♡ Pairing: Michael Olise x black!famous!reader
♡ Summary: You and Michael have been on a break. When you thought you'd both eventually get back together, you stumble upon a video of him having a little too much fun in the Turks and Caicos Islands with a bunch of women in bikinis. This brings out the petty side in you, and you decide to get back at him by showing up to a red carpet with the one person the internet has been shipping you with, Jafaar Jackson.
♡ Content/warnings: angst, sfw, a little messy, pettiness, jealousy, bit of a smau, argument
♡ Word Count: 3.2k
PART ONE.
•☆•••☆•
Michael was watching.
He watched everything unfold, and he immediately knew what you were doing. He knew you too well to get fooled like the rest of the internet. This was no promotional stunt; this was a message: Behave. Because I have options.
A reminder of who you were. Of the power that you held. A reminder not to disrespect you. Because two could play the same game.
Michael was on a yacht with his friends and a bunch of strangers. Sipping on some cocktails, he watched the crowd dancing and talking together. Sometimes his friends would ask him to join; sometimes people would walk up to him for a chat. Most of the time, though, he'd stay where he was, enjoying the music or the champagne.
The end of the World Cup was, to his standards, a disaster. It had left a bitter taste in his mouth. And after such a long season, all he wanted was to rest and enjoy life. When he first ever imagined it, you were next to him. He'd have an arm around your shoulders, or perhaps a hand on your thigh. You'd be there, enjoying the rest of summer with him.
But you were not. Had he won the World Cup, he would have been on cloud nine. And, at least, it would have made everything worth it. It would have made the sacrifice matter. But he lost. He had lost you to football, and he did not even win the World Cup in the end. So what did he lose you for? What was that all for?
Michael could not even call you back to apologize. You were busy with your album; he did not want to distract you. And five months had already passed anyway. He texted you. He called you. He congratulated you. He told you he missed you. But you never ever mentioned or even just alluded to the idea of getting back together. What did that mean? Was this a definitive break? Did you not want him back? Was it truly the end?
Michael let out a heavy sigh, forcing himself to think about something else. Anything else. He was on a yacht, under the bright azure sky and shining sun, the ocean sparkling like a thousand diamonds, and stunning women everywhere. He should enjoy it. He had. He shouldn't be sulking.
But instead, he noticed his friends hunched over the same phone. One was frowning deeply, and the other had his hand over his mouth with wide eyes.
"What you lookin' at?" Michael asked.
But the second he leaned toward them, they hid the phone.
"What?" one said.
But Michael looked at them suspiciously.
"I said, what you lookin' at?"
"Oh..." the other replied. "Uh, some stupid meme."
Not convincing. At all.
"What meme?" Michael pressed.
"Just a meme."
Clearly, it was something they did not want him to see. But in that split second, as he was gazing at the phone, he recognized the app: Twitter. So Michael took his phone.
"Wait--" his friend tried to stop.
Too late.
Michael opened Twitter.
And he froze. His heart broke, each piece sinking deep inside him.
One trending topic: beach runaway. Two trending names: (Y/N) and Jafaar Jackson. One picture: you in one hell of a gorgeous dress. The red complemented your dark skin, shimmering under the hot sun, and the fabric wrapped around your curves. Michael's breath hitched at the sight of the low neckline showing off your cleavage. That same chest he used to trace down with his fingers earned a few sighs from you. And he would have marveled at you longer, had Jafaar Jackson not been beside you, his arm around your waist. Your body pressed against his.
But it wasn't all. Of course, it wasn't all.
There were dozens of different versions of the same picture in different angles and close-ups. The more Michael scrolled, the tighter his grip on the phone grew, his knuckles turning white. Your smile was so wide that your eyes squinted. Jafaar looked at you as you were looking at the paparazzi. Your arm was around his as you both walked the red carpet. His hand rested on the small of your back as you stood together.
Smiling at each other with so much, too much joy. Your faces too close.
Michael's jaw clenched as he kept scrolling and stumbled upon a video. You were fixing the neckline of Jafaar's jacket, then whispered something in his ear. And it must have been funny, since he laughed so hard his head hung low. Then another video played, showing Jafaar helping you down the stairs like the gentleman he was. But that role, that hand you were holding onto, it used to be his. Michael's. It was supposed to be his. Not Jafaar's.
Michael bolted up and ignored his friends' calls. He isolated himself from the gathering, finding refuge in one of the cabins. He sat on the bed and wasted no time opening his contacts app. But just as he was about to click on your name, he received a notification. From your YouTube channel.
A surprise drop.
Michael's jaw clenched again, inhaling sharply.
On the thumbnail, Jafaar was cupping your face, just millimeters away from you. His lips were almost touching yours. His eyes were looking at you with so much desire.
Michael did not care that he had no earphones; he played the video. Perhaps he should not have. The song was amazing; it was not the issue. Your songs were always amazing. But the storyline was clear. You and Jafaar met at a bar, and it was love at first sight. He pursued you, gawking at you from the side as you danced amongst the crowd, until he gathered the courage to court you.
The cinematic bits alternated with dance cuts, showing you swaying your hips so smoothly, hypnotically. The strings of your thong sat on your hips, just above your microskirt--so short it could barely be called a skirt. And your top stopped right above your belly button, your waist decorated with a golden chain. Gosh, Michael loved when you dressed like that.
But that second of awe vanished as soon as the chorus began.
A dance sequence.
And Jafaar was with you.
You stood in front, him right behind, as you'd both grind and body roll against each other. He was shirtless, oil on his skin to make him glisten and emphasize the sculpt of his abs. His hands roamed all over your body, on your hips, on your waist, up your thigh, in your hair, his face in your neck, his body pressed against yours. Hugging, laughing, you sitting on his lap, and for a second, Michael thought Jafaar was about to kiss you. Maybe he was. Maybe he did. He couldn't know as the song ended and the video cut to black.
Usually, Michael wouldn't care. You had danced sensual choreography before. You had danced suggestively with other male dancers before. And he never cared then. It was your job; he knew that. He was confident enough in the relationship not to be scared. And he trusted you.
But now you were both broken up. And Jafaar just happened to be the one man that the internet had been incessantly shipping you with for the past few years. Ever since you were cast in the Michael Jackson biopic as his girlfriend. Ever since the internet had been feeding itself on set pictures before the film's release. Or on the pictures of your friendly outings together. Even more so since the movie was finally in cinemas and all could see the chemistry. People have been shipping you with him.
Michael never cared then. But now, he was not your boyfriend anymore. You were a free lady.
And it seemed the internet had already agreed on the fate of the relationship.
Jafaar 1 Billion Club @/heeheelover • 3h
HOLD THE FUCK UP!!!! (Y/N) AND JAFAAR ARRIVED AT THE BEACH SHOW TOGETHER???
🗨 202 ⇄ 6.2k ❤︎ 100.2k
(Y/N)'s new album incoming @/spideysgirl • 3h
They look so good omg
Did we have fun here??? @/shamonegirl • 2h
Wait a damn minute... is my ship finally sailing...?
(YN)'s archive @/YNsarchives • 2h
(Y/N) AND JAFAAR AT THE BEACH RUNWAY OMG THEY LOOK SO GOOD???
🗨 190 ⇄ 2.2k ❤︎ 99.5k
1st Biopic of all time @/gotmesinging • 2h
Is this a safe place to say I ship them???
Ballon d'Or @/hesaidmuymuy • 2h
Look, (Y/N) and Olise were one hell of a hot couple, but (Y/N) and Jafaar is a very strong contender 👀👀
Olise's last defender @/ghoulscantthrillya • 1h
(Y/N) and Jafaar at the beach runway together... does that mean she and Michael are over fr? Are she and Jafaar together now?
🗨 210 ⇄ 3.5k ❤︎ 80.8k
Y/Ndefender @/YNpeopleprincess • 1h
Well, on Michael's end, it seems he moved on already
He did not move on. He never moved on. He did not want to move on.
PYTs don't do drama @/dancingqueen • 1h
Look, I know this was probably planned a loooong time ago, but I find the timing so funny 🤭 That video of Olise with a girl twerking on him drops, and then (Y/N) attends a beach show with Jafaar freaking Jackson AND he stars in her music video where they dance a sexy dance together... queen shit
🗨 207 ⇄ 4.1k ❤︎ 90.5k
Olise truther @/ladyinyourlife • 1h
And they were grinding and body rolling with an almost-kiss at the end like... People were saying Michael was crazy for getting twerked on, but (Y/N) just BURRIED him
Susie got your number @/tranquilodequoitoi • 1h
Ooooh I'm so here for the drama 🤭🍿
Apple Pie A La Mode @/11minutostarde • 1h
They're broken up, so they don't owe each other anything. You guys are making drama for literally nothing
But there was drama. Michael knew damn well it was not a promotional stunt, as the internet seemed to believe.
So he called you. He wanted to talk. He wanted to apologize. He wanted to fix things.
But you didn't answer. He tried again. Nothing.
Three days. For three days, he sat with only his anxiety and fear as companions, unable to reach you and never knowing if you had truly moved on from him. Unable to know if your decision had been made. If it could be changed. If he still had a chance.
The second day was no better than the first. At the same hour, you released the behind-the-scenes video. Michael shouldn't have watched it; he was just hurting himself. But he did. You and Jafaar were almost attached at the hip, always together, laughing and joking around. You watched him from the side when he was filming, telling the audience how good an actor he was. And he would do the same, praising you as he watched you dance.
One particular clip went viral.
The crew was hurrying in the background, changing sets. Jafaar stood next to you, a white towel around his neck and his arm around your shoulders as you leaned back against him.
"Why did you choose Jafaar for the role?" The cameraman asked.
"Honestly? His dance skills," you said. "The pretty face was just a bonus."
Jafaar blushed, his eyes squinting as he chuckled.
And the internet loved it. They loved it when you posted a photo dump from the behind-the-scenes video, most of them with Jafaar in them. They loved it when he commented under your post. They loved it when he posted his own photo dump with you in it. They loved it when you commented under it. They loved it when you posted a TikTok dancing to the song's choreography with Jafaar. They loved it; Michael hated it all.
YN's gown @/itsawonderfulday • 5h
She knew exactly what she was doing 🤭
🗨 160 ⇄ 2.9k ❤︎ 70.4k
Maynard @/loveu3000 • 1h
(Y/N) slutted out Jafaar the whole video! Got him shirtless and everything, she knew what the people needed!
For example, nothing @/annieRUokay • 1h
Look, Olise fucked up so bad, how do you fumble a baddie like her???
The third day was the worst. Because you dropped the dance practice video. Jafaar was there. Again. And Michael realized how much more touchy he was in bits that were discarded in favor of cinematic storylines. And how touchy you were with him. The way you moved your hips against him. The way your hand slid from his stomach to his chest. The way you'd look at him.
Michael's heart broke all over again.
He was losing you for real; he could feel it. He could feel you slip through his fingers.
So, sitting on the bed in his hotel room, Michael tried to call you. Again. He had been trying to call you for the past three days. And you never answered. Perhaps it was the time difference, thought it was not that drastic. Perhaps you were too busy. Or perhaps you just ignored his calls. But if you did not want to talk to him, you would have blocked him.
But you did not.
Meaning you might have just missed them. Meaning there might still be a chance.
And there was.
His face lit up when you answered. But you said nothing. He could hear your breathing, but not a word was spoken. And the reality of the situation finally reached him.
Five months. It had been five months since that day, but it felt like years. So many things happened in between, things that he failed at and things he regretted. Things he wished he had lived with you, but did not.
And the distance between the two of you never felt greater. Acting in ways neither ever expected the other to. Acting like strangers.
"What does it mean?" Michael finally said, his voice quiet. "Are you and he together?"
"I don't know, you tell me." The nonchalance in your voice nearly made him laugh. Not of amusement, though. It only confirmed what he thought the second he had seen these pictures. You were mad at him.
"I thought we were just on a break," Michael continued. "That we were supposed to get back together."
You scoffed. "Oh, is that what you want? Get back together?"
He frowned. "Yeah. That's what I understood. You said a break. Not a breakup. I've been waiting for you."
"Oh, did you, now?" You let out a laugh, a humourless one. "I thought you found someone else already. How's the girl? The one who was shaking her ass on you?"
Michael pursed his lips. "It's not what you--"
"Honestly, I don't care," you cut in. "We're not together, are we? What you do in your free time, none of my business."
Feeling as though you were about to hang up, Michael hurried to say, "I'm not dating anyone! Baby, I've been waiting for you! I still am!"
You ignored the slip-up, the pet name he probably did not realize he had used, and scoffed again.
"Weird way of showing it. Having a bunch of girls dancing on you."
"It was only one girl." But he regretted saying that the second it left his mouth.
"One or ten, it's not the fucking point, Michael," you snapped. "How would you feel if you saw a man grinding on me when you thought we'd be together again?"
It was now his turn to scoff. "Yeah, well, I got a pretty clear idea of what this feels like."
Michael stood up, running a hand in his locs as he paced around the room. Then stopped as he realized.
The music video was not shot yesterday. It must have been shot days, even weeks, prior. Before he even thought of going to the Turks and Caicos Islands.
"You're being real' hypocritical right now," he said.
"What?" He could picture the frown and confusion on your face, taken aback by the change in tone.
"You walked the red carpet with Jafaar to spite me for that video-- and yeah, I fucked up. But you made that music video long before I even thought of going to Turks and Caicos."
You stayed silent.
"Did you think then about what it would make me feel?" He asked, his voice wavering.
"It's my job, Michael," you finally answered. "It's not the first time I've danced a choreo like this, and you never cared before."
"You know damn well it's different now." He paused, taking a shaky inhale of air to steady himself. "I was waiting for you..." he breathed.
For a moment, you stay quiet. And you both wondered how something that began so beautifully and healthily turned into this. You both wondered if it was still salvageable.
"And I was about to call you," you confessed, the waver in your voice betraying you. You sniffled, and Michael knew you were holding back your tears. "I wanted to call you until I saw that video."
"Baby--"
"You said you missed me," you sobbed. "You said you missed me; you made me believe we could save this, and then you turned around and did something like that!"
"We can still save this!"
"How?!" You swallowed back a sob. "How am I supposed to believe you anymore?"
"And how was I supposed to know you wanted me back?" He broke down, tears welling up in his eyes. "I've been texting you. I've been telling you I missed you, and you did nothing. You never showed me I could still have a place in your life. How was I supposed to know? And then you show up with Jafaar, knowing damn well the whole fucking world wants you to date him..." he sat back on his bed, his head in his hand as his grip around his phone grew weaker. "Are we really over...?"
You remained quiet. You did not know what to say. You loved him. And he loved you. These were two truths you were certain of. But looking at the state of the relationship, you did not know if it could work. If your lifestyles could ever match.
And you did not want to bear the responsibility of ending this. Permanently.
"Baby," Michael called again. "Are we over?"
"I don't know...," you confessed, sobbing. "I don't know. I just don't know. I love you, and I miss you, but I... I don't know..."
Michael bit his lower lip, his hand shielding his eyes as he summoned all his will not to cry.
"I love you too," he breathed, his voice breaking. "And I miss you like crazy; you have no idea. I was fucking stupid; I know that. I should never have done that to you... But I really thought you didn't want me anymore... and I'm sorry. I'm truly sorry, baby. I love you, I do."
Nothing was said on the other line, and Michael's anxiety flared up again. Was this truly the end? Was this truly over? He could not let that happen. He could not give up on you.
"Can I come see you?" He pleaded. "Please, let us work this out. Give me another chance, and I promise you, I'll be better. I'll manage my time better, I swear. We'll figure this out together."
Again, silence was on the other end. Only your breathing and occasional sniffing could be heard. And for a moment, Michael truly believed he had lost you. He truly believed his words could no longer reach you.
But you said, your voice quiet, "I'm in New York for a press tour. Come see me if you want."
And when the call ended, Michael wasted no time booking the first flight to New York.
☆ Pairing: bad!Michael x black!bsf!reader
☆ Summary: You get married and divorced on the same day. You find comfort in your best friend, who has been in love with you forever.
A/N: Or, The Drama (Michael's version) with Michael channeling his inner Anthony "object of all my desires" Bridgerton with a little sprinkle of Euphoria in the plot, even though I never watched the series.
It's here queen @megsnotokay !
☆ Content/warnings: angst, fluff in the end, steamy makeout session, MDNI kinda 18+ (suggestive but nothing explicit), drama, cheating, emotional cheating, yearner Michael, Michael being a sweetheart to you, body worship?, messy decision-making but we're here for it, Marlon cameo, after-care, arguments, cursing
☆ Word Count: 10.4k (sorry, it's a long one...)
1989.
Michael had dreaded that day for years. He had never thought he'd attend your wedding as a guest, sitting on the side of the aisle reserved for your loved ones. In his head, he was the one waiting at the altar for you to walk down with a bouquet in your hands, accompanied by your father, and a veil over your so beautiful face. Instead, another man took his place. Instead, he had to watch John wait for you. Hold your hands. Recite his vows. Slide that wedding band to your fingers. Say he loved you. And kiss you as your husband, when all Michael wanted was to be him instead.
Michael let out a sigh.
The venue was getting more and more crowded, filled with chatter, old friends and family reuniting and catching up, new people meeting for the first time and weaving novel bonds. Your father was conversing happily with your soon-to-be father-in-law, tears already gathering in their eyes as the seats were slowly being filled. But Michael remained on the side, hands clasped behind his back as he waited for the ceremony to begin.
He had to admit, the venue was stunning. Green, vivid grass, floral arches, white bows and lace--a delicacy and elegance that was so characteristic of you. It resembled the humble castle of a fairy princess adored by an entire kingdom, who had gathered to celebrate you. If it were up to Michael, he would have rented an actual castle just for you and designed a tiara to adorn your pretty head. He would have made true all of your dreams just so he could see that so radiant smile of yours.
But he was not your man.
Just your best friend.
Who knew you better than your man.
"Smile, Mike," Marlon whispered to him with a nudge. "Or people will start talkin'."
"I'm smiling."
"You look like you wanna jump off a building."
Michael rolled his eyes. But Marlon was sadly right. He wanted to jump off a building. How could he not? The woman he had loved and adored for years was getting married to someone else. Would be wearing someone else's last name. And all he could do was watch and pretend he was happy when all he wanted to do was object and whisk you away. He loved you so damn much, and he could not have you. Because you were already someone else's.
His heart had been breaking incessantly for the past three years, and it appeared it would keep on breaking for the rest of his life. For he would remain in your life, watching you build a family with someone who was not him.
"Michael, sweetheart." Your mother was leaving the picturesque building, speeding toward him with knitted eyebrows.
"Honey, could you please talk to her?" she asked urgently. "The ceremony will start soon, and she isn't ready to come out."
Immediately, Michael's heart filled with worry. "Is everything alright?"
"Well, you know, wedding jitters finally got to her." She looked at the crowd, nervous, then back at Michael. "You know you're the only one who can calm her down. Can you please talk to her?"
Michael shifted his weight from one foot to the other and glanced at his brother. Marlon's gaze said it all: don't fuck it up. So Michael sighed and followed your mother, with little choice. Refusing to help would be more than suspicious, but helping you get married to someone else was yet another dagger piercing his already wounded heart. It was as though the universe was getting off his suffering. Cruel.
"You always find the right words to ease her down." Michael and your mother both hurried through the hallways, the wood creaking with each step they took. "Just make sure she walks down the aisle, honey."
She patted his arm, and all Michael could do was beam a stiff smile and continue down the corridor. He walked up the grand stairs, greeting your maid of honor, Nikki, who waited with your mother, and his steps became muffled by the carpet. The air became heavier, gravity pressing him down as he approached the two mahogany doors. A trembling breath escaped him as his weak hands held onto the golden doorknob. The coldness of the metal clashed with the warmth of his palms.
