Could u perchance.. do an mj x reader fic whether it’s before,during or after the Pepsi accident and Michael’s insecure to have us see him at first but eventually allows us to see him and take care of him 😋
So like a bit of angst and fluff
you're still you.
a michael jackson fic
summary ~ requested!
includes ~ angst // insecure michael // supportive reader
a/n ~ this one meant a lot to me! thank you for requesting this. also it's not proofread so bare w me if there are any mistakes.
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When Michael’s mother called, she spoke so carefully that you knew something was wrong before she told you.
There had been an accident.
There had been fire.
Michael was conscious, she assured you. He was being treated. The doctors were taking care of him, and you should not panic.
You panicked anyway.
By the time you reached the hospital, the story had already begun escaping into the world. People clustered beyond the entrance, carrying cameras and shouting questions at anyone who looked remotely important. Security guided you through a private door before anyone could recognize you.
You barely heard the instructions you were given.
All you could think about was Michael.
His hair catching fire beneath the stage lights.
His confusion.
His pain.
Whether he had called for you.
Katherine met you in the hallway. Her expression was tired but composed, and the moment she opened her arms, you fell into them.
“He’s all right,” she whispered, rubbing your back. “He’s shaken, and he’s hurting, but he’s all right.”
“Can I see him?”
Her hesitation frightened you more than the phone call had.
“He doesn’t want you to.”
You pulled away. “What?”
“He doesn’t want anyone coming into the room right now.”
“But I’m not anyone.”
“I know, sweetheart.”
“Did he say why?”
Katherine’s eyes softened.
You knew then.
The injury was on his head and scalp. Although the doctors had assured everyone that his face had been spared from the worst of the burns, Michael had still seen the panic surrounding him. He had smelled the smoke. He had felt hands pressing against his head and heard people speaking urgently above him.
Whatever he looked like now, it was enough to make him afraid of your reaction.
“I need to talk to him,” you said.
“He asked us not to let you in.”
“Then I won’t go in yet. But please tell him I’m here.”
Katherine squeezed your hand. “I will.”
You sat outside his room for nearly an hour.
His brothers came and went. Doctors passed through the hallway. Members of his team whispered to one another about statements, reporters and what could be said publicly. Everyone seemed to have a purpose except you.
You could only wait.
Eventually, Katherine came back out.
“He knows you’re here.”
You stood immediately. “What did he say?”
“He said you should go home.”
You stared at her.
“I’m not doing that.”
“I didn’t think you would.”
She gave you a weary little smile before returning to the rest of the family.
You sat down again.
Another hour passed.
You sent Michael a message through one of the nurses.
I’m not angry with you, and I’m not frightened of you. I only want to know that you’re okay.
The nurse returned several minutes later.
“He said to tell you that he’s fine.”
You looked toward the closed door.
“Would you tell him that he is a terrible liar?”
The nurse almost smiled. “I’ll tell him.”
The next message came directly from Michael, written shakily on a small piece of paper.
Please go home. I don’t want you seeing me this way.
You read it three times.
Then you turned the paper over and wrote beneath his words.
Then close your eyes. You don’t have to see me seeing you.
The nurse carried it inside.
This time, the door opened only a minute later.
Michael’s doctor stepped out, followed by a nurse. They spoke to you quietly, explaining what you should expect. His head was wrapped in medical dressings. There might be some swelling. The medication had made him drowsy and slightly disoriented.
None of it changed your mind.
The doctor opened the door.
The room was dim. Only a small lamp beside the bed had been left on, casting a soft amber glow across the walls. The curtains were closed against the cameras waiting somewhere beyond the hospital.
At first, all you could see was the shape of Michael beneath the blankets.
Then your eyes adjusted.
He was turned away from you.
The dressings covered much of his head, and a few dark curls remained visible near his neck. His shoulders were tense beneath the thin hospital gown. One hand gripped the edge of the blanket as though he had been bracing himself from the moment he agreed to let you enter.
The door clicked shut behind you.
Michael flinched.
You stayed where you were.
“Hi,” you whispered.
He did not turn around.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
His voice was hoarse and small. You had never heard him speak that way before.
“Probably not,” you said. “I’ve been told I’m very stubborn.”
“This isn’t funny.”
“I know.”
You moved closer, stopping beside the chair near his bed.
“May I sit down?”
He was silent for so long that you thought he might ask you to leave again.
Finally, he nodded.
You lowered yourself into the chair. You did not reach for him. You did not ask him to turn around. You simply sat beside him and listened to the soft hum of the equipment around his bed.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured.
Your brow furrowed. “For what?”
“For frightening you.”
“You didn’t do anything.”
“I knew there was something wrong.”
His fingers tightened around the blanket.
“The first time, I felt the heat. I thought maybe I was imagining it. Then they wanted to do it again, and I should have said something.”
“Michael.”
“I should have stopped.”
“You were performing. You trusted the people around you to keep you safe.”
“But if I had just—”
“No.”
Your voice came out firmer than you intended.
He went quiet.
“You are not going to lie here and blame yourself because somebody else’s equipment malfunctioned, or because of a decision that your father made for you,” you continued, gentler now. “You did nothing wrong.”
“You weren’t there.”
“I saw enough.”
His shoulders shifted.
There had already been footage. You had glimpsed only a few seconds before someone pulled you away from the television: the sparks erupting behind him, Michael continuing to dance, unaware that his hair was burning.
Those seconds had lodged themselves somewhere inside you.
“I keep seeing it,” you admitted. “Every time I close my eyes.”
“That’s why I didn’t want you here.”
You swallowed. “Why?”
“Because now you’ll see this too.”
He gestured weakly toward himself.
“You’ll remember me like this.”
Your heart broke so quietly that he could not have known.
“Michael, look at me.”
“No.”
“Please.”
He shook his head and immediately winced.
Your body reacted before you could think, one hand lifting toward him. You stopped yourself before touching him.
He noticed.
Slowly, Michael turned his face toward you.
His eyes were red and exhausted. There was swelling around them, and his skin was paler than usual. The dressings looked uncomfortable, stark white against him.
He watched you with naked fear.
Not fear of pain.
Fear of you.
You kept your expression soft, even as tears gathered in your eyes.
His gaze dropped.
“Don’t,” he whispered.
“Don’t what?”
“Cry.”
“I thought I had lost you.”
“You didn’t.”
“I know that now.”
A tear escaped before you could catch it. Michael turned his face away again.
“This is what I didn’t want.”
“You think I’m crying because of how you look?”
He said nothing.
You leaned forward, careful not to crowd him.
“I’m crying because I love you, and someone called me to say there had been an accident. I’m crying because I had to sit outside this room knowing you were hurt while you tried to protect me from seeing it. I’m crying because you’re in pain and I can’t take it away.”
His lower lip trembled.
“You’re looking at me differently.”
“I’m looking at you like I'm scared.”
“That isn’t what I mean.”
“I know.”
You allowed a moment of silence to pass.
Then you held out your hand between you, palm facing upward.
“You don’t have to let me touch you. You don’t even have to look at me. But my hand is here if you want it.”
Michael stared at it.
His fingers shifted against the blanket, but he did not reach for you.
You sat back and left your hand resting there.
Minutes passed.
His breathing gradually softened. The tension in his shoulders eased, though only slightly. You told him little things because silence gave his mind too much room to punish him.
You told him that his mother had made three different nurses promise to call her if he so much as sneezed.
You told him his brothers were arguing over who had reached the hospital first.
You told him that someone from his team had tried to hand you a prepared statement, and you had stared at him until he went away.
That earned the faintest sound from Michael. Not quite a laugh, but close.
“You frightened him,” he murmured.
“Good.”
“You can be very mean.”
“Only when necessary.”
His gaze drifted back to your open hand.
“I must look awful.”
“You look tired.”
“That means yes.”
“It means you look tired.”
“And the bandages?”
“They look like bandages.”
“The swelling?”
“It looks uncomfortable.”
“Me?”
You understood the question beneath the question.
Do you still see me?
You moved your hand a little closer.
“You look like Michael.”
