I say lightly, he just smiles. “But you’re on the hunt for one? Or maybe just want to play around for a bit?” I flirt, sidling closer to him. He just licks his lips, smiling wider, playing coy. “So mysterious,” I murmur playfully, scrunching my nose a little. “you wanna have a drink later?” I reach over and play with one of his curls close to his ear, softening my voice. “I’d love to put that stamina to the test.”
Michael’s amused, just grinning like an idiot. “Whatever you need, just let me know.”
I huff out a gentle laugh, biting my lip as I watch his mouth. “Such a gentleman,” I smirk, then I abruptly turn back to the cameras to instruct on what to do next, keeping my hand on him, curl still twirled around my finger.
We continue filming, spending the day moving between takes, getting some good B-Roll. Close ups of Michael mixing the batter or plating the cookies, of me licking the dough off the spoon, or feeding him chocolate chip pieces as we chat pretty naturally about his work, inspiration, how he manages his time, creativity. I sneak in questions about his love life, asking how he plans on maintaining a woman when he’s so busy. All he says is he’ll make time.
We spend the rest of the afternoon posing for some shots to use in the editorial version of the ‘interview’ once the skit-filming is finished. Since this really wasn’t hard hitting journalism, more for mutual publicity, and a little bit of fun, the shots are just silly, and teter on the edge of soft-core.
There are shots of me bent over to put the cookies in the oven, Michael behind me, the picture taken from just over his shoulder, as he’s watching my ass. There’s one of us holding eye contact after I convinced him to take off his shades, and i’m sucking cookie dough off my fingertip, flour smeared on both our faces. Surprisingly, staring into his eyes as we took pictures for that one was easy. And I don’t usually like eye contact, even if I can do it.
Then there’s one of me perched on the counter, legs spread, and it’s taken from behind so you can’t see Michael whose hidden in front of me. All the camera can see is his hands braced on the counter, either side of my hips. I have my head turned to the side, and i’m taking a bite of a freshly baked cookie, winking at the camera. I already know that’s going to be the cover.
He’s done well, considering after six and a half hours of filming and me flirting, usually my guests would’ve been unable to stop themselves making little suggestive comments between takes, or offering me an absurb amounts of money ‘just for a taste’…
But Michael has been nothing but respectful, keeping his hands to himself, conversation polite. He has not touched me once. And even though he’s a little flirtatious, it's more playful, than predatory. He’s nothing if not a professional, easy to talk to… easy to instruct. We’ve spent the whole day together, and at no point have I had to swat his hand off my ass, put intentional distance between us, or give my security the look.
To be honest, him not really being a creep just made me flirt with him a little harder than I was meant to. Playing with his hair, staring into his eyes. Touching his arm, laughing at his jokes. Before I knew it the day was over, and I hadn’t noticed the hours pass.
When all is finished, I offer to walk him out— both my security detail and his following us quietly. We walk up the winding path through the gardens to the main house’s courtyard, where all the vans and cars are parked.
“I had a lot of fun today,” Michael says, hands in his pockets. I glance up at him, having slid my heels off a few minutes ago, and am now just walking bare foot, not really caring how it comes across. “Thank you for having me at your home.”
“You’re welcome,” I smile, though it’s not as if I invited him personally. I just get told who wants to come on the show, they turn up, I do my job, and we all go home after. “You did great. And this will probably be my most popular one yet.”
He’s kept his shades off since I asked him to remove them earlier, and I’m slowly starting to realise why he had them on in the first place. His gaze is very intense, and he doesn’t blink much. Despite that soft voice, his whole energy is completely different with them off. It’s very direct, a little… overwhelming. He likes to stare, and I think the shades help him to not have to explain himself.
Like now, as I look up the path, towards the stone archway that will take us through a walkway, and to the courtyard, he’s watching me. My skin tingles everywhere he looks, not necesarily disliking it, but I have yet to decide whether or not I do, fully.