Michael had no desire to push you into the arms of another, but there was no way he would ruin your reputation or put you in any kind of predicament just minutes before the ceremony. Besides, even if he confessed, he had no guarantee you'd return his feelings. He would only ruin that beautiful friendship and lose you forever altogether.
But he put all that aside, and the door squeaked as he pushed it open. His breath immediately caught in his throat, eyes filling up with tenderness as he watched you sitting at the vanity. The pristine white of the gown clashed beautifully with the warm darkness of your complexion. The intricate lace on the bodice and the puffy sleeves, graceful bows here and there, and your curls cascading down your back made you look like a princess straight out of a fairy tale. The kind of beauty men would wage war for.
Divine, he had thought.
But Michael snapped out of his daze as he noticed your fidgeting hands and heaving shoulders. The rapid tapping of your heel against the parquet covered the sound of the ticking clock.
"Hey," Michael softly said, closing the door behind him.
You flinched and looked at him through the mirror. "Hey..."
Michael walked across the room, his hands resting on your bare shoulders. The sensation of his warm palm sent a soothing wave throughout your body, though your heart remained beating too fast.
"You alright, dollface?" he asked, soft-spoken.
"Of course, I am." You nodded a little too fervently, your voice an octave higher than he was used to. "Why wouldn't I be? How could I not be? I mean, it's my wedding day, the best day of my life. I'm happy. I'm fine."
Your chest was rising and lowering at a rapid pace, the bodice feeling strangely smaller than it was, the bones of the corset sinking into your sides.
You bolted up from the chair and began pacing. You lifted your hand to run it through your hair, but stopped it just in time not to ruin the magnificent work the hairstylist had done. Instead, you flattened the non-existent creases on your gown, not knowing what to do with your hands but needing them busy.
You swirled at Michael. "Do you think it's right?"
Michael opened his mouth, but could not align two words that you spoke again.
"It's not that I don't like John," you stressed, pacing again. "John's amazing. He's so good to me. And we've been together for three years, so it's about damn time that he popped the question. But marriage, it's a big commitment, right? I mean, being legally bound to someone, building a life together, a family. It's a big step, right? I'm not going to be 'Miss' anymore; I'm going to be 'Mrs'. And all my papers, they're gonna change and everything--"
Michael gently took your hands, forcing you to stop moving. His thumbs rubbed on your knuckles as a tender smile spread on his lips. His eyes looked at you with all the softness in the world, a gaze that never failed to make your legs wobble.
"You're beautiful," he confessed.
And strangely, that melted all your fears away.
You giggled. "I'm a nervous wreck, and your answer to that is to tell me that I'm beautiful?"
Michael laughed, realizing the absurdity of his response to her anxiety.
"Yes, but it worked, didn't it?" He squeezed your hands before bringing them to his lips. "If you love him, then it is the right thing to do. As long as you're happy."
All you could do was smile. Because that uneasiness that had settled in your stomach since the very second you had peeled your eyes open in the morning was still there. That doubt. That question: am I making the right decision? It was normal, your mother said. It was normal, your bridesmaids said. It was the start of a new chapter in your life; anyone would get nervous.
But that knot had yet to untangle.
John was a good man. You were happy with him. It was comfortable. You knew the future that awaited you with him would be peaceful, like a summer evening, sitting on the porch watching the sunset.
And yet, as your eyes lingered on Michael, that future that was so certain the day before started to blur. Strands of his curls fell onto his face, the rest tied in a man bun. The loose half rested nicely on his shoulders, clashing with the immaculateness of his sparkling dress jacket, rows of beads lining the lapels. His white shirt was tucked into trousers, a large golden belt around his waist, a callback to the magnificent shimmering brooch attached to his collar.
It was nearly unfair how handsome he was, even effortlessly. Despite the extravagance of his allure, there was a certain delicateness in his demeanor that never failed to put you at ease.
"You do know that there's this unspoken rule that only the bride should wear white, right?" you teased.
Michael looked down at his attire, a shy smile on his lips. "Well, you said to come dress whatever, and I like this outfit."
Truth be told, Michael was very aware of that unspoken rule. But did not care. Or rather, he did, in a sense, for he purposely came in white, despite Marlon's disapproval, to match with you. To appear as though he was the one who would wait for you at the altar, despite it not being the case.
It was messy, but again. He did not care.
You laughed, shaking your head.
"It's fine, don't worry." You freed a strand of his curls that got tangled in a bead of his lapel and fixed his collar. "Even dressed in black, you would have outshone me."
"Nonsense." Michael turned you around so you could face the full-body mirror. A step right behind you, he rested his hands on your waist, his face just above your shoulder. Your heart missed a beat, and your palms grew sweaty as his breath fanned your ear. "Nobody can outshine you. You are the most beautiful being in the world. I mean it. There is no other like you."
Your breath hitched as you watched his eyes drag slowly over your physique. You could hear your heart beating madly in your head as his thumb stroked your body, sending a wave of shivers down your spine. Your eyes closed, sensing your resolve waver yet again as you enjoyed the feeling of Michael's lips brushing your ear.
It was wrong. You could not let these feelings resurface now. Now of all days.
Snapping out of your daze, you peeled your eyes open again. It was strange how your anxiety had vanished the moment Michael held you. The outside buzz of the guests impatiently waiting for the celebration of love to begin vanished, rendered completely mute. Only you and Michael remained, protected in that room with empty clothing racks in one corner and the vanity full of makeup and hair products. Your little bubble standing outside of time, as if nothing else mattered. Serene and peaceful.
But then you noticed it.
There was something in his eyes. Something that resembled nostalgia, or perhaps melancholy. A quiet sadness that he tried so hard to hide behind his so expressive eyes.
"I can't believe you're getting married...," Michael muttered to himself.
But you heard it crystal clear.
"Well... I'm thirty-one," you replied quietly. "I'd argue my parents think it's about time."
His jaw clenched as his eyes found the floor. "I guess so..."
"Hey." Your hand rested on his face, and you leaned back against his chest. "Just because I'm married doesn't mean it's gonna change anything between us. You'll always be my best friend."
Michael forced a smile. "Of course."
That was, in fact, the thing that scared him the most. To remain in your life, wanting you, dreaming of you, needing you, while you belonged to someone else. Seeing you live that love, look at him as though he was the only one for you when he dreamed of being in his shoes. Dreading the day his last thread of self-control snaps, prompting him to act on his feelings. To pull you into the sinful act of adultery.
It was not the life he wanted for you. Unhonorable and sinful.
But Michael's resolve was growing more precarious the more he remained in your presence. That sweet scent of your enticing perfume, the softness of your skin, the beauty that you were, the melodiousness of your voice; how was he supposed to resist you when you were so damn perfect? You were his weakness. The only one who could make him act like a fool, who could make him do things he would have never dared do just because he wanted your happiness. You were everything that he so adored, and everything that he so feared.
Michael wanted to be a gentleman. Because it was what you deserved.
But, oh, how he fantasized about ruining that day. To push you against the wall and enjoy the delirious taste of your lips. To hear you whisper his name in delight. To feel your hands clutch him. To see the pleasure distorting your usually so calm face. To indulge in the so sweet and delicious madness of bodily pleasures. To see you in your most vulnerable and intimate state.
Michael needed you.
Both his arms slithered around your waist, pressing your back flush against him, as he nuzzled his face into your neck. He reveled in the shiver that ran through your body. At the rising temperature of your flesh. At the way you felt in his hands.
He needed you.
But he let you go.
"I wish you all the happiness in the world, dollface." Michael leaned over your shoulder and pressed a kiss to the corner of your lips.
For a second, your mind shut down, and you had to stop yourself from reaching a hand to him when he pulled away, the so reassuring warmth of his body leaving you. Michael had that power to ignite something in you with little to no effort. Something so dangerous yet so luscious. A fire that awakened primal desires to an extent that frightened you, that pulled you into him and rendered you a restless, starved wreck of unsatisfied and unquenched passion.
It was wrong; you knew that. Your body should not react to him in such a way. Your mind should not be focused on him in such a way. Your heart should not call his name in such a way. Not now of all days.
Wedding jitters, you told yourself. The nervousness was just messing with your judgment, or your head altogether.
So you took a deep breath, and when your father came to fetch you, you were ready.
The ceremony passed in a blur. It was as if your mind had entered another realm, unable to truly process what was happening. It felt like a dream. As the music began, your arm looped with your father's, who whispered sweet words to you. The doors opened as the guests all stood. John waited for you on the other side, mouth slightly hanging once he caught sight of you. A smile stretched on your face, your heart beating madly as you advanced slowly onto the aisle, passing the arch of white flowers and lace bows.
When you neared the other end, as the flower girl and boy were throwing red petals before you, your attention faltered for a second. Your eyes flickered from your soon-to-be husband to your best friend, Michael. His lips were stretched into a small smile, but his eyes were so... mournful. Grieving, even. It almost made you stop, but you quickly refocused on your groom.
Michael's heart broke all over again when you stood in front of John. He could not control his emotions, try as he might. He was grateful that he could not see your expression; he was not certain he could have handled the look of pure joy on your face as you gazed into the eyes of your soon-to-be husband.
Every word the celebrant spoke, every vow exchanged, was another tear to his soul. Jaw clenched, nails digging into his palms, his heart cried when he heard you say 'I do'. Tears gathered in his eyes, and all he could do was watch John slide the wedding band onto your finger. Michael died inside, the last blow being John pulling you closer for a kiss as everyone rose and clapped joyously.
Marlon nudged him. "Smile and clap, Michael. Smile and clap."
It took everything in him to comply, each applause another strike to his heart. He hated it. He hated every second of it. But he could not do anything anymore. You were a taken woman. You belonged to someone else. Someone else's wife.
The trip to the reception venue was silent; Bill and Marlon never ceased to glance at Michael, who gazed out the window absentmindedly. To the whole Jackson family, his feelings for you were no secret. And regret was plaguing him, rotting every fiber of him from the inside. If only he had confessed earlier. If only he had not prioritized his career. If only he had not let his fears blind him. You might have been his lady now. He might have been your husband. You might have been Mrs. Jackson.
Now you were to remain with John for the rest of your life. Well, perhaps not. Divorce was not as frowned upon as it used to be. And Michael despised himself for that part of him that wished it would be the fate of your marriage. He hated that he felt this way, for this would mean your pain. You with a broken heart, and all he wanted for you was utter bliss.
But a part of him was selfish. A part of him wanted to ruin your marriage.
But you meant too much for him to risk you despising him.
So at the reception, he sat at the table nearest to you as you appeared in another dress. The gown was more minimalistic, the lace forsaken and replaced by a soft silk sitting so nicely on your body. No wrinkles and pure shimmer under the light. Godly. So painfully godly.
You were sitting at the main table, John on one side, and your parents on the other. Music played in the background in the midst of conversations and succulent fare. Laughter rose at the speech of John's best man as he spoke of their time in high school or the hardships of traveling around the country for work. You teared up at the beautiful speech of your now mother-in-law, who spoke of her pride for her son and how happy she was to welcome you into the family.
And then it was Nikki's turn, your maid of honor. She stood up, a glass of champagne in one hand as she turned to you. She beamed a shy smile, and her eyes flickered to John for a second before refocusing on you.
"Um... (Y/N) and I have known each other for so long, and..." She cleared her throat, shifting her balance from one foot to the other. "She's the best person that I know, and she deserves the best in the world--which is definitely John." She let out an awkward laugh. "I'm so happy that she has found, uh... someone like John. Someone who... er, loves her so much. And who's so devoted to her, very devoted, most devoted to her. They're the best couple and, uh." She lifted her glass. "Best wishes to the bride and groom."
Applause arose throughout the room, and you lifted your thumbs to Nikki, beaming her a reassuring smile. You knew she was not fond of being the center of attention, so it truly meant a lot that she agreed to make a speech, even though the awkwardness was very clear. Though you did note that she could barely hold eye contact with you and quickly sat back in her seat.
You turned to John, but a frown marred your brow, seeing the palor of his complexion.
"Are you alright?" you asked him, resting your hand on top of his.
He beamed you a stiff smile. "Of course, I am. I get to finally call you my wife."
You rested your head on his shoulder, locking your arm with his.
"I'm happy too," you said. "It's just that... you look a little nervous."
He shook his head and kissed your hair.
"I just really can't believe we're husband and wife now." He intertwined his fingers with yours. "Feels like a dream."
You grinned and kissed his jaw.
Your mother did her speech, bringing tears to your eyes yet again, before the feast resumed with agreeable music in the background. You conversed with your parents and in-laws, enjoyed the tasty food, and occasionally smiled at the photograph whenever you'd spot her.
But then your eyes drifted to your left hand, at the golden band around your fourth finger as the waiters cleared the tables. It shimmered under the warm lights, complementing the undertone of your skin. It was as if a new life was about to begin. A new life with John, in a new house, with new people.
And somehow, it was heavy.
"Does he not know only the bride should wear white?" John asked you.
You looked up at him. "Hm?"
John nodded across the room. "He looks like he's matching you."
Following his gaze, you noticed Michael walking up to the stage as the band set up a microphone for him. You had asked Michael to sing for your first dance with your husband. I Just Can't Stop Loving You, was the song.
But you knew what John truly meant. The hidden reproach was obvious: he looked like the groom. And you had to admit, the way Michael carried himself, the elegance in each and every one of his movements paired with his outfit, could easily fool one into thinking he was the one who got on one knee for you. And, perhaps confusion might have been voiced if he were not Michael Jackson, the most famous man on the planet. So definitely not the name written on the invitation.
"We didn't specify the dress code; it's fine," you said.
John frowned. "Aren't you bothered?"
"No?" Your eyes darted back and forth between John and Michael, confused. "I mean, everyone knows I'm the one who got married."
But you could see that your answer did not please him. John looked away, readjusting the cuffs of his sleeves, a habit he had when he was upset but trying to keep his cool.
"What?" you inquired.
"Nothing."
"No, tell me." You held his hand, forcing him to focus on you. "There's clearly something that upset you."
He sighed. "You always defend him."
Your eyebrows knitted again, your head tilting as you glanced back at Michael, who was conversing with the band.
You turned back to John. "Because... he didn't do anything wrong."
He scoffed. "Oh, so I'm making things up?"
"That's not what I said." You kept your voice low, but the frustration was still clear. You sighed. "Are we really going to argue on our wedding day?"
The tension in John's shoulders faded as he intertwined his fingers with yours. "No." He kissed your hand. "No, we're not, baby. We're not."
John had never been very fond of Michael. At first, he did not think much of him aside from admiration. As a manager, of course, he would be impressed by Michael's career and genius. But he never truly liked how close you were with him. The long hours over the phone, the impromptu outings, the invites to the studio or parties, how he'd crash your apartment, how he'd give you presents out of the blue, or how he'd lend you his apartment in Century City when you needed to stay over in L.A for work. You had never thought much of it, as it had always been like that between Michael and you for as long as you could remember.
You were best friends.
But John did not like that. He thought it was 'too much'. That he was acting like your boyfriend, more than a best friend.
John led you to the center of the dance floor for the first waltz, although the tension still lingered. His eyes remained on you, as gentle as he tried, but you could see irritation as Michael's sweet voice filled the ballroom. So you leaned in and pecked his lips, easing the tension in his body. John pulled you even closer, kissing the spot right below your ear, earning a chuckle from you.
But as you and John swirled across the dance floor, your eyes locked with his. Michael's.
"My life ain't worth living," he sang. "If I can't be with you."
There was a tremor in your heart, nearly missing a step. His gaze was so intense, a bearer of such profound emotions that you forgot to breathe for a second. Michael had a way of looking at you that made you forget your own name, that made the whole room disappear and put him at the center of your world.
But it was wrong.
You averted your eyes. You were a married woman now. You were John's wife. So you had to pull yourself together. Wedding jitters were over.
The song ended, and after you danced with your father and John with his mother, the entire party joined. You took a moment to slip away for respite and excused yourself from the gathering, saying you needed to fix your makeup. Truthfully, you simply needed a breather. The near-argument with John, then Michael's gaze never leaving you, was putting your nerves to the test, and they were on the verge of giving up.
The music grew distant the further you walked away from the reception room, dodging the already heavily intoxicated guests crawling on the hallway floor. You were about to open the bathroom door, but froze.
"Nikki, that's like... really bad," her sister said.
"I know, I know..." You let out a heavy sigh followed by a grunt. "Please, just... don't tell anyone."
A beat of silence passed, but eventually, her sister replied, "Yeah... of course."
You smoothed your dress and entered the bathroom. Nikki's head snapped at you so fast you thought she'd get whiplash.
"Hey." You smiled as you walked up to her. "I wanted to thank you for your speech. I know you don't like speaking in public."
"It's nothing, really."
"But it still meant a lot." You took her hands. They were stiff. "Is everything alright? You look a little stressed."
She shook her head, removing her hands from yours.
"It's fine, don't worry. It's just... There are a lot of people."
She gave you a quick hug before leaving with her sister, and all you could do was stare at the closing door. You had known Nikki for years, even before she joined John's managing company. She had been one of your longest friends. And it was the first time you had ever seen her so nervous. Given that her presence was often required in gatherings, she always managed to remain poised and calm. But she was barely hanging on, which was starting to worry you. And the fact that she did not attend with her boyfriend was also quite peculiar.
You returned to the ballroom and gestured to John to rejoin you. You led him to a nearby room for more privacy, the booming music and loud chatter muffled by the double doors.
"Is everything alright, baby?" John asked.
"Don't you think Nikki's been acting a little weird?" you said.
He froze and only stared at you.
He cocked his head to the side. "What do you mean?"
"I don't know." You started pacing. "She's been barely talking to me since the reception began. And she looks pale. I'm worried for her. Do you think something happened with her boyfriend? Is that why he isn't here?"
John balanced his weight from one foot to the other, running a hand in his groomed hair.
"I'm sure it's nothing," he dismissed.
You shook your head. "No, no, I know her. She looks so stressed, but I bet she feels like she'd ruin today if she tells me." You stopped. "Do you think I should just ask her directly? I don't want her to feel alone."
"I think you're reading too much into it."
"But I heard her say 'don't tell anyone' in the bathroom. Something's up"
"Baby, that means she doesn't want anyone to know," John argued. "We shouldn't pry."
You crossed your arms, taking a deep breath. Nikki had been such a great help during the wedding planning, reassuring you at every step of the way. She had always been there during all the hardships in your life, and it did not feel right to leave her alone in her sorrow while needing to pretend everything was fine for you. You wanted to be there for her the way she was there for you.
So you said, "I'm just gonna talk to her."
John barely had the time to call you before you had already passed the door. It did not take you long before you found Nikki sitting alone at a table while the rest of the guests danced the night away. She looked especially anxious when you told her you wanted to talk to her, her trembling hands fidgeting as she followed you. You entered first, John leaning against the table, his foot tapping on the floor, and closed the door behind Nikki.
You stood at equidistance between your husband and your maid of honor.
You turned to Nikki.
"Ok, can I just say..." She pointed at John. "He kissed me; I didn't start anything."
You froze.
You just stared at her.
The words played and replayed in your head a thousand times, and for a second, you believed it might have just been a trick of your ears. Perhaps your brain made it all up. Perhaps you misheard. Perhaps it was a trick of your mind. But Nikki stared right back at you, nervousness shining in her eyes. And such blatant and unadulterated guilt could not be faked.
"What?" was all you could utter.
Nikki looked at you, confused. "Isn't... that why you wanted to talk...?"
Slowly, you turned to John.
The colors had vanished from his face, his complexion a sickening pallor. Mouth agape, his eyes flickered in panic between you and Nikki before he let out a nervous chuckle.