His eyes filled immediately.
He reached for you.
His hand landed in yours with surprising urgency, fingers closing tightly as though he feared you might disappear. You held him just as firmly, lifting his hand to your lips and kissing his knuckles.
His eyes closed.
“You don’t have to pretend,” he said.
“I’m not.”
“You always tell me I’m handsome.”
“You are.”
“I’m not now.”
You studied him for a moment.
“No,” you said gently. “Right now, you’re hurt.”
His eyes opened.
“You’re hurt, frightened, exhausted and being very difficult. None of that makes you ugly. It makes you human.”
His face crumpled.
Michael turned away, but he did not release your hand. You stood and moved closer to the bed.
“Can I hold you?”
He hesitated.
“I don’t know where it hurts,” you added. “You’ll have to help me.”
“Everywhere,” he whispered.
You could hear the tears in his voice now.
“All right. Then we’ll be very careful.”
The nurse helped raise the bed slightly and showed you where you could sit without disturbing anything. Michael watched the entire process nervously, his embarrassment clear even through the medication.
Once you were beside him, you opened your arms.
For a few seconds, he remained still.
Then he leaned into you.
His movements were slow and guarded. He rested his cheek against your chest, keeping his injured head away from your shoulder. You wrapped one arm around his back while the other rested lightly against his forearm.
The first sob slipped out of him so softly that you almost mistook it for a breath.
Then another followed.
“I was so scared,” he whispered.
“I know.”
“I could hear everyone shouting.”
Your hand moved slowly along his back.
“I didn’t know what was happening. They kept touching me, and the pain was so bad. I thought…”
He stopped.
“You thought what?”
“I thought it had ruined everything.”
The words were muffled against you.
“My hair. My face. The performances. Everything.”
“Oh, Michael.”
“And then I thought about you seeing me.”
His shoulders shook.
“I knew you would try to be kind, but I thought you’d look at me and feel sorry for me.”
“I do feel sorry that you’re hurting.”
“That isn’t the same.”
“No, it isn’t.”
You pressed a kiss to his temple, far from the dressings.
“I don’t pity you. I’m not disgusted by you. I’m not disappointed in you. I’m just here.”
He cried quietly against you, releasing the fear he had tried to swallow for everyone else. You let him. You did not tell him to be strong or assure him that everything would immediately return to normal.
You simply held him.
Eventually, exhaustion softened his sobs into uneven breaths.
“You still love me?” he asked.
The question was so quiet that you almost wished you had misheard it.
You leaned back just enough to see his face.
“Do you honestly think a few bandages could change that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then I’ll tell you until you do.”
You wiped beneath his eye with your thumb.
“I love you.”
His eyes closed.
“I love you when you’re onstage and everyone in the world is screaming your name. I love you when you’re wearing pajamas and stealing food from my plate. I love you when you feel beautiful, and I love you when you don’t.”
His mouth quivered.
“You don’t have to earn it by looking perfect.”
“I want to be perfect for you.”
“I don’t want perfect.”
“What do you want?”
“You.”
Michael looked at you for a long moment.
Then he raised your joined hands and pressed his lips against your fingers.
“You really are stubborn,” he murmured.
“Extremely.”
“I told them not to let you in.”
“You underestimated me.”
“I should know better.”
“You really should.”
The tiniest smile appeared on his lips.
There he was.
You wanted to kiss him, but you waited.
Michael noticed. His eyes moved briefly to your mouth before returning to your face.
“You can,” he whispered.
“Are you sure?”
He nodded.
You leaned forward and kissed him gently.
There was no urgency in it. You kept one hand around his while the other rested against his shoulder. His lips were dry, and he tasted faintly of hospital water, but the moment he kissed you back, some part of you finally believed he was safe.
When you pulled away, his eyes remained closed.
“Still think I’m frightened of you?” you whispered.
“A little.”
You kissed the corner of his mouth.
“How about now?”
“Maybe less.”
You kissed his cheek.
“Now?”
A real smile appeared this time.
“You may need to keep trying.”
“Convenient.”
“I’m injured. You have to be nice to me.”
“I have been sitting outside for hours because you banned me from the room.”
His smile faded.
“I’m sorry.”
You brushed your thumb over his knuckles.
“I understand why you did it. But next time you’re frightened, let me be frightened with you.”
“I don’t want to burden you.”
“Loving you isn’t a burden.”
He lowered his eyes.
“You don’t always have to be the one protecting everyone,” you continued. “Sometimes you’re allowed to need somebody.”
“I need you.”
The admission was immediate and painfully sincere.
You leaned forward until your forehead rested carefully against his.
“Good,” you whispered. “Because you have me.”
Later, after the nurse checked his dressings and brought fresh water, Michael allowed you to help him drink. He complained that the straw was undignified, then became offended when you laughed.
You adjusted his blankets. He insisted he was not cold, although he stopped protesting the moment you tucked them around him.
When the medication began pulling him toward sleep, you returned to the chair beside his bed.
His fingers tightened around yours.
“Where are you going?”
“Nowhere. I’m sitting down.”
“You’ll stay?”
“As long as they let me.”
“And if they tell you to leave?”
“I’ll hide in the bathroom.”
His sleepy laugh filled the dim room.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“And yet, you love me.”
“I do.”
His eyes began to close.
You thought he had fallen asleep until his voice reached you again.
“When the bandages come off…”
“Yes?”
His fingers shifted nervously between yours.
“What if it’s worse?”
“Then I’ll be there.”
“What if I don’t want to look?”
“Then you don’t have to look until you’re ready.”
“What if you look first?”
You lifted his hand and kissed it again.
“Then I’ll tell you the truth.”
His eyes opened slightly. “Which is?”
“That you’re still you.”
He watched you through the haze of exhaustion, searching your face for uncertainty.
Whatever he found seemed to soothe him.
“Come closer,” he murmured.
You shifted the chair until it touched the bed.
“Closer.”
“I cannot physically move the chair any closer, Michael.”
He gave you a weak, dissatisfied look.
You smiled and leaned over the railing, bringing your face near his. He relaxed immediately.
“There?”
“Better.”
His eyes closed once more.
You stayed beside him as his breathing became deep and even, your hand held securely in his. Every so often, even in sleep, his fingers tightened as if checking that you had not left.
Each time, you squeezed back.
The world outside was already turning his pain into headlines, photographs and statements. By morning, strangers would debate what happened and what it meant for his career. People would study every image and search for something dramatic to consume.
But inside the room, he was simply Michael.
Frightened.
Tender.
Alive.
And loved.
Just before dawn, he stirred. His eyes opened slowly and found you with your head resting beside his arm.
“You stayed,” he whispered.
You lifted your head, blinking away sleep.
“I told you I would.”
In the pale morning light, his bandages were still there. The swelling was still there. Nothing had magically healed overnight.
But when Michael looked at you, the fear in his eyes was quieter.
P.S. I came out of retirement for this. Not proofread due to the power just went out so I’m conserving battery over here. It’s a little bit of Cinderella. I tried my best to keep reader completely neutral in all ways but if something take you out and makes you think “yo that’s not me”, let me know and I can make some quick adjustments. Ciao!
“Can we start over?” Michael whined. His coily mop of hair nearly fell over his eyes, huge and dark and pleading with you earnestly. His lip was pouted out sadly, but none of this was enough to convince you.
You laughed at him and shook your head, “No way!”, you told the ten year old boy opposite you, “You’re such a sore loser! We’ve scrapped the game like ten times already!”. Triumphantly, you held your hand out to him, “That’ll be 1400 dollars for landing on my Mayfair property”.
Michael grumbled but counted out the money anyways, all the while muttering about how he would never play monopoly again. Grinning, you snagged the slips of paper from his hand, shuffling through them yourself in order to make sure it was correct. Your lips settled into a sly smirk, eyes twinkling with mirth, “This is only 1200”.
He frowned, “Don’t have any more”.
“Do you mean to say that you’re…bankrupt?”, you queried, knowing already what the answer would be.
Huffing, Michael slouched down in the dining room chair, shoving a handful of chips into his mouth and mumbling around them.