“I’d like to take you out this weekend,” he then says softly, that gentle voice brushing over my skin like velvet.
“I’m busy,” I say flatly, reacting on autopilot. “I'm sorry.” I take my hair down, slipping the pins out since they’ve been pinching since the late morning and brush my fingers through my locks as it tumbles down my back, capturing Michael’s gaze for a few seconds.
Unfazed, he asks, “and after?” His walk slows until he stops in the shade just under the stone walkway that connects two parts of my mansion together. I stop with him, and stare up at him, wondering for a long second if he might’ve thought me flirting with him today was one hundred percent real.
He seemed to handle it so well, I almost thought that I might’ve not been his type. Though it’s not really known what kind of woman he likes to date, since he’s never made that part of his life public knowledge.
But as I stare at him for a few seconds longer, I see confirmation. The flirting did affect him. His pupils are blown, and I can see he’s made up his mind about what he wants from me. He has yet to blink and it’s been about ten seconds.
Instead of feeling the usual repulsion at a man asking me out, my body’s hums. Intrigued, just a little bit.
“Hm,” Is the light noise I initially make. I take another second, giving him a once over. Instead of saying an outright no, like I usually do, I say on another sigh: “You’ll have to ask my assistant. She’s in charge of me most days.”
He nods, “okay,” he replies with an easy smile. I brace for him to seek physical contact in the form of a hug or a kiss on the cheek, but instead he just says goodbye, politely thanking me again.
I watch him leave with his entourage, my head still tilted as I narrow my eyes a little bit with confusion…
The very next day a truck full of flowers arrives in the late afternoon. Hugh and his wife have come over for dinner, wanting to watch the raw footage of Michael and I’s interview-skit on the projector screen in the cinema room, when my housekeeper comes in to say a large delivery has arrived for me.
We all walk out to the couryard to see what it is, and I place my hands on my hips, expression flattening as I watch delivery guys unloading several very large bouquets of cherry red roses to bring them into the house.
“Well, would you look at that,” Hugh chuckles, standing by me as three more bouquets come out of the van. “More gifts!”
“Looks like you made quite the impression… again” Kimberley, Hugh’s wife, smirks, nudging me with her elbow. “Who’s this all from, then?”
“Michael,” I don’t even have to look at the card my housekeeper, Susan, has just handed me to know. He’d already had his people call my assistant, who’d then called me to ask how she should turn him down. ‘Should I just ignore this, or should I send a formal statement?’ she’d wondered.
I’d asked her to give me a couple days to think about it. But then these arrived, and now there were seven big bouquets of roses in my foyer, staring at me.
My housekeeper sighs. “Should we throw them away now, or later?” she asks, looking like she’s ready to get to work and wrangle some of the other staff to help out.
I glance down at the handwritten note. The message is simple:
‘7 bouquets for 7 hours. I look forward to our date — Michael.’
“Miss Grabielle? Would you like me to throw them away?” Susan asks. “Or return them?”
“No… neither.” I say, folding the note and slipping it into my back pocket. I don’t know what to think of it yet. “Decorate the house with them, or take some home. I don’t want them to go to waste.”
There’s a brief silence, but I don’t acknowledge it from anyone. Not Susan. Not Hugh. Or his wife, Kim.
“Should we continue with the screening?” I say, already walking back to the cinema room, ignoring the light bubble that’s just formed in my chest.
end notes:
ok girlies, this is going to be a less smutty, more angst, more steam, more tension kind of fic! I'm trying something a little more romantic, glamourous and dramatic! I love Gabby's very dark feminine stoic vibe, she's going to be one of the more serious fmc's that i've written :) I'm so excited to explore herrrrrr
If you wanna see a part 2, pls let me know <3
likes comments and reblogs are always appreciated!
I haven't started a tag list yet, but if you'd like to be on it- comment below xxxxx
rest in peace to this beautiful soul. the world didn’t deserve you. let’s all remind ourselves that despite this tragedy, he spent his last day doing what he loved most.
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