"She's lying." There was a tremor in his voice. "I don't know why she would say that. I never kissed her. I mean, I would never do that to you, baby. You know me. And we're coworkers; it's against HR rules--"
"Shut the fuck up." You turned back to Nikki. "Talk."
Gulping, she glanced at John, who was silently begging her to make up a lie. But seeing the quiet, brewing seething anger in your eyes, she could not bring herself to. Perhaps out of fear. Or perhaps out of the remaining respect she had for your long and now gone friendship.
"It's just, he was super nervous about the wedding," she confessed, remorseful. "Talking about commitment and everything, and then he started crying, so I tried to comfort him, and I hugged him, and then he kissed me, and I didn't know what to do, so I kissed him back and... You know, one thing led to another and we..." She bit her lips, then sighed. "Please, don't make me say it out loud..."
For a moment that felt like an eternity, you spoke not a word. You just stared at her, processing every word she had uttered, letting them slowly sink in your mind. John, your then-fiancé, now husband, kissed your maid of honor. John, your then-fiancé, now husband, had sex with your maid of honor. John, your then-finacé, now husband, cheated on you.
"Where?" Your voice was a frightening calmness. Cold. Menacing. Leaving no room for protest.
"Baby--"
"I said shut the fuck up." You told John, then turned back to Nikki again. "Where?"
She sighed. "His office."
You scoffed.
"When?"
She chewed her lower lip, tears gathering in her eyes.
"No." You shook your head, eyes narrowing. "No, no, no. You fucked my fiancé, and you're fucking crying? Don't you fucking cry on me right now. Answer the damn question. When?"
Nikki's eyes closed, a tear falling. "Yesterday..."
This time you laughed. A humorless laugh of disbelief.
"Oh wow..."
"Baby, please, lemme explain--"
You held your hand up, silently commanding John to shut up. He did, knowing that any wrong word spoken, any breath exhaled wrongly, would be akin to pulling the pin from a grenade.
It all made so much sense. The reason Nikki could look you in the eyes or stay in your vicinity for more than a second. The reason John was so stiff during her awkward speech. The reason he did not want you to dig deeper into her strange state. It was all so clear now.
Devotion. She spoke of devotion, knowing damn well what they had done the day before. John kissed you and had the nerve to get jealous over Michael, knowing damn well what he had done the day before. Your now husband and your maid of honor.
"Hell nah." You stormed out of the room.
"Baby!" John exclaimed as he rushed after you. "Baby, please! This is not what you think!"
You paid him no mind and strode into the ballroom.
"Please, baby, let's just talk this out!"
The chatter of the reception room quieted down, and the dances ceased as all eyes turned to you. Michael, who was sitting at his table with Marlon, sat up as he watched you, a crease between his brows.
"Please, let me explain--"
"Go fuck yourself, John!"
A loud gasp erupted from the guests. Marlon glanced at Michael, silently asking him if he had any idea what was going on. But Michael was as lost as the next person.
All he could do was watch John run after you, panicked, as you snatched your mom's purse from the table and foraged it, ignoring her confused questions.
You retrieved the car keys.
"Please, baby, let's just talk somewhere quiet--"
John caught up to you and grabbed your arm.
But you rip it out of his hold. "Don't you fucking touch me!"
"C'mon, love." He eyed the guests nervously. "Don't make a scene."
You scoffed, eyes wide in disbelief. "Don't make a scene?" you repeated. "That's what you're fucking worried about right now?"
"That's not what I--"
Not wanting to hear more of his bullshit, you pushed him out of the way and headed out of the reception room.
"Baby, wait!" He ran after you again. "Please, let's just talk! Baby! Where are you going?"
"I'm getting a divorce!"
Another loud gasp from the crowd. And it was then that both your and John's families decided to intervene, rushing after the two of you to try to fix whatever had happened that they had no idea of. You pushed the doors open, the night breeze prickling on your body that was burning with fury.
If there was one thing you despised most, it was disrespect and betrayal. To have given so much of yourself for someone, to plan a shared future together, to trust someone only to get stabbed in the back. And you find out after you said 'I do'? What a fucking waste of everybody's time!
So you made a beeline for your parents' car, not caring about the lack of light or the wet soil dirtying your white dress. But your mother had caught up to you, stopping you from going any further.
"Sweetheart!" She stood before you, holding both your arms. "Sweetheart, wait! Let's just calm down and talk properly. We'll get to the bottom of this."
"I'm not talking with that son of a bitch!"
"Baby, c'mon, please!" John begged, though your father stopped you from nearing you, sensing that you could very well just swing at him at any minute. He was the one who taught you how to, after all. "I wasn't thinking right! My first mistake in three years!"
"Oh, because you want a medal, maybe?!" Your mother pulled you back when you took a step. "Wow, your first bastard move in three years, husband of the year!"
"Honey, please, you have to ease down," your mother pleaded. "You're very angry; don't rush into things. You'll regret--"
You laugh bitterly. "Oh no, no, no. I ain't regretting nothing! I refuse to sleep in the same bed as this fucker!"
Seeing as none of what she would ever say would reach you, she looked past you. "Please, Michael, do something," your mother begged.
Michael stood on the doorstep, at an utter loss as to what to do. He knew that whatever happened was grave enough to put you in such a state of sheer anger. So you must have valid reasons, especially if John was begging for forgiveness. But it was well above his pay grade. He never intervened in your relationship, and given the feelings he harbored for you, he was the last one to ask for help.
But not stepping in would also be suspicious. So Michael crossed the yard, barely glancing at John, and gently took your hands that were trembling with rage.
"Dollface--"
"Don't fucking tell me to calm down, Michael! Because I'm literally gonna get violent!"
You tried to remove your hands from his grasp, only for him to hold you tighter, but still with kindness.
"Dollface, look at me." His voice was soft, and his thumbs were rubbing your knuckles. "No need to get violent. Let's just figure this out, okay? Need the entire picture before making a decision. Gotta make it with a clear head, okay?"
His eyes never leaving yours, he took a slow inhale and then breathed out. He squeezed your hands, silently telling you to mirror him. So you took a slow inhale, then exhaled, matching your breathing to his. His hands were cold against yours, but it was soothing, agreeable.
He was right. You should at least John out.
So you nodded.
But John scoffed. "You've gotta be kidding me. So I ask you to talk, and you cuss me out. But he does, and you fold? And I'm supposed to be the bad guy in the relationship?"
Oh, and screw him.
You swirled at him. "Yeah, because you fucked my maid of honor in your fucking office on our wedding eve!"
Another loud gasp as all eyes widened in shock, looking at him. Michael's grip loosened on your hands as John's mother pressed her hand over her mouth. You could see your father and cousin slowly processing your words, hands flexing as if summoning all their will not to jump him on sight.
"So don't fucking act surprised if I don't want to talk to you!" you added.
"It was a mistake!"
"A mistake is unintentional! Did you fall right between her legs?! You went out of your way to do her in your damn office! The day before our wedding!"
Your words hung in the air, in the dead silence of the night. John was no longer able to hold eye contact, staring at the floor as if wishing to be swallowed whole.
"You came back home and kissed me goodnight!" you continued. "You drove to the venue, you told me your vows and put that damn ring 'round my finger, you looked me in the eyes and said I do! You looked me in the eyes and said you loved me, when all this time you slept with another woman the day before!"
Michael held you back as you tried to make a step, perhaps fearing you'd slap him. He would deserve it, but Michael was worried things would get out of hand, and he did not want you to get hurt in the process.
"Did you not feel an ounce of remorse?" you asked, your voice wavering. "Don't you feel ashamed of yourself?"
John looked at you, regret written all over his face. "Of course, I am."
"Three years of our fucking lives, John. Didn't it mean anything to you?"
If anyone wanted to defend him and salvage what was left of this very short-lived marriage, they gave up on the idea. Or perhaps they knew they would fail. Some people excuse infidelity, but you were not one of them.
"I'm sorry...," was all John could say.
He was truly sorry. He was regretful. He wished he could turn back time and erase what he did. But he could not. It was too late.
"Yeah, well, you better be." You removed the wedding band and tossed it on the floor. "Because you're signin' those damn divorce papers by tomorrow morning."
This time, your mother did not try to stop you. She only asked Michael to drive you back to Neverland, as it was less than an hour from the venue. And it was unsafe for you to drive in such a state. All guests would be lodged at the venue; rooms had been prepared for them. You and John were supposed to leave for the honeymoon, but obviously, it would never happen now.
The way to Michael's property was eerily silent. He kept glancing at you, but your eyes remained glued outside the window, watching the scenery pass in a blur. As selfish as it sounded, Michael was glad you and John were over. But his heart still hurt for you. He would wish such betrayal not even on his worst enemy. To lose your husband and one of your closest friends in the same night... cruel.
Michael parked in the driveway, and you nearly swung the door open. Barging inside the ranch, you hurried to remove the pearl necklace from your neck. It felt like it was strangling you, but you fumbled with the latch.
"Can't you fucking believe this?" you ranted as you stormed into the living room, Michael close behind you. You had come enough times to Neverland to know your way, as if it were your own house. "On our wedding eve, for goodness sake! How can he do this to me?! I've always worked my schedule around his! I always understood when he was busy with work and had to miss dates!"
Finally freed from that necklace, you slammed the pearls on the drawer.
"Three fucking years of our lives!" You removed your beaded hair clip, almost ripped a few strands of curls out, and tossed it aside. "And he throws it away the day before our wedding! He made me say I do for that?! And he would have never even told me had I never noticed something was wrong with Nikki!"
You took support against the drawer, hunched over it as you took deep breaths to calm yourself down. Michael walked up to you, his hand resting on your back as he rubbed gentle circles on it. Each time his fingers would inadvertently wander beyond your bodice, grazing the skin of your back, shivers would tickle your spine. A welcome distraction from that storm raging in your head.
"He never deserved you, dollface," he quietly said. "He never knew how to love you."
Three years. Your maid of honor and your husband. Well, now ex-husband. And ex-friend. How fucking pathetic. People said the first year of marriage was the hardest. Yours didn't even last a day. You could never have imagined that from them. You could never have thought them capable of this. Had you been so blind? Did you miss the signs? Was it really a one-time thing, or had it been going on for a while?
The reality of what happened finally settled in your mind, and you bit your lip, holding back the tears that were now blurring your vision.
"I just feel so stupid...," you sobbed. "Three years of my life just wasted in one fucking night... If he changed his mind about the wedding, he should have just told me..."
Michael pulled you into a hug. You let the tears fall as you wrapped your arms around him, nuzzling your face into his neck. The beads of his lapels rubbed on your chest as his sweet cologne eased your nerves. He always sprayed himself to oblivion with his cologne. Some people found it too much, but it was akin to a fresh breeze on a cold night after a hot summer day--reassuring.
Michael's arms enclosed your waist, his nose and lips brushing against the skin of your neck. It awakened the goosebumps all over your body, his hot breath tickling the sensitive area of your neck, fire on your skin. Your breath caught again in your throat as his hands caressed your back before settling a moment on your waist, his fingers gently squeezing it as if palming your flesh. Michael pulled you flush against him, your breasts squashed against his chest, feeling the delicate contour of his abs through his dress shirt.
You had never felt so aware of him. Of his curls tickling your face. Of the size of his hands around your waist. Of his height slightly above yours. Of the smoothness of his skin. It ignited a warmth in your lower stomach. A tickling sensation that made you press your legs together.
You pulled away.
But Michael's hand gently cupped your face, his thumb wiping away the dried tears.
"You feelin' better, dollface?" His voice was small, almost a whisper.
But you could only focus on his breath fanning your tainted lips. Your mind was fuzzy, unable to think properly. It only picked up the scent of his cologne, the feeling of his hand, the sweetness of the champagne that you could faintly smell on his mouth. He was like a siren, luring you in with little to no effort. Pulling you into his sickening but so gratifying madness. It was starting to get more and more difficult to ignore the titillating feeling between your legs.
Maybe you truly lost it. Maybe you were seeking comfort. Maybe you simply gave in.
But you closed the distance, pressing your lips against his. You could taste the lingering aroma of champagne on his lips, sending you further over the edge. Michael wasted no time and responded, leaning into you, breathing you in as his hold on you grew tighter, grounding himself, trying to figure out whether or not this was real. If he was truly feeling your plump lips against his.
And he was.
Your hand tangled into his curls as his lips moved with more fervor against yours. With a hunger you did not know he possessed, he finally succumbed to the feeling he had been so desperately trying to bury away. It made your knees buckle, but safe in his arms, you remained up. Michael pushed you against the drawer that shook, the few items on it tumbling. His tongue dragged on your lower lip, nibbling and sucking it, earning a soft sigh from you that he swallowed in delight.
Michael wanted to be a gentleman. He did not want to appear as though he was taking advantage of your pain. But the second he felt your lips on his, he had already lost. Oh, how he had longed for that moment. Oh, how much he had dreamed of it. Hoped for it to happen. His mind had crumbled, his will and resolve vanishing in the blink of an eye. He could not resist you. After so many years of pining after you, of wishing to be your man, he could only be at your utter and complete mercy. He wanted to be at your utter and complete mercy.
So he savored every second of it. He relished finally having you in his arms, no matter if you were only seeking comfort for one night. He would give you the world and make you see stars in one night.
But you pushed him away, your breath short. "I'm sorry... I'm sorry..."
"It's fine," Michael breathed, leaning in again to peck your lips.
You shook your head. "No... It's wrong... You're not a rebound..."
He cupped your face ever-so-gently and peppered your jaw with kisses, earning a sigh from you when he gave sweet attention to your neck. His tongue lingered on your rapid pulse, the suction making you whimper in delight.
"Michael..."
"Use me," he muttered. "Use me, mama. I'll make you feel good."
"It's not fair to you..."
"I don't care." He pressed his forehead against yours. "I'll make you forget, I promise. You should feel good on your wedding day. Let me make this better for you."
It was hard not to resist when his desire was lacing every word he spoke. When he was so adamant not to make you feel guilty for such an endeavour. He was not being taken advantage of. He wanted it.
So you gave in. No restraint.
Your brain shuts down, any coherent thought and reason vanishing from your mind, all replaced by him. His name. His face. His voice. The feeling of his lips. Of his hands. Him. Michael.
A shiver traveled through your body as his hands roamed all over your physique. His lips were back on your neck, his hand fondled your breast, and he reveled in the soft gasp that escaped you. It was wrong. After working so hard on forsaking these feelings. After just ending things with your husband less than an hour prior. After finding out about his betrayal. It was wrong.
And yet it felt so right. The ache in your heart morphed into pleasure, the woes in your head shifted into delight, the tension in your body became so lovely. Michael had always been there for you. He had always known how to make you laugh. How to make you calm down. How to make you happy. He had always known you so well. So thoroughly.
And this was no different. He knew how to make you feel good. How to tease you into frustration, building up your desire to make it all the more delectable. Under your dress, his hot palm slowly made its way up against your clothed thigh. As you hung your head back, your hold on his shoulders grew tighter, trying to control the shudder that passed through your body the closer Michael got to your core.
Only for him to remove his hand.
You whined at the sudden absence of his touch, making him giggle. He left your neck to press a tender kiss on your jaw.
"Patience, my love." Before you could complain, he held your waist and slid his other arm beneath your knees, whisking you up. "I wanna love you right."
Michael carried you to the bedroom, a smile stretching on his lips as you peppered kisses on his jaw, leaving a trail of lip prints down to his neck. Only the moonlight shone into the master bedroom, clearing the way for him to the bed. Michael put you down before it, his eyes holding so much adoration, looking at you as if you were the most precious being in the world. Looking at you as if you were the only woman in the world.
He took a step, completely overtaking your personal space and inebriating your mind with his presence. He had to summon all his strength to hold back, but the sight of the smudged lipstick on your swollen lips from the heated kisses you shared made the ache in his lower part unbearably hard to ignore. His arm snaked around your waist again, crawling up your back to slowly unzip your gown. His gaze never moved from you as if imprinting your face that he could already draw with eyes closed in his mind. The dress pooled at your feet, leaving you only in your strapless bra and garterbelts over your panties.
Michael's breath hitched as he admired you. He could not understand how someone could be as magnificent, as perfect as you were. A part of him was bitter that you most certainly wore this set of lingerie for John, wishing to please him, to look good for him. Which only enraged him at how he wasted his luck so stupidly. He had the most perfect woman, and decided to betray her. He was not aware of the chance that he had. Michael would not make the same mistake. He would make sure that you knew he was aware of how precious this moment was.
So he led you to the bed and knelt before you once you sat on it. Michael unlatched the tight from the garter belts and, without ever tearing his eyes away from yours, he slowly slipped it off your leg. Your hands balled on the bed, clasping around the sheets. It was such a mundane thing, and yet he looked so alluring; it made it so sensual that it was working you up. Michael loved it. He reveled in your little reactions, building up your lust and need for him. He knew it would only be rewarding for you in the end.
He discarded the tight away and bent down, pressing his lips on your ankle before gradually and tantalisingly making his way up. On your shin, on your knee, on your inner thigh. Your eyes were begging him to get even closer, to unravel you with his mouth alone. But, with a smirk on his lips, Michael only peppered feather kisses on your stomach, up to your breasts, your neck, until ultimately finding your lips once more. And just in the blink of an eye, just with the taste of his lips, you forgot all about the pent-up frustration he had been building inside you.
The way Michael handled your body, the way he touched you, the way he cared for you was so full of care. So reverent, as if you were the most precious treasure that ever existed. As if you were a goddess that should have been worshiped. Cared for with all the gentleness, respect, and love in the world.
Michael studied every little expression on your face, every reaction of your body at the rocking of his body into yours. The pace, the caress of his hands, every movement of his was made to bring you closer and closer to ecstasy. The way he ran his finger on you, the way he worked his mouth on you, all of him was making you so delirious. Eyes closed, you relaxed your mind and enjoyed his groove, his sweet rhythm. Every beat of his love rewiring your brain and putting him at the very core. Heat rising, the furnace inside you blazed with no intention of taming. Michael knew how to make you reach paradise. He wanted to love you until he forgot how to. Sparkles in your eyes, passion possessed you; you shattered.
Lying beside you and leaning on his elbow, Michael moved away a strand of your curls that stuck to your damp forehead.
"How are you feeling?" He asked. The back of his hand was now caressing your face.
You tried not to smile too much, but it was already stretching from one ear to the other as your eyes squinted.
"Good," you said.
He smirked. "Just good?"
You let out a laugh, hiding your face behind your hand as he kissed your hair. It was almost silly how giddy you felt.
"I feel very, very, very, very good," you said. "Amazing."
Michael smiled down at you, eyes filling up with adoration. He then leaned down to press a gentle kiss on your lips.
"Glad to hear that." His hand found your curls, playing with them. "Pretty lady like you shouldn't cry on such a day. Should only smile and feel heavenly."
Everything about Michael, from the way he talked to you to the way he touched you, was that of a husband. One could easily think that he was the one who got down on one knee and said I do to you. But he was not.
And maybe that was part of the issue.
John betrayed you, but perhaps you should have never said yes to him in the first place. You had loved Michael for so long and built a life with another man who ultimately bungled the whole thing. And now here you were, in a bed with Michael.
It made no sense.
Michael quickly threw his boxers back on and disappeared into the bathroom for a minute, the sound of running water filling up the comfortable silence of the night. He returned, and a giggle escaped you when he carried you to the water room.
"I can walk, you know," you teased.
He lifted an eyebrow, though the corner of his lips curled up. "Can you? Seemed to be you were a little wobbly earlier."
You slapped his shoulder. "Don't give yourself too much credit. The whole day tired me."
Michael laughed.
"Didn't cross my mind, but now I'm beginning to think I might be the reason you can't walk."
You rolled your eyes, and he laughed again before kissing your cheek.