“What was that, Mikey? Were you trying to tell me something? Perhaps that I’m a winner? The best monopoly player of all time?”.
Michael paused to think, brows slightly furrowed, and then in a moment of concise decision, he shook his head, nearly lunging across the table to snag some of your money. “Nope!”, he said, popping the ‘p’ loudly for emphasis, “I have three thousand left”.
You feigned anger, though Michael could see the amusement sparking wildly behind your eyes, “Oh, you great big cheater!”. Knowing that your arms wouldn't be long enough to reach across to grab the money back, you pulled yourself out of your chair, and hurried around to where Michael was sitting. He saw you coming long before you could launch your attack, and so by the time you got to his chair, he was up and running. You chased him through his house, the halls echoing with laughter.
When you burst through the kitchen entryway, you nearly ran smack dab into his mother and your cheeks pinked up as you skidded to a stop, “Sorry, Mrs. Jackson!”.
She shook her head with a knowing smile, “And just what are the two of you up to now?”.
Smiling sheepishly at her, you answered, “Nothing!”.
She didn’t seem to believe you, and that theory was proven right when she leaned down to your ear, faux whispering, “If you’re looking for Michael, I do believe I saw him on his way to the basement”.
You thanked her excitedly, wrapping your arms around her middle in a quick hug. Ever since your family had moved in across the street a few years prior, Mrs. Jackson had been just like another mother to you. Your father was prone to being gone for long periods of time, always off on business trips or coming home late. Your mother had been sick for a long time. For as long as you can remember, she had resided in the upstairs bedroom. Not to be disturbed, her nurses would remind you if you got too close to the door, or made a little too much noise. You almost didn’t remember the sound of her voice anymore, nor the way her perfume smelled. More often than not you were here, in Michael’s house. His family made sure you knew that you were always welcome over for dinner, and considering that your father only left you microwave meals, you were grateful for anything home-cooked. You were allowed to stay the night whenever your father was gone rather than lay in your own house listening to the monotonous beep on machines from the next room over. You would even walk to school with Michael, his brothers, and his mom every day.
Releasing his mom from your grasp, you shouted a quick, “Love you!”, and then you were off, feet pounding against the wooden steps.
Once you reached the bottom of the staircase, you slowed, peering apprehensively into the pitch black room. Your hand reached out, patting along the wall in search of the lightswitch but you were unable to locate it. Stepping forwards, you inched your way ahead. The concrete floor was cool under your bare feet. You jumped, feeling something on your skin and you swatted at your shoulders, frightened that it might be a spider. Pulling your sweater more tightly around yourself, you called out Michael’s name, no longer interested in getting the money back, and now more focused on getting out of the basement intact.
You were met with only silence. The air was damp and cold. The basement smelled of earth and something distinctly old. Unable to remain even a moment longer, you turned on your heel, prepared to run right back the way you came. Instead, you were confronted by Michael’s face right in front of yours, his fingers reaching to pinch and grab at your sides, “Boo!”.
You shrieked, jumping backwards and nearly falling, “Michael! What the heck!”, you shouted, ears burning red.
He grinned at you wolfishly, “Oh ease up, (Y/N)!”.
Shaking your head, you scuffed your foot on the ground, “That was really mean”.
His dark eyes lost their mischief and he stepped forward, arms wrapping tight around you, “I’m sorry, honey. You know I love ya”.
He had always called you that, just as long as you’d known him. On the very first day that you’d met, you had been in your front yard, bare toes clinging to bark as you tried to scale the massive black oak tree in your front yard. You had been watching a lot of Winnie the Pooh lately and were feeling inspired to try and harvest some honey of your own- directly from a wasp’s nest in your own yard. Michael had seen you from across the street and letting curiosity win out, had wandered over to see just what you were doing. He had peered up into the branches, eyebrows raised up to his hair and he had called up to you to ask just what you were thinking prodding at a wasps nest. You had ignored him, of course, set solely on the task you had assigned yourself. In hindsight, you should have listened to him when he told you there was no honey in a wasp nest, only wasps. But you hadn’t, and so when you tried to poke down the nest with a stick, instead of honey you set loose about a hundred angry, stinging insects. When they came funneling towards you, you had fallen from the tree, saved from the wasp’s wrath only by Michael, pulling you up and yanking you towards your house as fast as his legs could carry him. Of course, you had also broken your arm in the endeavor, and the very next day Michael had showed up at your front door, holding a jar of gleaming amber honey all tied up with a green bow, eyes dancing with amusement as he held it out to you, “Here you go, honey”.
Even now, the familiar nickname spurned immediate forgiveness in your heart and you nodded against his shoulder, “Love you too”.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When Michael was twelve, and you were ten and three-quarters (thank you very much), he had broken the news to you that he would be moving away from your street. He wouldn’t be in the house right across from you anymore. He wouldn’t be there to hug you when the boys at school pulled your hair, and he wouldn’t come to the elementary school just to walk you home. There would be no more dinners, or monopoly games at his house. It wasn’t even just Michael leaving, it would be his whole family too. And where did that leave you? With your dad who bought you cans of spaghetti and then left for weeks on end? A mom who was more fictional than she was alive?
The thoughts spun wildly around your head, so much that you had lost track of what Michael was saying entirely. He squeezed your hands tightly, urging you to look at him, “Hey, what are you thinkin’, honey?”.
The question alone was enough to have the tears welling up in the corners of your eyes and spilling over onto sunburned cheeks, “I don’t want you to leave”, you wailed, surging forwards and wrapping your arms around him as tightly as you could, as if that would stop him from going at the end of the summer.
Frowning, Michael scratched at your scalp with his fingernails just the way he knew you liked, “Well I know, but you gotta understand, this is a big chance for me and for my family! This is gonna be our big break, there’s so much we can do in California, honey! And you know one day, when I’m really big, I’m gonna take you to the red carpet. The Grammy’s even!”.
Sniffling, you pulled your head out of his shoulder and held out one trembling pinky, “You promise?”.
Michael let a smile pull up the sides of his mouth, linking his pinky with yours, “I promise, honey. I’m gonna buy you the prettiest dress in the world too, your favorite color! I promise”.
You nodded, but your lips stayed in a permanent pout, “But what if you forget about me? Cause you get all famous. What if we never see each other again? What am I gonna do when they pull my hair at school if you’re not gonna be there?”.
The smile didn't fade from Michael’s face, and he squished your cheeks in between his hands, “You’re my very best friend, honey, I could never forget about you, never ever. I’m gonna come back all the time too, all the time that I can, you’ll see me every summer, and you could come visit me too! I bet mom would let you come stay with us! And you tell anybody that messes with you that only I’m allowed to do that, that I’ll be coming for them just as soon as I’m back”.
—------------------------------------------
You huffed under your breath, kicking a rock which had done nothing to deserve your ire along the street. This time of night the roadway yawned empty ahead of you, opening its dark cavernous mouth for what seemed like miles. You were just happy to be out of the house. Somehow you were never invited along with your stepmother and her daughters to go coat shopping, so instead of a winter coat you settled for your worn jean jacket, pulled tightly around your middle. It never got as cold in Encino as it did in Gary and you were at least thankful for that if nothing else. And really, there wasn’t much else. The rules of your stepmother, you had learned, did not bend once you had become a legal adult. You gave the rock a particularly hard knock. It veered off diagonally. You scrunched your nose, irritated about having to find another target if you wanted to avoid crossing the street.
A loud shriek pierced through the silence, causing your head to jolt up, eyes scanning for the culprit. You shook your head, a vague attempt to clear your vision in case you had suddenly begun hallucinating farm animals.