In the shower, Michael gently ran a soapy cloth over your body to get rid of all the sweat, the lovely scent of flowers lingering in the air. His smile would widen hearing your laugh as he'd tickle you, then press a kiss on your cheek. He shampooed your hair, massaging your scalp so pleasantly. And after a quick shower for himself, he led you to the bathtub of steaming water. The hot water soothed your groggy limbs from the lecherous activity you both enjoyed, and you settled against his chest once Michael sat behind you.
His arms wrapped around you, his head lodging onto your shoulder that he would occasionally pepper with kisses. You had never felt so safe. So protected. The solace Michael provided you with could put you to sleep in his sweet embrace. A little paradise that repelled the evil of the world, protected by the outside madness. And you did not want it to end. You wanted it to last forever, to remain in Michael's arms until the end of time. And he desired it as much as you did.
The serenity and sweetness of the moment clashed with the explosiveness that occurred hours prior. It felt so long ago yet so recent. What was supposed to be a day of celebration turned into the disaster of the century.
Not everything was to be thrown away. After all, you enjoyed a nice and restful bath with a man who knew how to love you. Who adored you, and whom you adored. Quite a strange turn of events.
"How long?" You asked.
Michael tilted his head. "How long what?"
"How long have you been in love with me?"
You knew Michael. He never engaged with anyone, especially in intimacy, if he had no feeling for the woman. And the way he held you already betrayed the truth of his feelings.
For the very first time, Michael averted his eyes. But he still answered, "Forever."
You gently cupped his face and made him look at you.
"And you never told me?" You said.
"I thought you didn't feel the same."
You smiled, but it held sadness.
"If I stayed single for so long, it was because of you," you confessed. "Because I couldn't love another."
All these years of dreading ruining such a beautiful friendship, three entire years of thinking that he had lost you to another, when you both could have been together so long before, had you found the courage to confess. So many years of love and joy missed and mourned.
"Until you met John," Michael quietly pointed out.
"I wanted to move on." You sighed, staring at the ceiling as memories flooded your mind. "And I did. I was really happy with him. We had plans. I could see a future with him."
Your jaw clenched, your eyes narrowing as the memories of the revelation flashed in your mind.
"And then he threw it all away for one afternoon of ass," you spat. "If he didn't want to get married, he shouldn't have asked me. If he wasn't sure about it anymore, he should have told me. Instead, he betrayed me and--"
You froze, feeling Michael's lips moving on yours, and your body reacted on its own, melting into him. He set his hand at the base of your skull, keeping your head still as he slid his tongue into your mouth, making sure the wonders he did would claim every little bit of your attention, erasing anyone but him. Making you utterly drunk with him.
He pulled away, but you leaned into him, not wanting his touch to cease. Not wanting him gone from your body. Needing him to an extent that was making you lose your mind. And that put a smile on his face.
"Stop thinking about him," Michael said, his thumb caressing your cheek.
His voice was soft; it was always soft when he spoke to you. But there was an underlying hint of possessiveness, of jealousy. Michael said he doesn't get jealous, but when he engaged with anyone, he wanted their undivided attention. Hundred percent. He didn't like to share.
Especially right now. Not after he pleasured you. After he made sweet love to you. After he ran you a bath and gave you tender after-care. He did not want to hear you talk about your husband. Well, very soon-to-be ex-husband.
"I told you I'll make you forget," Michael said, ghosting over your lips to inebriate your mind with the memory of his raunchy endeavour with you. "Did I fail?"
Your flutter rapidly, trying to keep hold of your mind that was already slipping into the realm of desire again.
"No," you breathed.
Michael closed the distance again, kissing you so unhurriedly, ever so slowly, to reignite that pulse between your legs.
"Make me forget again." Your voice was almost begging, your hands clutching tight to his bare shoulders as if trying to ground yourself, only to fall deeper into the sweet madness that he was.
So, naturally, Michael obliged. And he made sure he was the only one in your mind until the break of dawn.
You twiddle your fingers together, sitting in the back of the limousine with michael as his driver cruises down the street to a restaurant you two planned to have dinner at for your anniversary.
you were in a black dress that complimented his bedazzled outfit, his curls shiny and perfect, and legs spread as he stares out the window at the passing trees and people.
he still had his sunglasses on, the iconic shades that he occasionally wears if he isn’t feeling down for his aviators.
“Michael,” you turn your head towards him, a slight pout on your lips, his head immediately turns towards you in attention. “do you think you can take off your glasses?” you ask and he raises a brow. “So.. i can see your eyes.”
he pauses for a moment and then takes the shades off, rolls down the window and tosses the shades out of it, turning back to you with a wink before saying. “Can you see me now?”
Your face heats and you stare at him in stunned silence, a pulse starting between your legs. Oh god, your boyfriend was too hot for his own good.
He laughs a bit, its slightly raspy but still has its softness to it. “I take that as a yes.” the car slows to a stop and he takes your hand. “Lets go enjoy dinner, hm?”
The late afternoon sun beamed down over Melrose Avenue, casting a golden glow across the shop windows as you tucked your arm comfortably through Michael’s. Underneath his wide-brimmed fedora and oversized dark sunglasses, he was relaxed, offering you that gentle, crooked smile he reserved only for moments away from the madness.
You were still getting used to your own name being whispered around studio lots and casting directors' offices— coming off your breakout indie film role, your name had quickly just begun to be recognised —but afternoons like this made everything feel normal.
Michael leaned in, brushing a soft kiss against your temple while you inspected a rack of vintage clothing outside a boutique. "It suits you," he murmured, his voice velvety and low. "but everything does."
Before you could laugh, footsteps hurried toward you from the sidewalk. You instinctively braced yourself, wrapping an arm around Michael's waist to steady him. A group of teenage girls was heading straight for you, cameras already out. You knew the drill. You braced for the sudden shift in gravity—the piercing shrieks, the frantic tears, the desperate grabbing for Michael’s sleeves that usually accompanied any public sighting.
"Oh my gosh!" one of the girls gasped, breathless. "Excuse me!"
Michael shifted slightly, preparing to offer his usual polite, quiet greeting, but the girl barely glanced his way. "Hi, Mr. Jackson," she said hastily, giving him a quick, polite nod before snapping her attention entirely to you. Her eyes went wide. "Are you—oh my god, it IS you!"
You blinked, completely thrown.
"We are such huge fans of your new movie!" another girl squealed, linking hands with her friend. "I've seen it three times in theaters already. Your acting in the final scene made us all cry. You're literally our favorite actress!"
A warmth bloomed in your chest, instantly replacing your shock. The girls flooded you with heartfelt compliments, telling you how much your performance inspired them and how excited they were for your next film. You beamed, leaning into their energy with genuine kindness, asking their names, signing their magazines, and giving each of them tight, warm hugs.
Beside you, Michael stood utterly still, his mouth slightly parted beneath his dark glasses.
"Um, excuse me..." One of the girls turned toward Michael, holding out her camera with a hopeful smile. "Could you take a picture of us with her?"
Michael looked at the camera, then at the girl, a sudden flicker of amusement and slight bewilderment passing over his face. He was used to security clearing space for him to stand in the photo, not acting as the photographer.
"I... of course," Michael said, a soft laugh bubbling in his chest. He took the camera carefully, stepping back onto the pavement to frame the shot. "Alright, everyone smile!"
He ended up taking a half-dozen photos, patiently switching devices for each girl while watching you interact with them. As you laughed and chatted with them about your on-screen roles, Michael felt a sudden, overwhelming wave of awe wash over him. He saw the genuine light in your eyes, the completely unpretentious way you made every single fan feel like the most important person in the world. You weren’t just breaking out in the movie industry—you were captivating it. And seeing how fiercely they adored you made his chest swell with pride.
After waving goodbye to the group, you took Michael’s arm again, practically glowing. "That was... amazing," you whispered.
"You were incredible," Michael said softly, looking at you like you were the only star on the avenue. "They really love you. But then, how could they not?"
Before you could reply, a group of guys around your age strutted out of a nearby cafe. One of them stopped dead in his tracks, looking directly at Michael.
"Woah, hold on—you're Michael Jackson!" the guy blurted out. Michael smiled and nodded politely. "Damn, man, respect. Legend."
"Thank you, I appreciate that," Michael said softly.
The guy immediately turned his gaze to you, his eyes lighting up as he recognized your face from recent film posters. "Wait a minute—you're-! Man, that movie you were in that just came out was incredible!"
The rest of the guys crowded round, pulling out their phones for a quick photo with you. As they leaned in close, one of them smirked, looking you up and down with obvious appreciation. "Honestly, you're even prettier off-screen. Total dream girl."
"Yeah," another added, leaning into the photo frame. "You're definitely my celebrity crush."
Michael’s posture instantly stiffened. He adjusted his glasses, stepping a half-inch closer to your side and clearing his throat with a light, deliberate chuckle.
"Alright, alright," Michael chimed in smoothly, a subtle edge under his gentle tone. "Let's relax a little on the compliments, fellas."
The guys laughed it off, taking the cue, saying their hurried goodbyes before heading down the street. As soon as they were out of earshot, you looked over at Michael, a mischievous grin spreading across your face.
"So," you poked his arm playfully, "maybe I'm taking your spot after all. "and did I just see you get... jealous?" You nudged him again, raising an eyebrow.
Michael cleared his throat, pulling his fedora down a fraction, but a sheepish smile broke through his composure. "Okay... yes. Maybe a little."
"Good!" you laughed, wrapping both arms around his elbow as you continued walking down the block.
Michael looked down at you, mock-offended. "Hey, why is that good?"
"Imagine how I feel every single day with millions of girls trying to jump on stage and kiss you!" you teased, bumping your shoulder against his. "It's nice to see you get a little taste of it."
Michael paused, letting out a soft, sweet laugh as the reality of it hit him. He wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you close against his side as you walked into the warm afternoon dusk.
"You're right. I deserve that. but I didn't like seeing that at all" His slight pout showing as he thinks about how he kinda wishes he could keep you hidden from the rest of the world.
You just lost your boyfriend at Disney world. But he’ll always find you.
“Mi-Michael??” You turned around shocked to not see your boyfriend behind you with his cotton candy and popcorn.
Did you seriously lose your boyfriend at Disney World?
Oh. My. God
You immediately have to calm yourself down, panicking as you sat down at a bench with a mother trying to settle down her toddler who was frightened by the witch from Snow White.
I mean sure Michael has secret bodyguards around the area whenever you two were together in public.
But this is Disney World.
And this world is big.
Sighing, you got up, fixing your Minnie Mouse headband that’s supposed to match Michael who wore a Mickey Mouse one. He’s also wearing a Mickey Mouse shirt.
He was so giddy this morning, and here you are looking around. Not trying to look out of place since you lost your famous boyfriend along the waves of Disney.
A bodyguard who was assigned to you ever since you dated Michael came up beside you.
“Ms. L/n, you okay?” He asked while you placed a hand on your head.
“No, I just lost Michael. One moment he’s eating his popcorn and cotton candy and the next moment he’s gone.”
Just as you’re about to ramble more to your bodyguard, you see a goofy running male running towards you with a grin you know and love.
“Baby! Baby!”
“Michael?!” You gasped, walking to him before running to him. Bill was right behind him, holding a big Minnie Mouse stuffy.
“I found you, baby!” Michael says happily, as if he wasn’t the one who got out of your sight. He hugs you close, wrapping his arms around your waist.
“And look what I found!” He points to the giant Minnie Mouse.
You were still speechless at how you felt panicked at losing Michael, scared for his safety including Bill’s, and now you have a giant Minnie Mouse.
You don’t know if you wanna be mad, flustered, or just relieved that he’s okay.
Maybe you feel all three, but at least he’s here now.
I'm working on some mess, guys 😈 Been thinking of The Drama (2026) and craving some drama and ambiguous relationships with messy decisions and arguments and lots of shouting. I neeeed messsss
Also, I have like 40+ MJ fics ready to be posted sitting in my drafts, and I just keep adding more work 😭😭
( ˶°ㅁ°) !! 0.5k, fluff ) boyfriend!michael jackson x gn partner!reader: michael can always find you whenever you're nearby <3
cws: they/them prns used twice for reader, michael having a supernatural sense for reader's presence (he uses his "power" for good, promise)
your boyfriend can always tell when you're around. it doesn't seem to matter where exactly you are, whether you're in a separate room of the house or somewhere amidst his crowds of fans; so long as you're in his vicinity, michael can feel your presence. it's entirely supernatural, a sixth sense that he describes as "just knowing you're there". according to him, it settles in his heart first as a physical sensation, light and comforting, before his mind interprets as you being nearby.
he doesn't even have to double check when his mother asks where you are. even though michael's been practicing with his brothers all day, only just getting home a couple minutes ago, he just knows that you're in la toya's room. you're probably doing each other's hair or something, or maybe you two went shopping. oh, he hopes for the latter, cheeks flushing at the thought of seeing you in a sweet, new dress or summer shorts.
it's never bothered you, his knowing where you are. okay, maybe a little bit when michael does it in public... such as when he was in the middle of performing for some large venue and he stopped the whole thing just to openly ask everyone if you were hiding in the crowd.
"wait, stop the track..." he starts, brows furrowing as he looks out into the audience. michael takes a step forward, then turns his head to the side, "i said stop the track, please. thank you. i feel.. hm. is my sweetheart out there, guys? i can feel them, in the audience." his expression starts off genuine enough, curiosity mixed with a pure and simple desire to see your face. it isn't long before the crowd starts murmuring, the noise growing as a few people begin to recognize you despite your attempts at a disguise. when he notes the particular commotion in a certain spot at the front, he chuckles a little into the microphone, his features lighting up in immature glee at finding you. "don't be shy, honey," he coos, "come on, come up here, dance with me."
embarrassed doesn't even begin to describe it! although, michael makes sure to make it up to you, showering you in kisses and spending the rest of the week, nearly the rest of the month, making sure you've forgiven him. (and yes, he will do it again at a different performance sometime years later; he can't help it, he gets excited when he senses you're around!)
it's even been brought up in interviews, with one reporter putting it to the test by hiding you around the studio and asking michael where you might be.
"ah, this is an easy question," he says, grinning before glancing over his shoulder and pointing, "in the audio control room, right?"
"that is... correct, mr. jackson, wow," the interviewer replies, laughing a little to hide how unnerved she is, "wow. you can just feel their spirit?"
michael nods, "their presence is unlike any other. hard to miss, really."
"fascinating stuff, mr. jackson, thank you."
it's a little creepy, a little romantic, and a little out of this world, but you wouldn't ever dare tell michael to stop. you love your boyfriend, and you love how he can always tell when you're around.
looking for more?
this is just a short blurb for an idea i had, i thought it was cute. this is deff like otw, thriller, maybe even bad coded idk prob his earlier eras butttt read it however you like lovely!
♡ Pairing: Michael Olise x black!famous!reader
♡ Summary: You and Michael have been on a break. When you thought you'd both eventually get back together, you stumble on a video of him having a little too much fun in the Turks and Caicos Islands with a bunch of women in bikinis. This brings out the petty side in you, and you decide to get back at him by showing up to a red carpet with the one person the internet has been shipping you with, Jafaar Jackson.
♡ Content/warnings: angst, sfw, pettiness, jealousy, itsy bitsy tiny smau, kind of toxic in the end idk
♡ Word Count: 3.4k
Most break-ups were not easy. Sometimes it happened when love had long left the relationship. Sometimes it happened when the partners had grown too different. Sometimes it ended in a screaming match. And sometimes it happened even when love was clearly so alive.
And that was what hurt the most.
Because your heart still called for Michael, and his for you.
Or, at least, that was what you believed, at first.
You still remember that day. It happened in March. The National Team was set to travel to the U.S for friendly matches and get a taste of the World Cup. To get used to the base and the hotel, to the awful pitch conditions and the heat.
And you, on the other hand, had finally gone home after months and months away. Your time was split in half: your music career, where you were holding residencies or headlining festivals all around the world while working on your upcoming album; and your acting career, spending months on a movie set, then right away on a series, then tending to press tour duties. And, of course, occasionally modeling for the brands you were the face of and attending Paris Fashion Week.
It was almost a miracle that you were home. But even when you were, it was empty. You busied yourself with watching TV, reading books, playing video games, or picking up new hobbies like crocheting or sewing. But it was never enough to make the weight of his absence disappear.
Michael would leave early in the morning for practice, pressing a feather kiss on your forehead as you were still asleep. And return home too exhausted to go on a date. So you'd both enjoy dinner together and cozy up on the couch, talking and playing chess together. That, on the few occasions in which he did not go straight to bed, too tired from practice.
And then every few weeks, he'd be gone for several days for a match across the country or across the continent for the Champions League. Sometimes you'd come with him, but even then, his time was too taken up. Practice before the match, then exhaustion after the match, so he'd fall asleep as soon as his face would touch the pillow.
It was impossible to match your schedules. And when you both managed to be together, you barely did anything together. You had fallen into a routine of living different lives inside the same apartment. You were roommates more than you were lovers.
And one day, the frustration finally snapped.
"I really don't get why you're so upset," you said, looking at Michael's back. With the suitcase in the bag, he was packing for the National Team's trip to the U.S. "Michael, I'm talking to you."
But as stubborn as he was, or perhaps avoidant of conflict, he walked up to the closest. He moved aside some of the clothes, the hangers screeching against the metal, only to move them back to their original place and push them aside again. He just needed to keep himself moving, fearing to say something he might regret.
But the fall had already begun.
"Michael," you pressed.
"You're gonna be gone for three months again," he said, his voice tight. "You've just got here."
"You're literally going to the U.S."
"Yeah, for a week, not three months," he snapped, finally facing you. It was a foreign sight to you. Michael never looked at you with furrowed eyebrows and clear irritation in his eyes. Until now. "You're barely here. Most of the year, the house is empty because you're always somewhere doing something."
Maybe you shouldn't have, but you got defensive.
"Well, sorry that I have a career to take care of," you sniped.
"You know damn well that's not what I meant," he shot back. "I'm not mad at what you do."
"Then what did you mean?"
"That I want to spend time with my girlfriend!"
"And do you think that's not what I want?" you exclaimed, tears gathering in your eyes, though you refused to let them fall. "Spending time with you? That's all that I want!"
He scoffed. "And yet you're just gonna go ahead and disappear for three months."
"Yeah, well, maybe if I were happy here, I wouldn't have accepted that role!"
Michael froze, his heart sinking and his eyes lingering on you as you harshly brushed away your tears, only for more to fall.
"You're not happy with me...?" his voice was quieter than you had ever heard it be, his shoulders slacking as if losing any bit of strength.
Only the bed separated you from him, but the distance felt bigger than it ever was. A rift had cracked between the two of you, and you were not certain anymore that it could be put back together.
"I wake up, and you're not here." You swallowed back a sob, your eyes burning and blurring. "And when you come back, we sit at home because you're too tired to do anything else. Then you leave for matches, and I don't see you for days-- and I get it; it's your job, and I'm fine with it. But don't blame me for being too busy when it's the same thing for you! We barely live together anymore!"
Your lip quivering against your palm, you had pressed your hand against your mouth in a vain attempt to muffle your sobs. All that frustration, cumulated over the past months, mingled with that never-ending love you had for him, just surged up before you could stop it.
"You're gonna leave for the U.S then come back and go straight to club football again," you continued, your voice cracking. "And I'll sit here, in that damn empty house, waiting for you, just for you to go straight to bed when you come home. You're here, but you're not..."
Of course, you wanted to wake up to him. To cuddle in his arms and take a late-night stroll. You never wanted anything fancy, just quality time with him. But that had been decreasing as the days passed, until ultimately falling into an empty routine. And of course you felt guilty. Every time you had to leave for a show or a role. Every time you were away for too long. And every time, you were asking yourself: should I take it? Or should I stay home with him? Does he feel lonely when I work too much?
But Michael would tell you, "Do it. It's a good opportunity." And he meant it. He truly meant it. Each time. He was proud of you. Each time.
But love was to be nurtured. And the two of you had been too occupied by your respective careers, never finding the right balance. So, in the end, though you were together, you were not together anymore. Love was there, ever so present. Ever so strong. But you were just living under the same roof. Neither of you were living the love anymore. It remained dormant. There but silent and unseen.
"So what does it mean for us...?" Michael dared to ask.
He couldn't just quit football. And you couldn't just quit singing and acting. And clearing, it seemed both your careers were incompatible.
So there was only one thing left to do.
"I think we should take a break." Your voice was so quiet it was almost inaudible. And for a moment, Michael thought he had dreamed it. But the pain in his heart, like a dagger piercing it deep, was too real to be a dream. "We need to... figure things out on our own... for a while."
All he did was nod. A slow nod, as if his body was acting on its own, his mind too clouded and his brain shut down.
That night, you slept in the guest room. Michael wanted you to have the bedroom, but you wouldn't have been able to sleep smelling his scent in the sheets. You barely slept anyway, spending most of the time silently crying.
In the morning, Michael was gone to rejoin the National Team at the airport. He had knocked on your door, muttering to you that he was about to leave. And when the front door shut, you broke down again. You packed all your things, and you left.
It was supposed to be a break. But who ever defined how long a break should last? A few weeks? A month? Two? When does a break become a break-up?
Five months. Five months had passed since the argument. Since you left Munich to move back into your old city. You had shot another series, and the World Cup passed, sadly with a loss for the French Team. And naturally, people noticed.
You were not there.
With the players' families. With the players' girlfriends. In the bleachers at every match. You were not there.
And speculation after speculation, the tabloids finally confirmed:
[France's player Michael Olise and popstar and actress (Y/N) have reportedly broken up, source reports.]
[According to someone close to both, Michael Olise and (Y/N) had broken up months before the World Cup.]
[Footballer Michael Olise and popstar (Y/N) are no longer together, a source reveals.]
⤷ @/likeacandlewax What??? They were so good together
⤷ @/BJisnothislover I just fell to my knees
⤷ @/URavegetable It's over, love doesn't exist y'all
⤷ @/includingjermaine Worst day of my life, they were so cute together
⤷ @/goldenpantslover I genuinely thought they'd get married and everything, they looked so happy together
⤷ @/goatlise Daily reminder to never get invested in a celebrity couple, it just ends up with heartbreak
⤷ @/YNnewicon Ooooh (Y/N)'s next album is gonna SLAP
⤷ @/ballondorwinner Olise fucked up, didn't he?
A part of you felt guilty when all hell broke loose. For days, you and Michael were the number one trending topic across all social media platforms. Theories were flourishing; people were blaming him, people were blaming you, and some others were fearing this might impact his mindset for the matches. And that was a concern you shared. You trusted the National Team's staff to keep him away from all this and keep him focused on the World Cup. Kylian would surely not let his resolve waver. Michael was well surrounded.
But you hated having your business aired like that. Having all these strangers have an opinion on you and your life without even knowing a tenth of what happened in your life.
It came with the job, sadly. So all you could do was focus on your album.
But then it happened.
You were in the studio, recording the final vocals for the last song that needed rework before fully being on your next project. Your friend, Jean, had come to watch you work, giving you feedback alongside your producers. But a frown appeared when you left the booth and walked back into the sound engineering room. The second you had walked on the other side of the glass, Jean scurried to turn off her phone.
"You do know that I literally just saw you put it away, right?" you said.
She smiled at you innocently. "Put what away?"
"Girl."
She sighed, and that was also when you noticed your producer's anxious expression. His leg was bouncing up and down on the floor, his eyes flickering back to Jean's phone.
She switched it back on and handed it to you. You took it, not thinking much about her reaction. It was probably some dumb rumour someone made up about you again. You were used to it by now.
But your eyes found the screen.
And your froze.
Your heart broke, each piece sinking inside you, as your grip around Jean's phone grew so tight your knuckles turned white. Twitter was opened, and the screen displayed a post. A video. Of Michael enjoying some well-deserved vacation in the Turks and Caicos Islands. Nothing shocking; he had told you many times he wanted to visit. Seems like he got his wish, right? And it must be even better than he must have imagined, as a girl in a bikini was twerking on him. And naturally, he was shirtless, in swimming shorts.
The first thing you thought was, oh, so you wanna play.
But your mouth remained sealed for a moment as you watched the video play itself again and again and again and again and again. His hand on her back, the proximity of their bodies, his smile, all the people around having fun.
Oh, so you really wanna play.
"Girl?" Jean asked, careful. "You alright...?"
"She's pretty," you said. "Actually, she's hot. That bikini really looks good on her."
And as weird as it might sound, you actually meant it. You were never one to put down another woman, except if she had done crazy, unforgivable things. But that woman in the video did not. And quite frankly, neither did Michael. The two of you were on a break. Or broken up. Whatever it was, you were not together anymore. He owed you nothing.
You were not surprised by the video. You knew Michael. He was a man, after all. Of course, he'd enjoy women's company, especially in one's early twenties. And there was nothing wrong with that. Before you began dating, you were also enjoying your early twenties. It was the timing you had a problem with. It was the fact you believed you'd be back together. The World Cup was over, and you were just waiting to finish that damn album before calling him to ask for a talk. You were planning to do so after this very studio session, in fact!
But fuck that now!
If he wanted to play, you would play too. He owed you nothing, so neither did you.
So you tossed the phone back to Jean and took yours out from the couch.
"I need to make a call." You headed out of the room.
"I don't think he's going to answer now," your producer said. "Time difference!"
You closed the door behind you and leaned against the wall. Michael was not the one you wanted to call. You were usually not the petty kind. You despised conflict. But there was so much you could take. He kept texting you even after the break, congratulating you on your achievements, sometimes going as far as saying he missed you. Only to do that in the end.
Very well then.
You scrolled through your contact list and found his name in no time. It only took two rings before the line opened.
"Hi, J," you greeted. "So I was thinking..."
•☆•••☆•••☆•••☆•••☆•••☆•••☆•••☆•••☆•
It was petty. You knew it was. Jean told you it was. Your manager told you it was. Your publicist told you it was. And quite honestly, you did not give a single fuck. If anything, it would only be beneficial for your album. You did not like these kinds of stunts, usually. But that was not usually.
The fans' screams and shuttering snaps of the paparazzi's cameras were getting louder as the car approached the venue. A luxury brand was hosting a runway show in Copacabana Beach, Brazil, with a bunch of celebrities present. Actors, singers, models--you name it. And as the brand ambassador, it was only normal that you attended too.
In fact, you were the star of the event as it would mark your very first appearance since your breakup with Michael was revealed to the world.
In the car, you checked your hair one last time through the rearview mirror and readjusted the top of your dress. The neckline was so low to show off your cleavage, the underside of your breasts visible to all.
You beamed a smile when you felt a hand gently untangling a strand of your hair that was stuck in your necklace.
"Thanks, J," you said.
"No problem," Jafaar replied with a kind smile. "I know how important that specific event is for you."
You rolled your eyes. "It's not that important."
He laughed. "You know I don't usually do this kind of thing. Only because you're my friend."
"I know." You playfully bumped your shoulder with his. "Thanks for putting up with my whims."
He shrugged. "Been used to it."
You let out a dramatic gasp, which only made him laugh all the more.
"Jokes aside," he continued. "It's been a while since we last hung out, so I'm glad to be called."
"Are you glad so we can hang out, or are you glad because you get awkward during events and now you've got someone to stick to?"
Jafaar's eyes squinted as he laughed, which was a quiet admission of the real motive of his agreement.
"I knew it." You shook your head in fake disappointment. "And here I thought you were actually happy to spend time with me."
"Says the one who called me to spite her ex."
"OK, first of all--"
But he was too lost in hilarity to even hear your argumentation.
Of course, you'd tell Jafaar about your true intentions. You were not one to use someone heartlessly. Though it was not entirely just to get back at Michael. Jafaar was always meant to attend the event; you did not just get him an invite last minute. Though you were not initially meant to arrive together. That was the part you had called him for.
Besides, it also really was linked to your album. Unbeknownst to your fans, your album rollout would begin this very day with a surprise drop, and Jafaar was involved in it. Which rendered this little scheme of yours most perfect. The truth would remain between you and Jafaar (and your close team), while the world would believe it to be purely promotional.
But he would know the truth.
The car finally came to a stop, and you took a deep breath. It seemed that the reality of what you were about to endeavor finally sank in. But it was too late to turn back anyway.
Jafaar gave you one last reassuring smile. Quite ironic. You should be the one reassuring him, not the other way around. You were the one who pulled him into your petty revenge. But that was just who he was. Kindness.
He was the first one to step out. The moment the door opened, the screams of excitement hit you, along with the summer Brazilian heat. Fans were chanting Jafaar's name as he gave them polite smiles and waves before he turned to you and extended his hand. Yours slid into his, and you swung a leg out, then the other.
And the moment you fully stood, the screams grew even louder, cutting through the azure sky; you were certain some lost their voices. With your arm looped with Jafaar's, you beamed grins at the crowd as you both walked the carpet. At the photocall, he snaked his arm around your waist, stepping closer to you.
You could barely hear your own thoughts from how loud and deafening the fans were screechings were, mingled with the paparazzi calling you from all directions for a simple glance. The flashes hurt your eyes, but they remained open, unfazed and used to the exercise. And somehow, that fueled you. Behind there, with Jafaar, in front of all these people, knowing what was about to go down, amused you. Perhaps it was a little sadistic. Perhaps it was a little vain. But you were not about to be the sad ex-girlfriend.
Jafaar readjusted his position next to you, and you moved closer to fix his dress jacket's neckline, your knuckles grazing the skin of his bare chest underneath. This sent the fans into a frenzy, while he smiled at you, grateful. You could tell he was uncomfortable. Not from the stunt you were both pulling, but simply for being on a red carpet.
You leaned closer to his ear. "You really don't know how to pose, do you?"
Jafaar's shoulders shook as he chuckled, his eyes sparkling.
"No, I don't," he admitted.
And it was the very reason he was grateful you had voice to idea to attend together, for with a partner, he finally knew what to do with his hands. One in his pocket, and the other around you. Classic, but perfect.
Your arm hooked with his again when an usher came to lead you toward the venue. But you knew the cameras were still on you. Jafaar helped you down the stairs onto the beach, and you both disappeared behind the line of security.
And you knew the reaction this all would garner. You knew that he was watching. Maybe not now. Perhaps in a few hours. Or the next morning. But you knew.
☆ Pairing: offthewall!Michael x black!popstar!reader
☆ Summary: You visit Michael at Hayvenhurst, but you notice his reaction to the simple presence of his father nearby. So you comfort him and spend the afternoon talking and play-fighting, with a tickle war in between, which eventually leads him to confide in you things he had never admitted to anyone before. And at last, he finds the thing he has yearned for so long: a friend.
☆ Content/warnings: sfw, fluff, angst, loneliness, sad Michael, mention of Joe, comfort, nerdy Michael and reader, reader being scared of spiders, Michael teasing reader for it, play fight, tickle war
☆ Word Count: 3.9k
PREVIOUS.
•☆•••☆•
January 1981.
It has been a year since you and Michael met at the Warner Bros AMAs after-party. Although you both expressed interest in working together, it was a lot easier said than done. Being the biggest star, Michael was booked and busy, juggling his solo career with The Jacksons. They had just released a new album a few months back, and he was multiplying TV appearances with his brothers. Or alone, increasing his popularity every day.
In the meantime, you never stayed in one place too long, either. Your label ensured the momentum you had gained from your debut album and stellar performance at the AMAs would not go to waste. You had starred in a sold-out Broadway musical, held a four-night residency in Vegas, modeled for several brands, and graced the cover of a fashion magazine that had sold out so rapidly it earned you an invitation to Paris's fashion week, all the while working on your new album. It was still in the early stages of development, but you were back in the studio, working so much that you were starting to forget what it was like to sleep on a regular schedule.
So you and Michael couldn't meet properly. Seeing each other on the same TV set did not count. Surrounded by cameras, a live audience, and the technical crew, neither of you could behave the way you wished. One look, one mundane word spoken, and a rumor would spread like fire on gas.
Just like the morning after the American Music Awards. Your face was plastered on every tabloid's front page, and whole pages were devoted to a single moment. A picture of Michael hiding his flustered face behind his hand, blushing.
[Michael Jackson was enamored after rising star (Y/N) picked him out in the crowd. New Romance?]
They even reported that he had attended the Warner Bros. after-party, despite not being signed to the label. Luckily, no paparazzi were allowed inside. Had they known Michael and you spent the rest of the party talking and sipping champagne, you wouldn't have heard the end of it.
But though you could not meet for long periods, you both still made up for it with late-night phone calls. Past midnight was the only slot the two of you were certain the other would pick up, as neither of your schedules ever aligned.
Until today.
"Just wait for a sec, I'm almost done," Michael said and hurried to press a few buttons on the console of his home studio.
"Take your time, Mike," you reassured. "It's fine."
You were sitting next to him as Bubbles slept in your arms. It was your first time in Encino, and though you had heard stories about the place, it still exceeded your expectations. A llama, two giraffes, and a chimpanzee. And it was only those you had seen. There were deer, and Michael had told you about his boa constrictor, but he did not introduce it to you; you were scared of snakes. You could tell he was a little disappointed, but he did not insist.
"I have a few demos I think you'll like," he said when everything was ready. "I was thinking rock would suit your voice well, but a ballad would showcase your range. Shows everyone you're versatile."
He stood up and fetched a box full of tapes. Calling Michael a genius would not do justice to the hard work he had put into studying and understanding the functioning of the music industry. He wanted this feature, if it ever works out, to not only answer his own artistic needs, but to benefit you, too. You were not just a pop star. Any genre, you could do.
He passed a tired hand over his face and rummaged through the box, muttering to himself as he could not find what he was looking for. You had noticed it the moment he had welcomed you; the skin below his eyes was a bit darker, despite the makeup to try to conceal it.
He sighed. "I think I took the wrong box..."
He appeared a little too frustrated for such a trivial mistake.
"It's fine," you reassured as you stood up. "Let's go get the right one."
He beamed an apologetic smile and took the box. You both headed to his room. Bubbles needed a proper bed to sleep anyway.
Once the chimpanzee was in his own corner, you let your eyes wander around the room as Michael looked for the right tapes. Some Off The Wall records were still piled in a corner, toys scattered on the floor, books filling shelves, and board games stacked everywhere. You could not help but smile at the sight. You could sense serenity in every millimeter of this room, as if it was a little bubble protected from the world.
It had been a surprise finding out about Michael's love for board games and wild animals--or rather, friends, like he preferred to call them. But when most would call him childish, you found it endearing that he did not let life force him to give up on what brought him joy. There was no age limit to happiness and hobbies.
Or perhaps it all made sense. It was because he never had a normal childhood that he was catching up on everything he had missed. That thought broke your heart. No one should debut at such a young age.
"Ah! Found it!" He exclaimed with a toothy smile. The box was propped on his hip and below his arm. He headed back to the door, but froze on the doorstep before closing it. Not all the way, however.
You frowned as you watched him practically hide behind the door. His grip was tight on the doorknob, and his lips pressed into a thin line; his eyebrows furrowed.
"Is everything all right?" You asked.
"Hm? Uh, yes, yes." He glanced at the door, then back at the floor. "Let's just wait for a minute."
Michael inhaled a shaky breath as the wood of the staircase creaked. You peered into the gap, and that was when you saw him. Joseph Jackson. You had never met him officially, but he was an intimidating man; there was no doubt.
You looked back at Michael. And your stomach twisted. His eyes were glued to the floor, almost glossy. You were not certain you had ever seen anyone so fearful. True, genuine fear. One would think some armed burglar had broken into the property and threatened the inhabitants' lives with how scared he looked. His hand was trembling, his grasp so tight his knuckles were white.
But it was his father. His father's presence put him in that state.
You walked up to him and rested your hand on his before gently closing the door.
Michael looked at you, confused.
"We don't have to work today," you said with a soft smile. "We can just play board games."
He blinked at you. "We've been having so much trouble meeting for this. Are you sure?"
"Do you want to work?" You asked back. "You seem pretty tired to me."
He looked away, guilty. He had believed he had done a good job hiding it.
"You flew all the way here for the feature," he reasoned. "It's not the first time I've worked exhausted."
"Well, that's a bad thing." You retrieved the box from his hand and put it back where he first got it. And before he could complain, you added, "Besides, won't it be better if we know each other better?" You sat on the floor. "It will make making the song easier."
"I told you everything over the phone already." He came to sit with you. "All about my friends and my music."
"Yeah, but we've never really talked face to face." He froze at your words. You continued, "We always speak on the phone, but it's often about work. Do you have a favorite cartoon? I used to be so obsessed with Woody Woodpecker growing up."
Michael remained silent, observing you as if you had uttered the most far-fetched of requests.
"You really want to know?" He asked. You nodded.
Truth be told, though your AMA's performance prompted him to ask for collaboration, a part of him remained closed off. Not because he didn't trust you, or because he didn't want to be part of your inner circle--God, how he wanted that. But he recalled too clearly the many individuals who got closer to him to get a story out of him, or to sleep with him, or to enjoy fame through him; then disappearing when he did not want to play along, inevitably breaking his trust a little more each time.
That deep-seated fear of abandonment prevented him from attempting anything--though he wanted to--only reinforcing the loneliness that he despised so much. That solitude that was eating him from the inside.
Quite ironic, wasn't it? He longed for a friend, for someone to talk to. Yet he was afraid that you only took an interest in him for his status. He was afraid that you'd vanish the moment that feature was done. A part of him was relieved that neither of your schedules matched, for it meant your paths would never part ways.
But sitting here, seeing you being actually curious about him, not searching for something to use against him or make money off of, but because you genuinely wanted to know him--the real him--filled his heart with relief. It was akin to finally finding slumber listening to the rain after many sleepless nights and waking up to a sunny day, fully rested.
"I quite like the Bugs Bunny Show," Michael confessed. He spoke as if it were a forbidden thing to do, already expecting disappointment.
But you smiled. "The Looney Tunes? Oh, yes, it's a classic. He's the reason I like carrots."
Michael frowned. "What?"
"I hated carrots as a child," you explained with a chuckle. "But Bugs Bunny was always eating a carrot, so I tried, and I liked it."
Michael's shoulders shook as he laughed, bringing a smile to your lips.
"Did you watch the Pink Panther?" you then asked.
His face lit up. "Yes! I used to hum the song!"
"Me too! I used to think panthers were truly pink. I was so disappointed when I found out they weren't."
Michael let out such a hearty laugh that his head hung back.
"You were easily fooled," he teased. "So gullible."
You rolled your eyes. "I prefer to say I have a great imagination."
His laughter was akin to a soft melody, the kind that would melt any worry away, and his smile was so bright it put the sun to shame. Michael was a very handsome man with a delicacy that only embellished him more.
It was then that you realized it was the very first time you had seen him in casual attire. No suit, no groomed hair, but a simple shirt beneath a teal cardigan that complemented his skin so well. It made him approachable and reinforced that gentle air that always surrounded him. It was almost confusing how he could be so intimidating when performing yet so sweet in everyday life. Neither of both were roles he played. It was who he was, which was all the more mind-blowing.
As the conversation continued--you sharing anecdotes about your childhood, he about the game nights he used to have with his siblings--Michael gathered all his comic issues to introduce you to the world of superheroes. The only things you knew were surface-level knowledge about Marvel and DC, with a Spider-Man cartoon you used to watch diligently as a teenager.
Michael was so passionate about it. He was passionate about everything he endeavored in, which made it so easy to follow his lead. He was in the middle of explaining all the X-Men powers, detailing Morph's more than the others, as he was his favorite, when you gasped and quickly scurried on all four to hide behind him.