Across the street, a young man wrestled with the lead attached to the llama (alpaca?). You grew up in an industrial town, sue you if you didn’t know the difference. “Louie! Louie, s’alright!”, the man’s voice echoed over the damp pavement. It took your breath away for a long moment. He sounded older now, although perhaps even softer than he was in youth, yet his voice was unmistakable. You’d heard the same words directed at you many times before when you were upset about the boys teasing you at school or when you fell and scraped your knee on the driveway. It had stayed with you long after he had moved away, your lonely mind’s way of reassuring yourself when things became untenable, s’alright. You had been staring for so long that you hadn’t noticed when he had directed his attention towards you, the llama at his side now calm, if looking a bit indignant. “Hey, I’m-”
“Michael”, you finished for him, more a breath than a word. For a moment you thought the syllables had disappeared into the rustling trees and the soft hooting of the owls.
The smile that took over his face proved the theory wrong, it was dazzling in the way it always had been. He ducked his head, almost shy, “Yeah, I’m Michael”.
You waited for a beat, but he showed no sign of recognizing you too. It was fair enough. Sadness had worn on you in ways that had made you different. Then there was the fact of who he was now. He had been famous before his family had left Gary, but not to the extent he was now. He’d met thousands of people in the in between, maybe even tens of thousands. You didn’t find it surprising that you could have faded into the background. You swallowed thickly, crossing the remaining distance over to them and offering out your hand, “Y/N”.
He seemed puzzled for a moment, eyebrows drawing together for just a passing moment before they settled back into place, as if a memory had perhaps tickled the very corner of his mind. He visibly shook the sensation away, letting his mouth drift up into an easy grin again, “Do you want to join us? Louie and I could use a friend”.
He looked unbearably hopeful and you were quick to fold, nodding your assent with a wan smile of your own. It was just one night. One night between old friends. You wanted it more desperately than you were willing to admit to yourself. Louie settled himself on the other side of Michael, trotting along in a self assured way that belied how often the two of them were accustomed to meandering through the suburbs at night. For a few moments you walked in comfortable silence, only stealing quick, fleeting glances over at him when you thought he’d not be looking. You knew you were caught when the corner of his mouth twitched up into a smirk, not arrogant so much as teasing, “What, something on my face?”.
You scoffed, shaking your head quickly, “No, just thinking”.
He cocked his head to the side, “Thinking what?”.
“Thinking about how global phenomenon Michael Jackson probably shouldn’t be making nice with random strangers on the streets at night without a security detail in sight”.
“We’re not strangers”, he countered. Your heart skipped a beat, thunking awkwardly around in your chest like a fish out of water. The brief hope that he had remembered you was quashed quickly when he continued, “I know your name”.
You rolled your eyes, knocking your shoulder into his playfully, “You know Ted Bundy told his victims his name too”.
Michael looked you up and down, eyebrows raised up to his hairline, “Unless you’re hiding a crowbar in your pocket, I think I could take you, girl”.
Your eyes lit up immediately at the challenge, “No way! You’re a beanpole”, you swung out playfully at him, lightly enough that he was able to catch your fist in one hand.
“Now we can’t fight in front of Louie, he’s just a kid”, he admonished with a wink.
“Scared you’re gonna lose?”, you taunted, sticking out your tongue.
He flicked you on the nose, “You’re such a doo doo head”.
You scrunched your face up in feigned annoyance, though it didn’t last long. You slid your arm through the crook of his elbow, linking the two of you together. The warmth was immediately satisfying in the biting chill that came with Encino in January. “So tell me really, why is Michael Jackson looking for friends on the streets in the middle of the night? Don’t you have plenty of people who would want to hang out with you?”.
He shrugged and scuffed the toe of his shoe against the asphalt, “Nah, I only got people who want somethin’ from me”.
You frowned, holding onto him a little tighter, “Don’t you have brothers?”.
Michael smiled but it was a sad sort of thing, like it was trying a little too hard to be something it wasn’t, “They’re grown now, doin’ their own thing. They’ve got wives now, except for Randy. He doesn’t really like the things I like though. That’s okay”.
“Well, what do you like, Michael?”, you asked.
There was something about you he couldn’t quite place, something that caused him to believe that the question was absolutely genuine, something that made him want to be open with you. “Most of the time I didn’t get to be a kid, so that’s what I like. I really like Disney, I love games like on my Atari, and I like board games too. Things like Twister and Monopoly”.
You rested your head down onto his shoulder as the two of you continued to walk, your voice soft when you answered him, “You know, anybody would be lucky to spend time with you, Michael. There are so many people out there who would want to spend time doing those things with you”.
Michael turned his head to look at you, pausing for a few long moments and painfully shy when he asked you, “Well, are you one of those people? Would you want to…?”, he trailed off the end of his question. His big, brown eyes remained hopeful, though the apples of his cheeks were flushed a brilliant red beneath the street lamps.
He looked so much like that little boy from Gary, you knew your answer before you so much as opened your mouth, “Of course I do”.
His face lit up like a beacon and he began walking faster, words now tumbling out his mouth without care or the precision he had carried throughout the previous conversation, “You’re gonna love it, I got a new game just today I’ve been wanting to try. It’s called Guess Who, I think it started in Europe originally but anyway it looks real fun”, he rambled on, oblivious to you blinking owlishly at him, “And I’ve got snacks too, we can watch a movie afterward. I think I’ve got all the good ones but if you want to watch something specific I can call Bill, I’m sure he’d-”.
You pulled him to a stop, “Michael! Surely you don’t mean right now- it’s”, you paused to squint at the face of your watch “ten o’clock at night and I’m still a stranger to you. You can’t just bring anybody into your home. What about your family?”.
He waved his hand dismissively, “They’re all gon’ be asleep, we’ll just be real quiet goin’ up. And you could fix that whole stranger thing”, he grabbed your hand again, large and warm where it clasped your cold fingers. He walked on, forcing you to walk too in order to keep up, “Tell me something about you, why are you out here so late?”.
“Only time I can get away”, you admitted.
“You live with your family?’, he questioned.
“Kinda”, you shrugged, keeping your eyes trained on the cracks in the pavement.
“What does kinda mean?”, Michael furrowed his brow in confusion.
“Most of the time it’s just my step mom and her kids that are home. Dad isn’t around much, I don’t blame him. My step mom, Darla, is…an acquired taste”, you wrinkled up your nose as though the thought of her alone put a bad scent into the air.
Michael hummed, swinging your linked hands between the two of you idly, “What about your mom?”.
You pressed your lips together into a thin line, taking a moment to think before you answered. It had become a difficult thing for you to talk about. You’d spent so much of your life missing somebody who was just down the hallway. You never knew her, not really. Maybe in small snippets of memory, thin, expert hands braiding your hair tightly when you were too little to know who those hands belonged to. You remembered laying your head against a gently beating heart, soft lullabies delivered in a voice that could soothe away any trouble imaginable. Sometimes you thought you could recall the smell of her, something floral and citrusy, the way you imagined sunlight to smell as it spun through freshly washed linens on a warm, spring afternoon. You closed your eyes at the thought, feeling as if for just the barest of moments, she was right beside you. When you opened them, it was just you and Michael and the llama and the locusts in the trees. “She’s been gone a long time”, you eventually settled for.
He frowned and squeezed your hand tighter, his thumb rubbing over the back of your hand in slow circles, “Sorry”. He said it softly, sincerely. It wasn’t a pleasantry, just something that he genuinely meant. You blinked back the tears that had betrayed you by beginning to collect at your lash line.
You shook the moment off, trying to return to humor to avoid the uncomfortable weight of vulnerability, “Anyway, I’m stuck with Darla. She’s fine I guess. She just has a lot of expectations. Y’know, stuff about what a lady my age should or shouldn’t be doing. She thinks a lot more seriously about the state of the floors and the curtains than anybody I’ve ever met”, you scoffed, remembering the argument that had caused you to sneak out of the house in the first place, “I won tickets for a concert tonight, you know, and she had told me I couldn’t go until every surface in the house had been cleaned. I spend all day scrubbing the seams between the baseboards and when I’m finally done, she tells me she’s taking her daughters to the show instead because she ‘didn’t think I would be done in time’”. You huffed, irritated all over again.
“I bet they’ll be real sorry when you tell them that you spent the evening with the Michael Jackson”, Michael grinned, trying to lift your spirits.
You shook your head quickly, eyes wide, “She can never find out I left. Are you kidding me? I would be stuck inside for the rest of my life, Michael”.