"What is it?" Michael asked, amused.
"I saw a spider!" You said, pointing at a corner. "A big, hairy, awful spider!"
He giggled. "Don't worry, he's my friend too."
You frowned. "You didn't tell me you had a pet spider!"
"Well, I didn't really adopt him. I just found him in my room. I let him stay."
You were about to rant on the dangerousness of such an animal, of the lethality of their venom, but you cringed and used Michael as a human shield when the eight-legged arachnid came into sight again.
You whined, "No, no, I can't, I can't, I can't!"
Michael laughed again. You were able to retain your cool in front of a horde of paparazzi and hundreds of fans screaming at you, but completely lost composure at the mere sight of a spider.
"Didn't you say you liked Spider-Man?" He asked.
You scoffed. "That's not the same!"
"He has spider powers!"
"But he's still human!"
Michael shook his head with a smile. "My spider doesn't bite. He's kind."
"Of course, he bites! That's what spiders do!" You exclaimed. "Then they lay eggs in your body, and you die!"
Michael burst into laughter again, falling to the floor holding his stomach. You tried to pull him back up for protection, but he was in such a fit of laughter that he could hardly budge. You winced at the sight of the arachnid moving in your direction.
"Come on, Michael, please, put it away," you begged.
He calmed, hearing the waver in your voice, and sat up at the glossiness of your eyes. It was no mere dislike of spiders. It was real dread. He felt quite bad, now, for finding your previous reaction amusing. You had been so kind to him, and he laughed at you.
So he quickly scooped the spider into his hands. "I'll put him in another room."
Having that eight-legged thing meters away from you, you were finally able to relax. But not entirely. What if there were other spiders here? You could already feel them crawling over your body. A shudder passed through your body as you repressed a gag.
Michael returned and returned to his spot beside you. Having him close was reassuring. His lack of fear regarding any kind of animal was admirable, a bit reckless, but also reassuring. If there were other uninvited arachnid friends around, he'd scoop them away for you.
You heard him giggle beside you as he piled up his comic issues. "Sorry, I just recalled the way you hid behind me."
You rolled your eyes. "Don't make fun."
"I'm not making fun, it was cute."
"That was definitely an it was funny laugh, not an it was cute one."
Michael didn't answer. He looked away, and his lips pressed together, suppressing a chuckle.
You gasped, offended. "I knew it!" You gently slapped his shoulder. "You were laughing at me!"
"No, I wasn't! I swear!" He defended, but the grin on his face was betraying him.
"You liar!"
You attempted to playfully push him, but he grabbed both your arms. Mixed with his laughter, both your voices overlapped as you bickered while you still tried to take revenge on him. Unable to keep you away, too lost in hilarity, Michael fell back on the floor, giving you enough time to pinch his side.
"No, wait!" He laughed. "I'm ticklish!"
That only put a smirk on your face. He tried to defend himself from your attacks, but he guffawed, tears in his eyes, and coughed from the lack of air. To allow himself a respite, he managed to enclose your waist in his arms to lay you beside him. Before you could sit up, your body jerked away as giggles escaped your lips.
"Now you know what it feels like!" Michael said as he tickled you.
It was now your turn to lose yourself in a fit of laughter, trying to get away, only to fall back on the floor cackling.
"Ok, wait, wait, wait!" You held your hands up. "Truce?"
Michael stopped. He stared at you for a moment, debating whether or not he should abide. He lay back beside you. "Ok, truce."
One would tend to think he had grown used to attention as Michael grew up in front of a camera, yet shyness was perhaps his main characteristic. Even with you, at times. So it was a first that you saw him so relaxed. You've had many conversations with him on the phone, but it wasn't the same. He'd tell you about his day, you'd tell him about yours, then you'd discuss some trivial things you saw on TV. A lot was said, but also not so much. He seemed close, yet so far. So you wanted to know him. The person he was deep down, and he did you.
"I'm glad you came," Michael confessed. "I've forgotten how it felt to have fun."
It had been so long since the last time he had had such a good time. For an instant, he had been lost in the moment, as if nothing mattered in the world. As if everything was just perfect, devoid of madness. As if time was suspended. It was pleasant. He didn't want it to end.
"You should take a break," you replied innocently. "Spend time with your friends. If you keep working, you'll lose sight of why you're doing this in the first place."
Nothing was said for a moment.
"I don't have friends," Michael then admitted.
You looked at him. "You're not friends with Q?"
"Yeah, but..." he sighed. "It's not the same. I can't really do all of this with him." He motioned to all the board games and books around him. "The people around me aren't really interested in any of it."
His voice was quiet. Not the soft tone he would use to protect it, but the kind used when one talked while keeping their emotions at bay. It was a loneliness you were too familiar with. Lying in your house in utter silence, gazing at the city below. So great, and yet so lonely. No one to talk to, no one to return to, no one to meet with. You'd just lie there, listening to the soft hum of the appliances.
"When I meet someone, it feels like they aren't here for me but for what they can get from me," Michael continued. "Sometimes I stroll around the neighbourhood, hoping to run into someone. Anyone. Just a friend, you know. But every time, I return home. On my own."
One would think Michael had everything. A huge mansion, fancy cars, expensive clothes, enough money that he could swim in it. And yet it felt like he had nothing, for he was missing the very things all humans craved: bonds. Relationships. Community. A friend. Just one.
"You can talk to me," you said.
He looked at you, his eyes glimmering with hope mingled with apprehension, as if already fearing the moment it would end.
"Tell me all about the X-Men, but keep your spiders and boa constrictor away from me."
He giggled. "Won't it bore you?"
You shook your head. "I find it very interesting. Besides." You nudged him. "I could use a friend, too."
His eyes widened. "You don't have any?"
"Don't sound so shocked," you joked. "I used to have friends, but, you know, after high school, we all lost sight of each other. They're doing their things; I do mine. I moved out, and my parents are away. My siblings have their own families and projects to take care of, so I don't see many people. Just my manager. It's quiet at home, so I really like it when you call at two in the morning."
"Really? I was worried it was exhausting you."
You smiled. "It's the highlight of my day."
His lips curled up softly, and he lay on his side to face you. "I talk a lot when I like something," he warned.
You moved to your side as well. "It's fine, I like it. I can be a blabbermouth too."
The grin on his lips grew even wider, but soon faded away as the light in his eyes slowly died.
"It'll be difficult to meet again," he then said. "I'm going on tour with my brothers later this year."
You frowned. "Aren't you preparing for your next album?"
"Yeah." His jaw clenched. "I don't want to do it. The tour, I mean. I wanna go solo. Like... fully."
"Can't you do just that?" You asked. "Your last album was a success. I'm pretty sure that's what your label wants you to do."
"That's not the label, the problem." He had spoken in a murmur, as if afraid someone would hear him.
It didn't take you much to understand what he meant. His reaction to his father was enough of an answer. He looked like he was about to pass out. You didn't need the details to guess what could cause a son to dread his own father to that extent.
"Do you regret it sometimes?" you asked. "Being a singer."
Michael thought about it for a second. "No, I like it. Making music makes me happy." He paused, his eyebrows knitting. "But I do wonder, sometimes, what my life could have been like had I had a normal childhood. All I know is to sing and dance, but what if I had found another passion? I never got to figure out by myself what I wanted to do. Couldn't this have happened without..." he pursed his lips. "Couldn't this have been achieved differently? I think about that sometimes."
You would never be able to fully understand his life. Whatever you'd imagined, it would be a thousand times worse. Still, you had an idea of how awful it could be. For such a gentle soul, it was unfair.
You took his hand in yours. "You could fire him. Move out."
He tensed up. "I'm not ready for that..."
The simple thought of what Joseph's reaction could be like made his stomach twist and his skin crawl.
You did not really know what to say or what to do. Should you just listen? Should you cheer him up? Was it what he needed?
You rubbed your thumb on the back of his hand. "One day, you'll be able to do whatever you wanna do. Not because you're the biggest star in the world, but because it's your right. It's your life, so only you can decide what to do with it. And if he doesn't like it, then fuck him."
Michael's eyes widened as he gasped.
You laughed. "Don't act like you've never cursed."
He chuckled. "I've never cursed."
"Liar."
You both stared at each other again and burst into yet another fit of laughter.
This was something Michael had longed for. To hear that he was not being selfish for wanting to go solo. To hear he was not crazy for wanting a life of his own. To hear he was not entitled to resent some aspect of his life. What truly eased his fears was the fact that you truly meant your words. You did not say what he wanted to hear to please him, but because you believed them. You were truthful, like a real friend should be. And it meant more than anything he had ever possessed.
Yeah.
Coming to that after-party uninvited was definitely the best decision he had made.
☆ Pairing: offthewall!Michael x black!popstar!reader
☆ Summary: You perform at the 1980 American Music Awards and pick Michael out in the crowd during your song, calling him cute in front of the whole world. Completely flustered and enthralled by you, he finds you at an after-party he was not even invited to.
A/N: Reader is not inspired by nor intended to be like any of the artists whose songs are referenced. But imagine that the songs are yours, basically.
☆ Content: sfw, fluff, Michael with a crush, Michael being flustered, Prince mention, flustered Michael
☆ Word Count: 3.5k
NEXT.
•☆•••☆•
January 18, 1980.
Spotlight shining bright, gowns glittering, fans screaming at the top of their lungs as the elite of the industry walked the red carpet, the heat rising with every performance; Hollywood at its finest. Sitting beside Quincy, Michael waved at the fans in the balcony. Waves of screams soon followed, and a giggle escaped him. Though the fans could not hear it, the simple sight of his smile sent them into a frenzy.
And as much as Michael loved the thrill of the stage, he wished he were home.
A part of him felt quite remorseful. Of course, he was grateful for the two awards that he had won, but it still left a bittersweet taste in his mouth. Off the Wall was the best album he had created so far, and it was only nominated for three categories. For a body of work that was a commercial success and had been praised by countless critics, the result in the award season was underwhelming. Disappointing, even.
And the Grammy snub was still especially bothersome.
But Michael swallowed back in pride, bit back his tongue, and remained seated. Though all he wanted now was to take his two awards and return to Hayvenhurst.
His mind was given respite when the crowd cheered again. Michael tilted his head, watching the live band replacing themselves around the stage as scenic designs were being installed. The glamour of the night turned into a football yard with baskets full of familiar oval balls by a bench and scaled-down goalposts in one corner. For a second, Michael was brought back to high school, sitting in the bleachers watching the teams attempt to win the game.
And it was comforting. To return to the very few instances in which he was but a normal teenager, not concerned with fame and perfection. No eye constantly scrutinizing him, wanting something from him; no need for polite smiles; no cameras aimed at him like guns ready to shoot him down. He was but a normal twenty-year-old, brought into someone else's world to forget about real life.
So Michael leaned toward Quincy. "Who's about to sing?" he asked.
"The girl with the crazy boots."
Michael frowned. "What?"
"That's what they call her," Q explained. "You know, the girl Warner Records commissioned me for."
"Why would they call her that? Is there something special about her boots?"
"No, but she can dance."
The frown on Michael's face deepened. "What? I don't follow."
Quincy laughed. "You'll understand." He nodded at the stage. "It's about to start."
The lights were almost completely off, except for soft pink rays shining on the stage. The previously empty yard now had the silhouette of a woman standing in the center, backup dancers a step behind in perfect formation.
The first few notes of the organ filled the venue amidst the crowd's screams, soon followed by your voice. Michael's ears perked up at once. He knew that song. It was playing on the radio over and over. He'd always giggle whenever he'd hear his mother hum the tunes, unaware of the many double entendres present in the lyrics. He had to admit, it was witty. Silly, but catchy.
"I just wanna show you how much I appreciate you," you sang. "Wanna show you how much I'm dedicated to you."
The cheers grew even louder when the lights turned on, revealing you on the stage.
And for a second, Michael's breath hitched, stuck in his throat.
The pink varsity jacket you wore hid your upper body, but he still noticed the way the fabric of your dress hugged your body; the curves delicate and defined. The gentleness of the pastel complemented your brown complexion, and the thin straps, along with the shortness of the skirt, added a layer of sensuality that made him shy. Was it inappropriate to stare at your legs? At the way the sequins reflected the glitter of the body mist you had sprayed on. It was as if dust of gold were infused into your beautiful brown skin.
Divine; it was the only word that came into Michael's mind. The way you tilted your head just enough that your hair fell onto your shoulder as you sang with such a suave voice made his heart beat faster.
"I wanna make that body rock. Sit back and watch."
Like a siren, your voice claimed all his attention, as much as your body kept him on the edge of his seat. You moved with such ease, so smoothly, as if it was something ingrained in your very DNA. The sway of your hips, the whips of your curls, the way you responded to all the movement of your backup dancers in a sensual yet mild choreography, illustrating the raunchy meaning of the song whilst still remaining appropriate for the general audience. You commanded the stage as if you were born on it, despite only being one year into your career.
And Michael finally understood what Quincy meant. He was almost frightened for you, scared you'd twist your ankle seeing you dance in platform boots--at the very least, ten centimeters. But it was definitely higher. And yet you moved effortlessly, while never going off tune.
Though even if you had messed up a note, Michael was not certain he would have noticed. All the theatrics, the dance crew--it was too enthralling. Everything was thought through carefully: the movements of the spotlights, the coy glances at the crowd, even the instances that seemed spontaneous were calculated. Every movement was planned to the millimeter.
"Baby, let me put my body on your body, promise not to tell nobody. 'Cause it's 'bout to go down."
The crowd began singing the second verse, but the instrumental shifted. As the dancers continued the show, you removed your jacket and threw it at the crowd; the lucky fan who caught it was already crying, as the set designs changed in seconds. The football yard was gone, replaced by the intimacy of a bedroom. A bed, a desk, a mirror, even a clothing rack.
No more high school; Michael was brought back to his first time at Broadway. The excitement just before the curtain rises, the awe at the change of set designs, the choreography and mixing of acting and singing--everything he loved gathered in one, same place.
Half lying on the bed and with a softer instrumental, you sang, "I was in a sheer dress the day that we met. We were both in a rush; we talked for a sec."
You utilized the entirety of the stage's space, never standing in the same spot. The way you moved your body was so captivating that all guests--women and men alike--were unable to tear their eyes away like sailors lured in by a mermaid. It was almost impossible to think you were a rookie.
Michael had heard of you, of course. In fact, he had been listening to your album, and he liked it. At first, he did so because Quincy was credited in a few songs. He wanted to support his friend. But he had to admit that your voice and versatility, but especially the way you write, had rendered him speechless.
Bopping his head to the rhythm, Michael watched as you walked over to his section. Accompanied by your backup dancers, like a group of friends walking in the streets, you paused, and your eyes locked with his.
"Who's the cute boy with the black jacket and the curly hair? Like."
And his heart nearly stopped.
You pointed at him.
With that coy smile that made his stomach twist.
With that glimmer in your eyes that made his breath hitch.
Blood rushed up to his cheeks, and Michael hid his face behind his hand, looking away, as you returned to the center of the stage, unaware of the effect you had had on him.
All Quincy could do was laugh at his reaction. Michael had heard the song enough times to know the lyrics. White jacket and thick accent. The original lyrics were white jacket and thick accent.
"I hear she changes the lyrics to match the person she picks in the crowd," Quincy told him.
It was meant to help him ease down, as if saying: you're not the exception; she had done that before.
It did not work.
Michael was of a shy nature, very easy to fluster. It was not the first instance in which you had changed the lyrics. He was not the first person you had picked in a crowd. Still, his heart was beating too fast. You still picked him, and it was enough to make him lose his composure.
It was silly. You did not even know him personally; perhaps he was not even your first choice. But you still picked him. And it made him feel... valued. Such a mundane gesture, but it had so much weight for him. Perhaps he was giving it too much thought, but it was pleasant to be chosen in a crowd of a thousand people.
The sudden change of music cut his state of fluster short. The crowd was ready to sing along to the second verse again, but the instrumental stopped.
You whispered into the mic, "Take your shoes off!"
The venue exploded into another wave of screams as the instrumental of your most successful song started playing. In the background, the staff hurried to change the set designs again, which now resembled a living room. A male dancer sat beside you on a couch, and as you sang, you enacted a date before joining your female dancers to continue the choreography.
The ground almost shook as the public jumped, and the bass's vibration reverberated throughout the building. The sensual air you had cast with the previous song had now completely shifted into a more entertaining one. With the bright smile you beamed, it was impossible not to reciprocate the energy.
"Do you want the house tour? I could take you to the first, second, third floors," you sang. "And I promise none of this is a metaphor; I just want you to come inside."
Michael could not help but hide his face and laugh at the many innuendos. And he was not the only one. All the attendees were either singing along or laughing as they progressively came to understand what each lyric really was about. For a brief moment, it was no awards show but a concert, making all forget the stakes and potential disappointment. And it was what a pop star was all about.
•☆•••☆•••☆•••☆•••☆•••☆•••☆•••☆•••☆•••☆•••☆•
With your dancers, you bowed to the crowd, thanking them and blowing kisses before you left the stage. You put aside your microphone, which you had entirely bedazzled yourself, as Vincent, your manager, held his hand high for a high-five that you gladly gave.
"You nailed!" he exclaimed. "The label will definitely not sack us! They'll be thrilled!"
You lifted an eyebrow. "You really need to work on your cheering ability, dude. You suck."
"Sorry, sorry," he apologized.
But you also knew he was right. Warner Records paid out of its pocket to fund your ambitious set. If it had been a failure or had any technical issues, you did not want to think about the reaction the board would have had.
The label, though very aware of your raw talent, deemed you 'not easy to manage'. Perhaps they were right, or perhaps they hated that you remained true to yourself. When you had an idea, you wanted it to come out exactly the way you thought it. When they had signed you, they already had an album ready. You just had to sing it.
But you didn't like any of the songs. If you don't feel it, you don't sing it. You've always believed in your voice. In your vision. So you fought for your own creations. You fought to bring your own world to life.
But boldness required money. And no one liked losing money. So far, you had proved your label wrong with two songs in the Billboard Hot 100's top 10, the rest still charting, though lower. The numbers were there. The craze was there. Although it could all vanish with one night of disaster.
But it all went well. The American Music Award was your first big stage. Your first big trial. Not some little performance in a mall or a university--which was still a great accomplishment. Good publicity. After all, debuting in a world with talents like Cher, Tina Turner, Chaka Khan, and especially Michael Jackson, every little appearance was welcomed to spread one's name.
And you nailed it.
"More seriously," Vincent said as you both moved further backstage, heading to your dressing room. "You really did well. Even if you don't win that award, your performance will remain in people's minds. This is good for marketing."
Sometimes you struggled to believe this was your life. One moment, you were sitting on the porch as your grandfather played the guitar, or watching Broadway musicals after your mother had snuck you in through the back door; and now you had thousands of people chanting your name. And that was all you ever wanted. The stage, the cheers, the adrenaline rushing in your veins. To sing your heart out, to share your vision. To express yourself in the most artistic way possible.
It almost felt like a dream.
Signed by Warner Records at eighteen, the biggest label in the country, then debuted at nineteen, ultimately accepting the award for Best New Artist at twenty. A dream.
Back in your hotel room after the ceremony, you readjusted your gown, a Thierry Mugler breastplate dress from the 1978 collection. You had paid for it with your own money. One's image must be carefully crafted to engrave oneself into one's mind: visual branding. So fashion was never an afterthought for you. Of course, you liked the dress. But haute couture added glamour, an air of seriousness.
"New Artist of the Year," Vincent said, staring at the golden award on the table. "Perhaps one day you'll get Best Pop. Or Album of the Year? Record of the Year? Song of the Year? All of them?"