“You’re grown now…can’t you just tell her no?”.
You shook your head vehemently, “She was my mom’s best friend. My mom made her executor of her estate. I don’t get anything until I turn twenty two, until then Darla calls the shots”, you let a wry smile overtake your expression, “Only another month though. Then I’m throwing the most epic birthday party and gettin’ the hell outta dodge”.
“You’ll send me an invite, won’t you?”, he tugged you into his side, wrapping an arm over your shoulders.
“Well, I don’t even know where to send it to”, you countered.
He used his unoccupied arm to gesture at the wide wooden gate you had hardly noticed looming in front of you, “You can just drop it off right here, girl”.
You’d been around some pretty fancy houses in Encino, enough that the initial shock of it had long ago worn off since your arrival from Gary. Despite that, Hayvenhurst completely took your breath away. While Michael was getting Louie put away, you were standing in the middle of the courtyard. A large fountain burbled just behind, carved horses and lions leapt out of the stone, golden light gleaming through the water invitingly. The building itself rose up ahead of you like something out of a fairytale. Massive stained glass windows gleamed and glittered, reflecting the light of the fountain and the courtyard, tall spires made you think of towers made for princesses. Even nature lended itself to the magic, frogs ribbeted from off in the trees, doves cooed softly from where they perched on the roofs edge, fireflies rose up out of the grass like millions of floating lanterns. It made absolute sense as Michael’s home. You had always seen him as your fairytale prince. Even once he was long gone, and entirely unattainable, you would find yourself daydreaming that he may come and take you away from everything. Away from your mother’s death, your father’s absence, your step mother’s ire. You imagined him taking you to a place just like this one.
Two hands crept behind you, settling on your ribs and squeezing, “Boo!”, Michael’s breath fanned over your ear. You jumped about a foot into the air, barely muffling a shriek behind your hand.
You spun around and swatted at him immediately, “Michael!”.
He threw his head back and cackled, a loud raucous sound, maybe the loudest thing you’d heard from him all night. He could hardly stop giggling enough to speak, “Did I scare ya?”.
“No”, you huffed, crossing your arms over your chest.
Michael shook his head, grinning with all of his teeth, but he didn’t argue further, reaching out for your hand, which you begrudgingly allowed him to take, “C’mon, baby”.
The two of you crept quietly up the stairs and down the hallway of the house. You were careful to match your footfalls to Michael’s, mindful to step where he seemed to know the floor didn’t creak. You knew from creeping around their home in Gary exactly who had inspired him to learn the quietest spots. Even in the darkness, you could see Katherine’s influence in all of the furnishings. Smooth, wooden furniture smelled just as it always had. You remembered slow afternoons with Mrs. Jackson when the boys were out. She would open up the box of nice furniture polish and hand you a cloth. You never minded it at all. It was peaceful in a way, to sit together and oil the wood talking about all of the girl things you missed out on with your own mother. The thought of being in the same house as her was tantalizing in and of itself. You wanted badly to throw your arms around her and bury your face into the crisp collar of her shirt, to feel the familiar weight of her arms around you. Instead, you kept your eyes forward, stumbling into Michael’s bedroom behind him, biting your lip while he carefully shut the door with a small snick. You felt almost giddy with it. You recalled nights the two of you had done this before, long, long ago. On Saturday nights in particular, you and Michael would sneak out into the kitchen of their house in Gary. Mrs. Jackson always made dozens of chocolate chip cookies for the church potluck on Sunday and she would never let any of the kids have any unless there were some left over the next day, swatting hands away from the tupperware containers left and right. So in the blinking light of the oven timer, you would stand guard at the kitchen entrance, and Michael would sneak about eight cookies into the pockets of his pyjama pants. Of course, you couldn’t eat them in the bedroom he shared with all of his brothers, so the two of you would go into the bathroom and sit in the bathtub in your pjs. You made yourselves nearly sick every time you did it but it remained one of your favorite memories. You wondered if Michael remembered it at all.
When you blinked yourself out of your own head, Michael was staring at you with a slightly concerned look on his face, his hand reached up to cradle your cheek tenderly, “Hey, where’d you go?”.
You smiled into the warmth of his hand, pressing your cheek further into it, “Nowhere”, you allowed the mischief to filter back into your gaze, “Just thinkin’ about how I’m gonna take you down when we get to playin’ twister”.
“Not a chance!”, he crowed.
In the end, he was right. It had been going well for you up until you spun an unfortunate right hand yellow. With both hands on red, and both feet on green, it had been an unfortunate struggle to try to get one hand underneath the back of you to reach the yellow dot from where you were balancing in a sort of crab-walk position. Your fingers had just barely brushed their target when you toppled down, right on top of Michael, who caught you gracefully against his chest. Despite the defeat, you laughed heartily, your nose pressed into the skin of his neck and your hands pressed between your chests. His arms encircled you, one anchoring around your waist and the other around your back, his hand splayed wide against your shoulder blade. “Told you so”, he teased, face pressed up against your temple, breath tickling the hair there.
You tried to act annoyed but couldn’t pull it off, he could feel you smiling against his white t-shirt, “I have a plan for redemption”, you said, pulling back to look at him. Your noses nearly touched.
“Oh yeah?”, Michael breathed, “What’s that?”.
For a moment you thought he might lean in to kiss you, your lips just a hair's breadth away. His eyes seemed to track all over your face. He scanned your eyelashes, the dip of your nose, the way your skin crinkled by your eyes when you smiled. He seemed to settle on the bow of your lips, warm and soft and inviting. You broke the moment, practically sharing a breath with him, “Monopoly”.
He scoffed, pulling his head back, “What makes you think you can beat me at monopoly?”.
You snorted incredulously, “You’re terrible at it. You have literally never once won”.
“How would you know?”, he sat up, effectively toppling you off of him so that he could set his hands on his hips.
You flushed, caught off guard. For a moment, you had forgotten that all of the memories you had shared seemed to reside only in your own mind, “Just a feeling”, you mumbled, rubbing one hand across the back of your neck as if it could extinguish the heat rising there.
Michael sniffed, “Well, we’ll just see about that”.
—--------------------
“Michael!”, you exclaimed, “You literally can’t do that”.
He held his stack of 500 dollar bills above his head, “Says who??”
“Says the rules!”, you argued, attempting to lunge across the board.
Michael continued grinning, “I took out a loan”.
You narrowed your eyes at him, settling back on your haunches, “There are no loans in monopoly”.
“C’mon baby, what bank is going to deny the Michael Jackson a small personal business loan”.
“A small personal loan”, you squawked, “You took fourteen thousand dollars!”
He nodded serenely, “It’s for a good cause”.
You raised an eyebrow at him.
“My victory”, he continued.
You wrinkled your nose at him, “So you admit that without stealing you would have lost”.
He shook his head, “I would never admit that”.
You rolled your eyes, tossing the remainder of your money into the middle of the board, “Movie?”, you suggested. Though you loathed to give into him after three hours of intense work acquiring buildings and properties, your eyes were beginning to sting with exhaustion and the effort of squinting at tiny board game print.
Michael grinned as he stood up, ruffling your hair on his way by, “Fine, your pick, I’ll get snacks”.
You swatted at his hand grouchily, passing your own hands over your hair in an attempt to smooth out whatever disarray he had caused. Whilst he was gone in the kitchen, you busied yourself with fingering through his VCR collection. A lot of disney, you noted with a soft smile to yourself. You couldn’t help but find it endearing that he hadn’t really changed at all after all these years. His room reflected that. The walls were covered in posters of the things and characters he loved, toys crowded the mantle and the tables and dressers, in the corner a carousel spun lazily, casting rainbows across the ceiling in kaleidoscope patterns. He still carried a childlike wonder through his life, he surrounded himself with joy and laughter and an unrelenting optimism. You wondered if you fit into that world.
When he returned, you had already put in a tape and settled yourself on the floor, back resting against the foot of his bed so you could face the television. You had pulled down a heap of soft blankets, some to sit on and some to pull tightly around your shoulders. He was struck once again by a sense of familiarity, in your face, your voice, the way you held yourself. He squashed the knee-jerk reaction to question you and instead peeled up the blankets so he could settle in by your side, pressed together thigh to shoulder. He balanced a bowl of popcorn between your legs and a dish of ice cream with two spoons sticking straight out of the middle right next to it.
You reached for the ice cream on instinct, you had always had a sweet tooth. You were pleasantly surprised to see that he’d added rainbow sprinkles, whipped cream, and cherries on top. You happily scooped up a spoonful of whipped cream and cherries and shoveled it into your mouth, humming at the pleasant taste.
Michael gave you an odd look, “Should I have just brought the jar of cherries?”.
You laughed and shrugged a shoulder, unencumbered by embarrassment, “Maybe. They’re my favorite part”, you admitted, going back for another bite.
He directed his eyes to the t.v., surprised to find the opening credits of Peter Pan playing across the screen, “How’d you know?”.
You remained purposefully obtuse, keeping your eyes on the t.v. and refusing to meet his warm, dark gaze where it was leveled towards you. If you were an honest person, you would tell him that you picked it because you knew it was his favorite. You would tell him that you chose it because you remembered playing Neverland in the backyard until Katherine called you in for dinner. You remembered that he was always Peter Pan, perched high up in the huge black oak tree in your front lawn and that you would be Tinkerbell, his loyal companion who always laughed at his jokes and stayed by his side. You remembered that he would always come save you from the pirates, no matter who they were. If the two of you were lucky, Janet, Randy, and Marlon would agree to play too. Jackie stopped playing by the thirtieth time he had been forced into the role of Captain Hook. You would tell him that you chose it because it reminded you of how safe you had always felt when you were right next to him. Instead, you mumbled a thin excuse that you’d just picked the one with the most worn sleeve because you figured that meant he watched it the most.
You could tell that he didn’t entirely buy it, but he chose not to press, instead settling more heavily next to you. Your eyes caught the digital clock on his night stand, blinking two-thirty-five at you. You sighed, allowing yourself to melt into Michael beside you. Somewhere along the way, his left arm had found its way around your shoulders which allowed you to keep sliding further down until your head was nestled soundly in his lap. You let your eyes flutter closed, just for a moment, you promised yourself. His fingers scratched soothing patterns into your scalp, just the way that you liked it. His other arm now rested across you, fingers tapping an idle pattern against your ribs as the lost boys tramped across the screen in technicolor. The warmth lulled you off to sleep, a soft mumble tumbling from your sleep-slackened jaw, “Night, Mikey”. You could have sworn you felt his lips ghost over your forehead in the lightest of kisses.
—---------------------------
Soft pink light filtering in through the curtains eventually woke you. Initially, you shut your eyes tight against it, pressing your face harder into your pillow and tugging the warm weight settled across you even closer. Your pillow shifted beneath you, stretching long limbs out and sighing sleepily. You shot upright immediately, knocking your head hard into a bed post.
You cursed quietly, holding a hand to the back of your head, eyes zeroing in on the clock, still taunting you quietly from the dresser, six-thirty-five. “Oh no”, you moaned, scrambling to untangle yourself from the blankets that had tangled around your limbs during the night.
Michael caught your hands, ducking his head around to try to catch your eyes, still half-asleep himself, “Baby, wha’s the matter?”, he spoke softly, voice a bit deeper and more gravelly with the morning.
You shook him off, getting to your knees, “Sorry, I just I have to go, I’m so sorry!”, your voice was almost pleading, hand still tightly pressed to the back of your head where you’d knocked it.
Michael didn’t seem to understand the gravity of the situation, trying to draw you back into his arms with sweet, soft concern practically bleeding from his facial expression, “C’mere, lemme see, baby”. His hand came around, trying to pull your own fingers away so that he could assess the damage.
You allowed it, tears collecting at your lashline. He hummed, lightly passing over the spot, “Just a bump, s’okay”, he smiled encouragingly at you.
You shook your head, pushing yourself backwards out of his grip and standing. It felt like something cracked inside of you when you did it, like you were pulling your own limbs apart, “It’s not okay, I really need to go now”, your eyes flickered back to the clock anxiously.
He frowned up at you from the floor, beneath long dark lashes, “Just stay for breakfast, mama”, he pleaded, “I’ll have Bill come and drive you home”.
“Michael, I can’t!”, you exclaimed, “My step mom, she’s gonna kill me if she finds out I’m not home. She’s going to be knocking on my bedroom door any minute, I can’t”.
He reached out to you, already climbing to his feet, “Wait, just-”.
“I’m so sorry, Mikey”, your voice broke, trembling, and then you were gone like a wisp of smoke. By the time he’d gathered himself enough to follow you, you were beyond the gates and he knew he couldn’t chase after you with the fans already gathering outside.
When Michael returned to his room, he flopped backwards onto his bed, the heels of his hands digging into his eye sockets in exasperation. Something was still bothering him about the night, about you. The way you’d said his name just now, it was so familiar. Like he’d heard it a million times before. A memory sparked in his brain and then roared to life. A little girl, beaded pigtails that the boys would tug on, her arms around his middle, teary eyes hidden in the pressed collar of his shirt, “Mikey”. Hours in the backyard playing Neverland, hands interlocked so often you had become part of each other, crumb coated fingers sitting next to each other on the bathroom vanity, your eyes. Those kind, vibrant eyes, a little sadder but still. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen it.
His feet pounded down the stairs, when he burst through the doors, Bill was standing as always at his post, 7 o’clock sharp.
He skidded to a stop in front of him, all rumpled shirt and creased jeans, curls in wild disarray, “Bill. I need you to drive”.
Bill gave him a puzzled look, but opened the door nonetheless.
—------------------------
Michael had made Bill drive around for hours that morning, down every street, cross street, and cul-de-sac in the neighborhood.
They had done it the next day too.
And the day after that.
For two weeks he had gone out every night with Louie, walking for hours in circles just in case he had somehow missed you on his first lap. Each night Michael returned to Hayvenhurst more worn and discouraged than the last. He couldn’t get you out of his head, the promise that he had made and broken, the way you had looked right at him and not told him who you were. If he had known- he had to stop himself there. The what-ifs had driven him crazier than anything else. He could hardly sleep at night, lying awake and thinking about the way that you would still be right at his side, where you belonged, if you had just said something.
The loneliness felt more oppressive than it had before. It was like missing something you didn't think would ever exist for you, that hadn’t existed yet versus the unrelenting ache, the saturnine grief of knowing that what you need is so close yet still unattainable. Joseph and his brothers had long ago given up on trying to talk to him. As long as he dragged himself through rehearsals, they didn’t mind terribly whatever kind of funk he was in. Mother still made an effort, but he found it hard to tell her what was going on, he couldn’t expose the shame and desperation he felt over the whole situation.
Bill knocked on the frame of his bedroom door, loud enough to startle Michael upright, “Hey Joker, how do you feel about going to town? I heard Tom’s got some new stuff in, we could go shopping and then make a drop at the hospital? That always makes ya feel good”.
Michael shrugged, “I guess that sounds okay”, he tried to make his voice less flat.
Judging by the look on Bill’s face, he hadn’t succeeded.
He tried to let it go once they’d entered the store. Michael followed behind Bill, peering over his shoulders and grabbing things to put in the shopping cart. He couldn’t help but think of you when he made a choice, turning a bubble gun over in his hands. A small smile twitched at his mouth at the thought of the two of you running around Hayvenhurst in the midday sun. This time, the cart teemed with all of the things that you might like, stuffed animals and puzzles, games and coloring books. He held a plump teddy bear under one of his arms, remembering that you’d pointed one out just like it when Katherine had taken both of you to the supermarket with her way back when.