You laughed. "Aren't you supposed to be the grounded one? Why are you getting ahead of yourself? You'll jinx it."
He eyed you. "Why aren't you losing your mind about it?"
"Was crying on stage and almost ruining my mascara not enough?" you replied. "I even forgot my speech."
Vincent laughed as he stood up. "True. You ready?" He looked at the clock. "The after-party must have already started."
An award show was the main event, but the real entertainment always started afterward. Several after-parties were held at once, some held by artists, others by sponsors. But as a member of the Warner Records family, you attended the party organized by the label.
You brushed your sweaty palms on the skirt of your gown as you entered the Beverly Hills Hotel. Music was booming, and the smell of liquor lingered in the air. You knew absolutely no one. Or rather, no one you were personally acquainted with. Of course, you knew who Bob Dylan was, but you had never shared a conversation with him. Or with any of the people present here. The only one you could call a friend--Prince--did not attend.
"Do I really have to attend?" You asked.
"It's important to build connections," Vincent said. "A good feature can boost your career."
Your nose crunched.
"No." He pointed his finger at you. "Don't make that face."
You frowned. "What face?"
"The I'll-pretend-to-agree-so-he-doesn't-bother-me-with-it face."
"I just don't want to collaborate with an artist just for the sake of it," you defended. "The wrong feature can ruin a song, and if you collaborate with someone just to sell a record, the song won't be good; people will notice it."
"I admire your perfectionism, but don't let it hinder you."
"I won't," you reassured. "Besides, there's no one I want to collaborate with."
Vincent looked at you, not convinced. "Really? No one?"
"Well..." You bit your cheek. "There's someone... I'd love to collaborate with Michael Jackson, but there's no way it will ever happen."
"Why not?"
That soft-spoken voice.
Your heart stopped, and for an instant, you believed your ears had deceived you. But seeing your manager's polite smile, you knew you did not dream it.
You turned around and were left speechless as you stared at Michael, his curly hair groomed and a gentle smile on his lips.
And one word came to your mind.
Fuck.
You admired him, of course. The intricacy of each of his tracks, the many layers of instruments, the power of his voice, and his technique. He had the mind-blowing ability to make songs only he could sing.
Still, the admiration you had for his work was not the reason you wanted to hide and disappear from the face of the earth. Under normal circumstances, you would have beamed a smile and sparked a conversation.
But it was no normal circumstance.
Aside from the fact that he was Michael Jackson, he was the boy you had previously picked out during your performance. You called him cute. You pointed at him. You flirted with him. On national TV!
Truth be told, you didn't even want to perform that part of the show. You wanted to keep it professional. It was the American Music Awards, not your private show. The front row was not just mere fans coming to see you; it was full of colleagues. Of fellow singers. You wanted to keep it professional.
But then you saw him. His curly hair, his pretty smile, and his sparkling eyes. And before you knew it, you pointed at him and changed the lyrics. It was too late when you realized what you had done.
Should you act like nothing happened? He was not even supposed to be here. He was signed under Epic, not Warner.
"You have a very beautiful voice," Michael continued. "And a way with words. It's very witty; I like it. So I don't see why we couldn't collaborate."
For a second, not a word left your mouth. It was as if you had forgotten how to speak. It was like walking into a school's hallway after you had embarrassed yourself in front of everybody. It was only when Vincent nudged you that you reacted.
You cleared your throat. "Um, I'm still a rookie," you said. "I assumed you'd prefer someone with more experience."
Michael giggled. "That's not a very good answer." He tilted his head. "It doesn't matter if you debuted yesterday or ten years ago. If you're good, you're good. And you won't gain experience if you're not given the chance."
Any ounce of nervousness vanished as the corner of your lips curled up. Despite the success of your debut album, you were still struggling to find brand deals. They deemed you 'too green' to sign you yet. You were not worth betting on. So it was pleasant to be seen for your potential and talent, and not the number of years you'd been working in the industry.
"So you think I can be a match?" you asked.
Michael froze and blinked several times.
"Artistically, I mean," you added.
He chuckled, feeling like a fool for misunderstanding your questions.
Michael's mind had been running wild since your set. Ideas surging, inspirations hitting him every two seconds, playing and replaying your performance over and over again. The level of detail put into your performance was astonishing. And it would be a lie to say he did not find you pretty.
Actually, pretty wasn't strong enough a word. Gosh, you were one hell of a stunning woman.
Michael hardly gulped, his Adam's apple bobbing as he properly beheld the sight that you were. The copper of the breastplate emphasized your undertone. It fit nicely around your body, pressed against your bosoms so much that it highlighted the contours. And the layers of tulle were slightly translucent, giving a teasing glimpse at your legs, though the slit on the side allowed a bolder, sexier look at your plush thigh.
Mercy. He wished you had a little mercy for him. Appearing like a goddess who had descended from the heavens was not good for his heart and was making it hard to focus. To remain composed or just look you in the eyes.
The way you dressed and the way you carried yourself, with elegance and a hint of playfulness. The way you sounded and the way you'd tilt your head whenever you'd listen to someone speak. For so long, you were just a voice he'd hear on the radio, but now he could put a face on it. A personality.
And it was quite hard to get you out of his head.
Michael did not want to attend any of the after-parties. Hell, he did not even want to attend the ceremony. But thank go he did.
"I think you're perfect," he said. "I'm already full of ideas."
---
Songs referenced: Dance For You by Beyoncé, Bed Chem and House Tour by Sabrina Carpenter
♡ Pairing: Michael Olise x black!popstar!reader
♡ Summary: You've written a song about Michael, and you make him star in the music video in which you also wear his jersey. Witnessing the obvious chemistry and tension between the two of you, the internet is quick to understand that the two of you are together.
♡ Content/warnings: fluff, sfw, bit of a smau, Michael being a little tease, Michael being down bad for reader, fools in love
♡ Word Count: 3.7k
PART ONE. PART TWO.
•☆•••☆•
There was something thrilling about being in a secret relationship. The late-night calls, the confidential trips to visit him, the subliminal messages spoken in interviews that only you and Michael could understand. The secrecy was amusing. It almost had a taste of transgression, of doing something forbidden. Living a sweet and cozy love, unknown by the world. Safe from the paparazzi's harassment and the internet's entitlement.
The chess games, the FaceTimes, the presents in your mailbox, the talks on the balcony, the cuddles in bed, the baths together, the secret vacations; all these moments belonged to the two of you. It was comfortable.
At first.
It was also bittersweet. That lingering fear of getting caught. That everlasting wonder if this or that person had recognized either of you. The never-ending lies in front of the cameras. What began as a way to protect one so sacred a bond soon turned into hiding that resembled shame a little too closely. It was exhausting. To pretend. To bite your tongue. To swallow back your words.
Sometimes, you just want to talk about the beauty of Munich. To share your experience at the stadium on a match day. To gush over your boyfriend. To say you were in love.
But you knew what the media coverage would be like. A footballer dating a model or anyone was one thing. A footballer dating a popstar was another. The scrutiny was increased, and you did not want it to impede him. Or yourself. You did not want paparazzi to chase him, inquiring about you. And you certainly did not wish to be blamed if he ever had the misfortune of losing a match.
Still, the frustration was there, bubbling up. Love was to be lived. Cherished, not hidden.
So you wrote a song. At first, it was just to get your feelings out. To pour out the love you had for Michael. Then your producer sent you a beat, you figured out a melody line, and next thing you knew, you had a new single.
And all that was needed now was the music video. The artistic direction was already set, and the director was found. The set designs were nearly done being built, the choreography mastered, and the looks agreed upon.
There was only one box left unchecked: the actor.
You were sitting on the floor of Michael's living room. When you were not tending to your popstar duties abroad, you lived with him in Munich. You'd be the first one he'd see when waking up, kissing you goodbye before leaving for practice. And you'd be the last one he'd see when going to bed, kissing you good night before falling asleep. A little, sweet, cozy routine.
Hunched over the coffee table, your braids pooling on the lacquered wood, you browsed through a file of pictures your team had sent you. Potential actors or models to star in the video. Though, truthfully, you were not quite excited about any of them. They were handsome; looks were not the problem. But you could not project yourself with any of them.
"Should I get worried that you're reviewing a file full of men's pictures?"
You let out a chuckle as the couch right behind you sank as Michael sat down. His locs were let loose, grazing slightly against his shoulder blades. He had discarded his shirt, leaving his upper body fully nude for your eyes to enjoy. The black ink of his tattoos contrasted gently against the warm brown of his skin as the lighting emphasized the sculpt of his abs and biceps. His sweatpants were low enough to give a glimpse of the black lettering on his boxers' white waistband: Calvin Klein.
The corner of his lips curled up. "Eyes are up there, babe."
"Sorry." You looked away, face flushed. It had been months since you both had been together, yet you were always rendered in awe whenever his shirt was off.
Michael leaned on his knees and gently grabbed your chin to make you look at him. Your breath hitched, your eyes blinking a little too fast, as his lips hovered ever so slightly above yours. Taunting you. His breath tickled your mouth so teasingly.
Months have passed, and yet Michael always made you feel as though it was the first day.
"Don't play coy just to distract me," he said, his low voice sending chills down your spine. "Answer the question, babe."
As enthralled by his simple presence as you were, it was still amusing how his jealousy shone through despite his trying to act all nonchalant about it.
"I'm looking for my next lover."
You purposely phrased it ambiguously and were quite satisfied when the frown on his brow deepened. You giggled and pecked his lips.
"My next music video, baby," you added, putting an end to his woes. "I'm looking for the guy who will play my love interest in my next music video. These are the profiles my team sent me."
"Mhm." He looked back at the pictures scattered on the coffee table. "What's the song again?"
"Mr. Nonchalant."
He cocked his head to the side, that same smirk back on his lips. "So you're looking for another man to play your love interest for a song about me instead of asking me?"
You stared at him, taken aback.
"You'd be down to star in my video?" You asked, eyes wide.
He nodded. "You just have to ask me."
Truth be told, Michael had been the very first one you thought of when you first imagined the music video. After all, the song literally was about him. But you were well aware of his shy nature when cameras were rolling, and the fact that he was a very private person when it came to his relationships. Especially with you. He knew how much people picked on your life and examined your every move under a microscope, so he wanted to protect what you both had.
"Well, of course, I want to, but..."
"But what?"
You rested your chin on his knee, your hand finding his calf as you gently caressed it. "Are you really okay with going public? I don't want you to regret it or to weigh on you..."
Michael's hand cupped your face, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. His movements were so tender and his palm so warm that you snuggled closer into it.
"Why would I regret it?" He asked. "I'm not ashamed of you."
You relaxed against him. It had been silly to think he would ever worry about such a thing. When it came to football, he only cared about the game and despised media duty. And when it came to you, he only cared about you. He only loved you. He only breathed you. He'd ignore the media and discussions like he'd do after a match. Because what they think does not matter; only you do.
"I don't mind going public," he added. "And I usually don't care who you act with, but that song's mine. So it's gotta be me."
You laughed as you leaned back against the table.
"What? It's true." He nodded at your laptop lying in a corner. "You wrote that about me, yeah? So I star in the video."
All you could do was smile so bright that your eyes squinted. Then, you moved closer and cupped his face, pressing your lips against his. Michael's arms quickly wrapped around your waist, pulling you to sit on his lap. He pressed you against him as your arms enclosed his neck.
"And you wear my jersey too," he added against your lips.
You giggled again. "You really want everyone to know, huh?"
He smiled. "No room for confusion."
And there had been truly no room for confusion.
Truth be told, though he very happily volunteered to star in your music video, Michael was quite nervous when he got on set, all dressed up. He liked what he was wearing: a durag, a sleeveless jacket with nothing underneath showing off his toned body and tattoos, silver chains sitting on his collarbone, and baggy jeans. Very stylish. Very fashionable. Very hot.
But he was no actor, and he did not want to ruin your work that was always so perfect. Although when he saw you walking into the set, all his worries vanished, your long braids swaying behind you with every step you took.
His eyes first noticed the shirt you were wearing. His jersey. A smirk played on his lips at the sight. The bottom was tucked into your bra to make it look cropped. Then his eyes slowly moved down onto your body, lingering on your belly ring. And before he could stop himself, his tongue dragged on his lower lip, seeing the strings of your thong past your low-rise jeans, sitting nicely on your hips. The color especially caught his attention.
I like your eyes 'cause they match my thong
He remained still, observing you from afar as you conversed with the director. He kept his thoughts in check, but Michael planned on keeping you awake for most of the night.
The storyline was simple: you were trying to seduce the only man who appeared to give you no attention. And though the man appeared not to care, he was, in reality, very enthralled by you.
And Michael had no difficulty playing his part.
It was as if the cameras had disappeared, as if they did not exist. All his attention was fully on you. His attention was always on you whenever you entered a room. It was only a natural reaction for him to have his eyes immediately find you and remain on you as if his focus, his whole mind, belonged to you.
Hug on me, why you hugging up on the wall?
Looking like you ain't done nothing wrong before
When you walked past him in the club, Michael maintained eye contact, then blatantly let his gaze linger on your butt as you looked at him over your shoulder with a smile. When he sat at a table while you danced on a stage, he stared shamelessly as you swayed and rolled your hips tantalizingly. When he was asked to tease you, he had too much fun pulling you by the waist, his eyes fixed on your lips, before walking away right after.
Though you both played it off as acting, Michael knew he had an actual effect on you, which placed a permanent smirk on his lips. When he hooked his finger to one of your belt hoops and pulled you closer, he knew that your breath hitch was no theatrics. When he trapped you against the wall, he knew that your clutch on his arms was performance. When he'd openly check you out, he knew that the blush on your cheeks was no pretense. It was so easy to fluster you, and it was so easy for you to make him utterly and completely lose his mind without much trying.
Hey, Mr. Nonchalant
I'm Mrs. Get-Anything-I-Want
And this game of cat and mouse was even more amusing than you first imagined. You acting all frustrated when he'd ignore you, or rather purposely playing hard to get; you comically tossing your hair back or lowering your already low-rise jeans just to taunt him. It was the right amount of sensuality mingled with comedy.
The chemistry was so obvious it was almost painful for the crew to watch the two of you, sometimes feeling as though they were intruding on something. The way you looked at each other, the way you touched each other, the way you smiled at each other. If you were not already dating, rumors would have definitely spread the second the music video hit YouTube.
Brace yourself, we got time to beat
Pace yourself when you're downing me
Michael hovered over you as you lay on a bed, the tip of your fingers brushing his glistening abs. He held your chin when you were both sitting in a booth, his other arm resting on the backrest behind you. His hand settled on your clothed thigh, barely hiding the fact that he was palming it as you pretended not to notice. His fingers traced up your spine as he hugged you, from your low-rise jeans to under your jersey, his name and number displayed for the camera.
The chemistry and tension were almost too unbearable.
But given the song and the lyrics, it was exactly what was needed. When you had first finished the song, you were ready to let it gather dust in the vault and never release it. It was embarrassing that you wrote about your desire for your boyfriend so shamelessly. It was not the first time you had written about real people in your life, but it was a first that you went in that direction.
And surprisingly, it was Michael who pushed you to put it in your upcoming album. Actually, it was not surprising at all. He was wearing the biggest grin when he first listened to it while you were basically hiding your face behind your hands.
"You really want me that bad, huh?" he had teased you, glancing at you dying on the couch.
"Shut up."
He laughed, looking back at the lyrics in your notebook.
"I mean, you said it yourself, right?" he had continued and read, "Pourin' heavy... All this teasing is turning me on and on... I like all kind of prints... It's you that I wanna follow home--"
"Alright, alright, I get it!" You had thrown a pillow at him, only making him double over with laughter. "My god, I'm never releasing this."
It was quite ironic as your very hand wrote these lyrics, though was now adamant to never have anyone see this or hear this song.
And it would have been the case had Michael never objected to it.
He had pulled you by the arm, then held you by the waist.
"The song's amazing, it'd be a shame to keep it in the vault," he said.
"It's embarrassing."
"It's sexy," he had corrected. "Release it, babe. You did amazing."
Michael was barely hiding his intentions. He never meddled with your career, especially your album tracklisting. But aside from it being a good song, it was a song about him. It was more than flattering that you wrote a song about your desire for him. It only spoke of the love you had for him, so burning, so strong you could not keep it in and had to turn it into art. Michael was moved. Deeply. And the thought of you claiming him in front of the whole entire world made his stomach flutter in excitement and love.
And the whole world sure got the message. As expected, the music video went viral, with all social media platforms sharing it and talking about it. Your releasing new music was already an event in itself, but having Michael star in it did add more visibility and curiosity, as well as excitement. The surprise factor brought engagement.
Y/N gifs @/YNgifs • 23h
OLISE STARING IN (Y/N)'S NEW MUSIC VIDEO WTF???
🗨 239 ⇄ 6.8k ❤︎ 110.8k
Petal out now @/Petersmiserablelife • 23h
They look so good omg
Aggamenon @/tpascontenttriplé • 23h
"I SHIP THEM" I screamed as they dragged me back to the asylum
Best of Y/N @/bestofYN • 23h
The way I gasped
🗨 170 ⇄ 5.4k ❤︎ 80.6k
Ballon d'Or @/hesaidmuymuy • 23h
She knew to slut him out in the video
Y/N's Grammy Awards @/BJisnothislover • 23h
Miss (Y/N), thank you for giving the people what they were craving 🤝🏾
Did we have fun here??? @/whataschmuck • 22h
Ok but can we talk about how good she looks in the video???
Olise's beanie @/itfeltgood • 22h
A song called Mr. Nonchalant and Michael Olise starring, oooh (Y/N) your miiiind
🗨 307 ⇄ 6.4k ❤︎ 106.7k
For example, nothing @/annieRUokay • 22h
"Fine shit, gotta look twice." I think that song is straight up about him
PYTs don't do drama @/dancingqueen • 22h
Who would have thought that her wearing his jersey in her Paris show last year would have brought us to this iconic moment
Y/N reactions @/YNreactions • 20h
"No special occasion, but you could wear me like a necktie" (Y/N) girl, what do you mean by that? 🤨🤨
🗨 249 ⇄ 2.9k ❤︎ 50.8k
Do you want me to apologize @/URavegetable • 20h
I think it's pretty obvious 🤭
I'm too competitive @/likeacandlewax • 19h
She wants to make wine with him
Olise's socks @/goatlise • 21h
Waiiiit... the tension between them is too strong to be fake
🗨 287 ⇄ 4.4k ❤︎ 81.5k
Maynard @/loveu3000 • 21h
If they're dating, it might be the best hard launch in history
Susie got your number @/tranquilodequoitoi • 20h
Chemistry so strong I was blushing watching the video 🫣🫣
Y/Ndefender @/YNpeopleprincess • 19h
Soooo are they or are they not together because Olise was literally eating her with his eyes throughout the entire video
🗨 310 ⇄ 5.1k ❤︎ 90.8k
Apple Pie A La Mode @/11minutostarde • 19h
I mean, have you seen her? I'd be looking at her like that too if I were starring in her video.
I have no idea @/includingjermaine • 19h
I've genuinely never seen him smile this much, and given that man can't act, it was 100% his genuine reaction to her
Number 11 @/cpascarre • 18h
I think the close-up on the jersey when he was touching her spine is a dead giveaway. They're 100% dating. She never acted like this with any of her male leads before. Chemistry was off the roof with Michael
Olise truther @/ladyinyourlife • 18h
You can't convince me they are not dating, look at the way he looks at her
🗨 290 ⇄ 5.2k ❤︎ 100.8k
Olise's locs @/goldenpantslover • 18h
He was ready to show Shibuya a real incident
Brand New Day out now @/petermjforever • 18h
If I were her, I would have asked "What are we?" after that 'cause that's the look of love right there
Y/N's gowns @/itsawonderfulday • 17h
He has to get in line though, we were here before him
The music video crashed the internet. Nearly half a million tweets mentioned your name; another half a million mentioned Michael's; some fans celebrated as they had been wishing for the relationship for a while; others were more cautious, not wanting to put a label on what may just be a friendship.