The checkout situation ended as it did most of the time, with the cashier slowly moving through thousands of dollars of merchandise, and Michael moving through signature after signature. He signed a football for a surly little boy, a game of connect four for a teenage girl, and the foot of a stuffed lion for a little girl with pigtails tied back in ribbons. By the time he looked up, the sky had darkened into purplish hues, clouds blocking out the sun entirely. Rain dotted against the sidewalk and dripped from the overhang. A woman passed by the window, holding what appeared to be a completely drenched hoodie over her head. Didn’t seem to be doing much good, he thought passively, noting that her jeans and top were soaked all the way through, clinging tightly to her skin. The woman turned her head briefly towards him, perhaps trying to shield her eyes from the rain and his breath caught in his chest. He finished the signature he was on with a flourish, tossing the basketball back towards a startled elementary school and then he was darting in between people towards the door, staunchly ignoring Bill’s increasingly alarmed calls of his name behind him.
—--------------------------------
You swiped halfheartedly at the hair stuck tight to your forehead, knowing that it was futile. Water ran down your cheeks in rivulets, dripped from the tip of your nose. You crinkled it up miserably. You’d been bound and determined to do something for yourself for your birthday, now that you had the funds to support yourself in doing so. Darla had told you it was going to storm, but because it was Darla you had paid her no mind. You were trying not to admit to yourself that she could have been right about something.
Your socks squished unpleasantly in your sneakers as you pushed your way through the throng of people forming around one of the store fronts. Popular day to buy toys, you thought, squeezing yourself closer to the store’s window to avoid the rain and the crowd. You’d just paused at the corner, squinting up at the street sign when a voice rang out from behind you. It rose above the chattering of everybody around you, though you felt their eyes turn to look in your direction. “Honey!!”.
It was loud anyways, but the name caused you to turn instinctively, a reflex that hadn’t been used in years.
He stood inches from you, he must have been running, your mind supplied. He didn't look out of breath at all. Courtesy of being in great shape from touring, probably. He repeated the word, softer, more intimately, just for you, “Honey”.
His arms opened and you fell right into them, “Mikey”. His arms came around you, pressed you so tightly to his chest that it was as if he expected you to crawl right inside of it, make a home next to his heart, and stay there. His lips pressed against your hair, not seeming to care about the rain, or the wind, or the people. The next words he spoke rumbled out against your temple privately, “Why didn’t you tell me, honey?”.
You shrugged, you didn’t want to provide the answer that was real. He pulled back, hands on your shoulders so he could look you in the eyes, waiting for your response insistently. You looked off over his shoulder, “I thought maybe even if I told you, you wouldn’t remember me. Maybe it was more important to me than it was to you”.
Michael’s whole face softened, catching your chin between his thumb and forefinger so that you could detach yourself from the intensity of his gaze, “You are so important to me. I’ve spent hours, days, weeks trying to find you again. Honey, I couldn’t ever forget you”.
You rolled your eyes good naturedly, “You kinda did though”.
Michael shook his head, “Mmh, I seem to recall that you were going to be my date to the Grammys next week. See, I remember”.
You shook your head fondly, leaning into him, “Well then, I’m gonna need a dress”.
“Anything you want, honey”, he mumbled. His lips finally closed the distance to meet yours, pressing softly against you. You melted into him completely, any distance that had ever been between you disappearing in a blink. When you kissed him back it was without hesitation, your arms coming up to loop behind his neck, anchoring him to you indefinitely.
Pairing: (Ex)Husband!Michael Jackson x black!reader
Synopsis: After finding out about Michael's secret shrine, your marriage comes to a halt. Michael's got a lot to do to make it up to you. Read part 1 here
Warning: N/A. just a couple beefing tbh.
Michael watches you pack a night bag, grabbing any article of clothing from drawers and wardrobes before chucking them into the duffle bag without a care. Your eyes are blurred from hot tears glossing them over, but you simply sniffle and keep packing.
“Please, my love, don’t?” He pleads. The need to touch you burns within him, but he knows better. God, he’s really messed up this time.
When you turn around after packing your toiletries into your bag, you notice Michael's downcast eyes. Guilt eats at you again. The recent memory of hitting him drops a terrible feeling into your stomach. He notices your remorse, lifting his hand over his slightly bruised cheek as if remembering the slap as well.
“I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to hit you.” You whisper, hands shaking over your now-full duffle bag. You stand before him, finally picking the bag up and heading downstairs.
Michael follows a few steps behind you, darting his eyes around the looming living room where a few maids still work in the late afternoon. When you reach the door, you pull it open into the cool summer’s air, looking for one of your car keys in your purse.
“Here,” Michael starts, handing you a car key for one of the Porsches parked in the driveway, “I know you don’t want to be here right now, but I’ll make it right. Just please…”
“Please what?” You yank the keys out of his hands with more force than expected. Mike’s expression pretty much shatters painfully.
“Don’t leave me…I can’t…I don’t want a divorce, please.”
You don’t reply; you can’t. Without another word, you unlock the car and drive off, the Porsche disappearing from Michael’s line of sight.
3 Months Later
Hotel living has been…a bore. You get up in the morning, order breakfast, take a dip in the pool through lunch and then eat dinner in the main dining hall before heading back up to your penthouse. Michael doesn’t know where you are, or at least you think he doesn’t. No communication has been sent to you from anyone in his team. Maybe he was giving you space? Or he had nothing to say?
Whatever.
You walked to your penthouse, unlocking the door and draping yourself on the bed with a quiet huff. You slipped out of your dinner outfit and into pyjamas, wrapping your braids in a silk head wrap before walking sluggishly to the minibar. You poured yourself a glass of red wine, sipping it just as slowly as you’d walked. And then the phone rang.
“Uh huh?” you answered, rolling your eyes when you didn’t get a fast response.
“…Y/N?” Michael spoke just above a whisper. his breathings heavy, like being on the one weighs heavily on him. “It’s me.”
Your heart skipped a beat as you stood by the mini bar, wine in hand, slightly swaying in the glass. “Michael…how’d you find me?”
“You’re cashing checks at The Biltmore Hotel…I keep getting mail.” He answers softly, twirling the cord in his hands on his side of the line.
Of course he’d get mail…
“What do you want?” You bite your lip before taking another sip.
“Come home.”
“No.” You mutter with wine still in your mouth.
“Then I’m cutting you off.” He threatens, and you laugh bitterly.
“Really?” You giggle in a tipsy state—that glass of wine wasn’t your first. “You’re serious?”
“Yes. I’m serious. You can’t keep living in a damn hotel.” Michael mutters.
“I’m not coming home when that room still exists.” You spit back over the phone. You take another sip of wine and almost slam the glass on the counter.
A long pause of silence stretches over you both. Neither of you wants to break the silence. You’re too stubborn; he’s too stubborn. Lord help you both—
“I’ll burn everything. Just come back.” Michael finally cracks. You can hear a peacock crying in the background and then one of the maids squealing at the sound—she loves the damn things.
“You’ll burn it? I doubt that.” You mutter, switching the lines so you can use the phone by the bed.
“I will.” He retorts.
“That won’t change anything.” You retort as well.
“It’s a start.”
The next day
You drive back to the ranch with your windows rolled down, and the top dropped. Cool California air swooshes over you, hair floating in response. Soft music plays on the radio, but you don’t hear it, too focused on preventing yourself from turning the car around back to the hotel.
When you finally reach Neverland Ranch, the gates open for you and you drive in. You park the car sideways near the house door and purse your lips when you see him. Michael walks out with his hands in his pockets, loafers covered in a sleek layer of dust as he walks to you. You look away when he leans against the car. He looks tired, like he hadn’t been sleeping properly since you left.
“Come on. I already took it all out.” Michael opens the car door for you, waiting for you to exit before walking around the large ranch house to the drier fields in the distance. Photos, clothes and jewels sit in open boxes near a bonfire pit yet to be lit. He walks in front of you, body stiff with nerves.
“You were serious on the phone last night?” You ask, baffled as you crouch down and lift the same photo you threw at him 3 months back. He rubs his hands over his knees before crouching beside you.
“I was. I know it’s not enough for you to trust me but—”
“Just light the bitch up already.” You stand and throw a box in the bonfire pit.