For days, it was the topic both the football sphere and the music world were talking about. After all, such a crossover was always the most glamorous yet improbable link-up. It was not the first time a pop star dated a footballer--Victoria and David Beckham may be the blueprint. The reference. It always garnered fascination, especially as you and Michael were still young and very active in your respective fields.
It had only increased when the behind-the-scenes video was uploaded, in which you were shown sitting on his lap or fixing his clothes multiple times. Michael could barely keep his hands to himself during breaks: an arm around your waist or a hand playing with your hair. And let's not even mention that TikTok you posted to promote the song.
Actually, let's talk about it. You were dancing and lip-syncing in the forefront, then disappeared for a split second to drag Michael into the video. He had the most radiant of smiles, stretching from one ear to the other so much that his eyes were squinting. The same eyes that never left you, even just for a millisecond, as you kept dancing and singing. In fact, his smile was getting bigger, if that was even possible. And the look of pure adoration in his eyes was so potent and clear.
It was just so painfully obvious. And not so nonchalant from Mr. Nonchalant.
So, of course, both your comment sections from all social media were flooded with the same question: Are you guys really together?
And quite honestly, it was entertaining to watch unfold. With your head on his shoulder and your arms hugging his arm, you watched as Michael scrolled through Twitter on his burner account. He had a never-fading grin on his face, liking all the posts praising you, sometimes saving a screenshot of you that someone had posted. His shoulders shook as he let out a chuckle, reading a tweet of someone who had browsed every photograph ever posted online to find past hints. They noticed an instance where you had worn one of his shirts or another where you had used one of his pairs of sunglasses.
"I told you they'd love it," Michael told you, showing you an nth tweet praising you.
You kissed his bare shoulder. "But I feel like you're the one who loves it most."
His grin grew wider, and he leaned down to press a kiss on your forehead. "You do look stunning in my jersey."
You rolled your eyes and rested your head back on his shoulder, your cheeks suddenly a deeper shade. As much as he loved that you claimed him to the world, he also particularly liked that the world knew you were his. There was just something so... sexy in having you wear his name on your back.
Michael loved privacy. It was something he cared about a lot. He owed nothing to the world, and neither did you. But he was also proud to love you. He was proud to be your man. He was proud you were his girl. He was well aware of the luck he had.
So of course, he had to share your post in his Instagram story. A post so telling. And it was the confirmation the internet did not really need, for it was so obvious like a fork found in the kitchen: you and Michael Olise were dating. And you both were very much in love.
If you wish to be tagged in all my MJ fics, feel free to let me know in the comments. I will add you to the list below. This post will help me keep tabs on the list and make sure it stays up to date so I don't forget anyone.
Same thing if you wish to be removed from the list. Tell me at any moment, too, and I will stop tagging you.
P.S: Thank you so much for always tuning in to my work. Love you guys lots 🫶🏾🫶🏾
If you wish to be tagged in all my Olise fics, feel free to let me know in the comments. I will add you to the list below. This post will help me keep tabs on the list and make sure it stays up to date so I don't forget anyone.
Same thing if you wish to be removed from the list. Tell me at any moment, too, and I will stop tagging you.
P.S: Thank you so much for always tuning in to my work. Love you guys lots 🫶🏾🫶🏾
☆ Pairing: bad!Michael x black!makeupartist!reader
☆ Summary: As Michael's new exclusive makeup artist, you come along to the Bad tour. He visits you in your hotel room after the show, and you both eat ice cream, spend an improvised Christmas together, and what has been lingering between the two of you may finally blossom into something more concrete.
A/N: Part two queens @michaelsbowtie @dariax2
☆ Content/warnings: fluff, sfw, Michael struggling to hide his feelings, indirect kiss through use of the same spoon, actual kiss, Michael being a little freak if you squint, kind of steamy at the end?
☆ Word Count: 3.6k
PART ONE.
•☆•••☆•
Tokyo, Japan. December 1988.
Michael fired Karen.
It was not an easy decision to make nor a comfortable conversation to have, but it had to be done. As the best in the world, Michael wanted to surround himself with the best in the world. The best producers. The best songwriters. The best dancers. The best live band. The best backup singers. The best choreographers. The best directors. The best designers.
And the best makeup artist. And that was you.
At least it did not end up badly in a screaming confrontation. Usually, Michael would have tasked one of his attorneys to handle the layoff. But he owed it to Karen to hear it from him. So he had to sit her down, and though the tension was palpable, so much so that Michael thought he'd faint or run away, he still told her the news. The upcoming change.
Karen had been shocked, of course. She had thought she'd return and that everything would fall back to the way it used to be once she had recovered. It would have never occurred to her that she would lose her job. She wanted to cry, and she did. Not profusely, but tears still fell from her eyes. She couldn't understand. She couldn't see why Michael would put an end to years of collaboration. Of friendship.
And then she heard your name.
And it pained her to admit it, but she understood. It was impossible not to know of you. She had seen you work. And, again, though it pained her to admit it, she agreed to the general consensus. You were the best in the world. She couldn't even be mad. Had it been anyone else, someone she would have deemed with inferior skills to her, she would have probably caused a scene. But one could not be mad at Michelangelo for being a genius in his field.
The transition was not difficult to handle for Michael's team. During that first month you had worked with him, you had woven sustainable bonds with them. Of course, time was needed to get used to Karen's absence, and Michael could see you were a little nervous, given the circumstances. But if anyone was ever against the change, your skills quickly put everyone on the same page.
So what began as a one-month collaboration turned into the best, most synergetic partnership Michael had ever experienced.
Visual branding was key to an artist's legacy. And the makeup looks you'd come up with always complemented his clothes, elevating him to an even higher plane. Cementing him as the one and only biggest legend the world had ever known.
The fans chanted Michael's name so loudly that the ground shook. Backstage was restless, the technical crew running in different directions, the sound engineers performing last-minute checks as the dancers rehearsed the choreography one last time. Yet, it clashed with the atmosphere in the dressing room.
Or rather, it clashed with the atmosphere surrounding Michael. The stylists were hurrying to make sure all the different outfits were intact as the associates were growing visibly more and more anxious when a staff member shouted, "You're on in ten!"
And yet, Michael stood, entirely serene, his eyes never leaving you. With an eyeliner pen stuck between your teeth, you were entirely focused on blending his contours with the same gentle movements you had always had when working on him. Despite the rush of the moment, your hand was steady and precise, completely hurried as if he did not need to leave in the next few minutes to perform in front of thousands of fans.
You were used to this. To the chaos and agitation of the last ten minutes before a show starts. You had worked on many runways, handled many unexpectedness and last-minute changes, and always found a solution. Always pulling it off. So the rush was not a source of anxiety; it was a drive.
Especially when it was Michael. He was too much of a perfectionist, so there were rarely unforseen happenstance to work around and handle. It was a reassurance that put you in the best condition to work your magic on him. Though he did not truly need it; Michael was a naturally handsome man.
With a stable hand, you ran the cold tip of the eyeliner on his lid, sharpening his gaze.
"All good," you said, putting away the pen. You rearranged his stray curls and added with a smile, "Perfect."
"You're the best, dollface." He rested his hand on your waist and leaned it to press a feather kiss on your cheek.
Your heart nearly stopped, and you watched him disappear into the hallways leading to the stage.
Two years had passed since you met him, and yet he still had the same effect on you. At first, you thought it was, perhaps, just infatuation. That it was just admiration for the amazing artist that he was. That it was just awe at his facial structure from a makeup artist who adored her job. But the more the days passed, the more time you spent with him, and the stronger your affection for him would grow.
His gentleness, his dedication, his joy for his work, his artistic sense, his love for life. The way he treated you with so much care and tenderness, attentive to your every word and every movement--how were you not doomed to fall for him?
Rookie mistake. You were certainly not the first to succumb to his natural charms, and certainly would not be the last.
But you would not let it impact your job. These feelings, you would bury them and forget them. Michael trusted your skills; he did not need to deal with unnecessary complications. He already had enough on his plate, anyway. You would not bungle this.
Per usual, the show was more than a success. It was nearly one in the morning when you returned to your hotel room, a floor below Michael's. His team was always lodged a floor below, and security was at all entrances to make sure no overzealous fan attempted to break into his room in the desperate hope of meeting him.
All your brushes were laid out on the table as you washed them thoroughly in the sink of the sojourn room. You poured a shampoo made of natural ingredients and gently rubbed it into the brush fibers before rinsing it with lukewarm water. You then laid it on a clean towel for it to dry with ambient air, and repeated the steps with another brush.
But on your way back to the sink, three knocks were heard on your door. You crossed the small suite and opened the door. You were both surprised and not at all seeing Michael in his pyjamas--a Mickey Mouse shirt and checkered pants.
"I've got ice cream." With a big smile, Michael held a pot of ice cream in one hand and two spoons in the other.
All you did was let out a soft laugh and step aside. His smile widened, his eyes squinting in joy, as he entered while humming his song, I Just Can't Stop Loving.
"You shouldn't be here, you know?" you said as you closed the door.
Michael froze and turned to you. "Why...?"
"You just performed a two-hour set," you stated the obvious. "You should rest."
His shoulders eased. "Can't. Still high on the thrill of the night." He let his body fall backward on the couch, criss-crossing his legs as he took a spoonful of ice cream. "Besides, I came because I knew you were still awake. You should be sleeping too."
You chortled. "Then I suppose we can be bad guys together."
Michael had to bite his lower lip to stop himself from squealing, as his body was swaying from left to right as he watched you head to the sink. He had taken the habit of crashing in your room whenever he could not sleep. The first time it happened, he was not certain you were still awake. But you were, and you spent most of the nights talking or watching TV together. Usually, you would fall asleep first, on his shoulder. And he would carry you to your bedroom, tuck you to bed, and leave a note on the night table.
Sometimes, you would already be asleep, so he would need to occupy his sleepless night reading. Sometimes he would read one of your makeup books; sometimes he would watch TV on his own, or work on some music.
But the best nights were those he could spend awake with you.
"Come have a bite," Michael called. His head was resting on the couch's backrest, watching you. You still hadn't changed into your pyjamas; your silk dress wisping as you walked. "It's a new flavour I got; you'll like it."
"I still have to clean all this up for tomorrow." You motioned to the table full of brushes behind you.
Michael's lips curled into a pout, unsatisfied by the distance between the two of you. So he stood up and joined you by the sink. He scooped some ice cream onto the spoon and brought it to your mouth.
You giggled, lifting an eyebrow. "Really, Michael?"
His curls shook as he nodded. "Yeah, c'mon. Take a bite."
But he forgot something.
His eyes moved down to the spoon.
"Wait--"
Too late. You leaned in and took a bite.
From the same spoon he had used. From the same spoon he fed himself with. From the same spoon that was in his own mouth moments ago. Was this what people call an indirect kiss?
Michael's face flushed almost as red as Mickey's shorts. He was glad when you were too focused on the ice cream flavor to notice his state of fluster.
He softly cleared his throat, trying his best to compose himself. "So?"
Your eyebrows were knitted. "Wait, I need another one."
For a split second, Michael's mind raced. Should he switch spoons? But if he did, you would notice, and it would make things awkward. You tilted your head to the side, curious about his lack of action. So Michael quickly scooped another spoonful of ice cream and fed you.
His Adam's apple bopped, and a shiver tickled his spine as he watched your tongue drag on your lips, gathering the remaining ice cream. His breath hitched, and his grip on the spoon was so tight his knuckles turned white. It was a mundane gesture, and yet you looked so seductive that it made him so weak.
Don't be a perv, Michael, he told himself.
But it was increasingly harder for him to remain poised and normal around you, always craving more and more of your attention.
"There's definitely mango," you said, snapping him out of his daze. He quickly nodded, trying to appear as normal as possible as you mused another second, eyes narrowing. "Pineapple?"
"Yeah. There's one left."
You grunted, leaning onto the sink, a hand on your hip. "Ugh, I know what it is! I have it on the tip of my tongue!"
When you could not name the last flavor, you motioned to him to give you another bite. Michael obliged.
Your eyes lit up. "Dragon fruit!"
He beamed you a radiant smile and held his hand up for a high five you happily gave.
"I'm the best!" You cheered.
"You have such a good palate," he complimented. "You always find all the right flavours."
You playfully tossed your curls back. "I know. I could be a professional taster."
Michael chuckled and remained next to you as you continued to clean your makeup brushes.
However, his mind was entirely elsewhere.
Michael's eyes lingered on the spoon that was glistening under the warm artificial lights. Carefully, he scooped some more ice cream and ate it. It melted against his palate, and his hold on the pot clenched. He could not feel the coldness pricking his skin anymore, too focused on the upside-down spoon in his mouth. His tongue pressed against the hollow of the utensil, slowly lapping it as it dragged out of his mouth.
A soft warmth slowly blazed in his stomach. He swore he tasted you on it. He swore he felt your tongue on it. He swore he could feel your lips on it.
But he quickly snapped out of it.
Jesus, Michael. Don't be a perv, he told himself again.
To give him some peace of mind, he put as much distance as he could between you and him and sat back on the couch.
But you came to sit next to him as you were done with the brushes, and his heartbeat paced up again.
"By the way, I have something for you," you said.
Michael sat up properly and rested the ice cream pot and spoon on the table.
"I know you don't celebrate it, but Merry Christmas."
He had completely forgotten. It was past midnight already, so it was Christmas morning.
You opened your palm, and there lay a small charm. A small oblong pouch made of brocaded red silk with golden parten and kanji embroidered on it. A white cord was tied to it.
"It's called Omamori," you continued. "I visited a shrine yesterday, and I bought it. It's a Japanese amulet with a prayer inside. It's believed to bring good luck and ward off evil. I don't know if it really works, but if it does, I want you to have it. You always work so hard, and you get sick and push your body too much sometimes, so maybe it'll help you."
Michael stared at the little amulet in your hand, his heart swelling with a tender warmth as he gently took it, as it was the most precious thing in the world. The fibers of the golden embroidery tickled his palm, the skin shimmering under the light. His eyes softened as he ran his thumb over the charm, and he pursed his lips in an attempt to keep his emotions at bay.
His head, his heart was frenzied, but the good kind. It was difficult to put an exact word on his feelings. Gratitude. Awestruck. Admiration. Adoration. Pure and absolute love. Your intentions towards him were so pristine that they reached his soul directly. He was not certain anyone had ever shown him such genuine kindness. You did not try to impress him; you just gave him a simple present. A bearer of all your feelings for him. A token of all your sincerity. As if handing him a piece of your heart.
And that was worth more than anything he had ever possessed. More than all the money in the world. More than all the recognition and awards.
It almost brought tears to his eyes. He had never felt so human before. So considered. So seen. So valued.
"Thank you," he breathed. For a moment, his eyes closed and his fingers wrapped around the amulet, holding it close to his chest. "I... I don't have anything for you..." he then added. "But I'll buy you something, I promise."
You smiled and shook your head. "I didn't give it to you expecting anything to return. I just want you to be healthy and happy."
And just like that, Michael fell in love with you all over again.
In a world were peopled pushed him to overwork until he'd collapse and be sent to the hospital, you were the only one who was truly concerned about him and his well-being. Perhaps it was just the bare minimum. Perhaps he had been too used to greedy people that basic decency astonished him. Or perhaps your soul sang to his. Perhaps he had just found his person. Perhaps he had just found his love and hope. His future.
"I... I really don't know what to say," Michael confessed. "This means more to me than anything in the world. I really mean it."
You bumped your shoulder against his. "I'm happy you like it. I was worried it was... I don't know, not enough, I guess?"
He shook his head. "It's perfect. It already makes me so happy that you even thought of giving me something." He laid the amulet on the coffee table with all the care in the world, as if the tiniest shift in the air would damage it. "I really don't like that I have nothing for you, though."
"It's fine," you replied with a chuckle. "Given you still have two shows left in Tokyo, I really don't blame you for not having a bunch of gifts for anyone. You don't celebrate Christmas, anyway. It's not a big deal at all."
"But I have to give you something now," he subbornly said.
"You don't have to do anything."
"I want to, then."
You laughed again. "Don't sweat it, Michael. Really. The fact that you like the amulet is my gift."
Now, he wanted to buy you anything you have ever wanted.
He could even kiss you right now. He wanted to, in fact. He really wanted to.
"How can you be so perfect?" he whispered to himself.
But you heard it, and your face took a deeper shade as blood rushed up to your cheeks.
You looked away. "It's nothing."
Michael reached for your face, tucking a strand of your curls behind your ear. The smile on his lips was the most tender, and his eyes held all the love in the world.
"To me, it means everything."
The way he looked at you awakened the butterflies in your stomach. Your breath hitched as fingers grazed along your jaw, his thumb caressing your cheek ever so gently.
"You only ever treated me with so much care and kindness," he continued. "Do you know how it makes me feel?"
You shook your head.
He tilted his head, and his eyes fell on your lips, his thumb now gently rubbing on your lower lip.
"Makes me the happiest," he said. "I'm the happiest when I'm with you. Feels like I can do anything. And I get mad when I have to leave, because I wish time would still so I could spend more time with you. The simple mention of your name makes me giddy. I want to be with you, always. I just... I just love you so much."
The distance had gradually reduced. His breath fanned your mouth, tickling your lips. Teasing you, keeping you on edge. Giving you enough of himself to talk to your heart, but not enough to satisfy the burning love you vowed to him that had been so difficult to quieten. You had been trying your best to remain professional. You had summoned each and every bit of your will for the past two years to keep the line clear.
But it was impossible. Your feelings were too strong, and his sweet attention made it impossible to silence.
And now, Michael spoke the words you so longed to hear. You were so afraid to bungle this entire friendship, but he wanted you to. He wanted to ruin it as much as you did.
So you leaned in, and he closed the remaining gap. His lips pressed gently against you, moving slowly to savour the remnant taste of ice cream. To enjoy the plumpness of your lips, the way they shifted against his tongue, the way they squashed between his teeth. Michael swallowed your moan as he slithered an arm around your body that immediately melted into his. Your hand tangled into his curls, earning a soft grunt from him when you tugged them, as his free hand palmed your thigh, the tip of his fingers sliding under your dress.
And it was like a jolt back to reality.
You forced yourself to pull away, yet could not bring yourself to leave his arms.
"We... we shouldn't..." you muttered, panting.
Michael's nose grazed against you. Too drunk on the love he had for you, he could not even find it in him to be scared of you distancing yourself from him.
"Why?" he breathed.
He leaned in again, his lips brushing yours; it almost made you fold again.
"I work for you..." you said. "This will complicate everything..."
"We'll make it work," Michael reassured.
"But... It's important to keep a clear line--"
"The line has already been crossed, dollface." He kissed the corner of your lips, and your hands clutched his shoulders, your fingers digging into his flesh. "You know, some tennis players date their coach. It's not so different."
You couldn't help but laugh, which brought a smile to his lips.
"I'm serious, dollface," he said. "Some singers and actors even date their managers."
You rested your forehead against him. "So it's all fine?"
His grin grew. "It's all fine."
Truth be told, you did not really need much convincing. But you did need reassurance. You did not want him to regret anything.
But all he wanted was you. And all you wanted was him.
So once again, you both closed the gap, lips moving with more fervor and hunger than previously. Your arms wrapped around Michael's neck, and you pressed your body against his as close as humanly possible as he hooked his hand under your thigh to pull you onto his lap.
It all started with luck. And all it took was a good luck charm to give you both the courage to claim what had been lingering between the two of you for so long.
It caused some broken hearts, but it was the best decision Michael had made. Because it led him to you. The love of his life.