Michael chuckles in disbelief at your words, picking up a red jug of gasoline before pouring it over the box. He looks at you with a pathetic smile on his lips, wondering if any of this will make a difference to you. He broke your heart, shattered trust within you when he hid that room away from you—the fact that he had it in the first place. He can’t imagine how much anguish he planted in your heart when you found out about his godforsaken shrine.
Your eyes stay planted on the drenched box. Clothes—most definitely Diana’s—and photos of him and Diana drip with yellowish liquid. You both take a step back when Michael lights a match, throwing it into the pit with a sharp flick of his wrist. A bright blue flame flashes before you, sending a wave of heat less than a second later. When the fire goes yellow, the cardboard box and its contents begin melting and burning up. Ashes fall on the ground, orange linings around them in their wake. A faint smile flashes across your face, and you pick up another box—one with fake flowers and tinsel—and toss it into the flame. It too begins to burn.
“Beautiful.” You hum beside Mike, arms crossed, and chest puffed up in defiance. “You can’t burn the jewellery.”
“I can.” He lifts the box, but you stop him, placing a gentle hand over his shoulder.
“Mike, you can’t burn gold like that. It’ll just get mangled and stick to the pit.” You laugh and shake your head.
Oh god, he’s melting. He hasn’t heard that laugh in so long. You can basically see him dissolve.
“Oh yeah. What should we do with it?” He asks with a grin so big, it looks like his mouth might rip apart.
You shrug and look in the box. “Give it away. Make sure she sees you do it too.”
“O-okay…” Michael huffs wearily.
Your face falls, and a small frown replaces the smile that once rested on your face. He’s having doubts. Of course he is. Whatever history him and Diana have weighs heavily in his heart. Michael never went into detail about it, but you always had your suspicions that something less tasteful occurred between then, when he was younger. But he’s not a baby anymore. He’s a man, your man. He has responsibilities as a husband.
“So?” You pipe up.
“That’s petty, Y/N.” He shakes his head.
“Well, I’m a petty woman. So what are you going to do?” You quip.
The fire continues to burn behind you both, carbon crackling in the heat like fresh popcorn. You wait for his answer, wondering what he’ll say. He doesn’t know it yet, but you brought divorce papers. They’re sitting in the car waiting for his signature. Maybe you’re overreacting; the entire debacle makes you extremely uncomfortable. You’re not entirely sure this arson thing will make it any better.
“Fine, I'll give it away.” Michael sighs. He holds the box under his arm, eyes focused on you. “Are you going to leave me?” He whispers, the words too much for him.
“I don’t know. I brought papers.” You shrug and look away.
“Did you sign them?”
“No. Not yet.” You clear your throat.
“’Not yet’? So you will?” He frowns.
“I don’t know.” You repeat yourself. “This whole thing’s messing with me.”
“I’m sorry. Please, we can work through this.” He pleads.
“There’s a lot to unpack, Mike. And I don’t think you’re ready to delve into that.” Your words are honest and true, touching him right where it hurts.
“I’ll try. I’ll really, really try, “He begs, putting the box down. “I love you too much to lose you.”
The sun starts to set, painting the sky in a mix of orange and purple hues. If you choose to give him a chance, he’ll have to truly put his guard down and open up to you, which you doubt he’ll be able to do. There are things in his life that he’s refused to speak to you about, and as much as you loved him, you always felt rejected by his secrecy.
“Fine, but the papers stay on the centre island in the kitchen. And I get my own room in the meantime.” You agree reluctantly, making your way back to your car.
Michael’s breath hitches at your demands, choosing to keep his protests to himself because he knows he has no right to fight you over this. He’s in the wrong, and he has to earn his way back into your heart.
Can you please do a Michael x Black Fem Reader, where the reader goes off on the interviewers when they start asking super personally invasive and weird questions?
So over it!
Authors Note: This was so fun to write I hope it is to your liking. So proud of the fact I was able to put out two requests the power of a cup of coffee and quiet lol. Edited by @discojupiters with that being said again I hope you enjoy it.
You didn't want to do this interview in the first place. The harsh lights blinding you, the sound of so many people scurrying around you to do a million things overwhelming you, and don't even start on the interviewers themselves. The ones who can't help but ask dumb questions. The questions that left you feeling like you were in the twilight zone. The questions that no one was stupid enough to ask the way that they do.
But here you are sitting in a plushy chair giving the illusion of comfort. To get you comfortable and pliant so that they can strike you and break your spirit.
Why were you here again? Oh right, because you were in love and wanted to support your man. Michael had been through enough and you were sick of people using his kindness as a perfect opportunity to embarrass him. You had enough and when Michael brought up another interview that he was forced to do to wrap up the end of his tour, you said fine. You told him to do it with one exception. That you had to be there with him either in the interview or behind the scenes.
And being the guy he is, he wanted you right next to him.
So that's how you got in this situation to begin with.
"Okay, we're just about ready, everyone."
You hear someone call from somewhere not too far away. You turn to Michael and grab his hand to give him some type of assurance.
"Don't you worry, I'm going to be here the entire time."
He looks at you in admiration not just for being here but for the strength you had to have to ensure no one would even attempt to play in your face, sadly as much as others chose to do to him.
"I'm trying, baby."
"And that's all I want you to do, I won't let anyone be disrespectful, especially with me here. Your tour is over, you're not obligated to do anything more."
He nods his head as he smiles at you. The grip of his hand tightens around you.
"Cameras rolling in…"
You both turn to look at the beady-eyed interviewer in front of you.
"3, 2, and 1."
"Welcome everyone to 'Let's Review,' we are here with the world's most adored couple of our generation."
As you're both being introduced, you prepare for the start of the questioning.
"Michael, I just want to start by saying what a wonderful tour you just had. How are you feeling?"
"Thank you, I'm feeling alright. I don't like to tour much but I always put my fans first so I'm happy to give my all for them"
You turn to look at him as he speaks passionately about his love of his fans. It's one of the things you admire so much about Michael. The love he has for others and his fans holds so much of his heart that you can't help but love his fans as well.
"Why don't you like to tour?"
You turn back to the interviewer hoping you weren't hearing anything passive aggressive.
"It can be a lot moving from one place to another so abruptly with little sleep but I do it anyways for my wonderful fans that support me. I—"
"Michael, would you say your relationship with your fans is unhealthy?"
You eye twitches as he interrupts.
"Um no, I love them and they love me. I do everything for them just as they do the same. They use their money and time to consistently support me. There are fans who been following my career since I was just a child. They mean so much to me and I want to show them that."
"Interesting."
There's a beat of silence that follows that leaves Michael shifting in his chair and looking at you. You're to busy looking at the interviewer to notice his glance.
"Next question," you say, cutting the silence.
"Right, I would like to actually ask about your guys' relationship. People are wondering how you guys do it. The constant distance, the lack of privacy. Are you guys intimate enough to keep your relationship strong and going?"
Michael stares at the interviewer in shock, his eyes no longer hiding how uncomfortable he is. He looks at you again and this time your eyes are already looking at him. Your eyes let him know that there is no stopping you now.
He looks back in front of him as he sighs, shaking his head without trying to laugh.
"Why exactly are you asking? Are you trying to be a third?" you reply, shocking everyone around you, though you can't stop now. You're just starting.
You continue, "because if that's the case then I'm afraid to say for you but we're not interested, cuck or not."
The interviewer's eyes look ready to pop out of his head in embarrassment and shock, not expecting you to have responded in such a manner.
"Well…"
Michael is shaking in his seat next to you, his other hand covering his face in an attempt to hide his laughter.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Jackson, I didn't mean to offend you."
"No, you just meant to make us uncomfortable, right?"
As you stare him down, the room suddenly doesn't feel as crowded, as if you're lost in your annoyance.
"Come on, baby, let's see what he has to say now."
Michael whispers something only meant for you to hear, but the mic on his shirt captures the words anyway, letting everyone hear the amusement in his voice.
The shame of being called out live on TV left the interviewer to reel in the invasive questions and continue the interview respectfully, well, with a hint of a broken ego.
As the interview comes to a close and the mics are being taken, Michael helps you stand up and hugs your waist.
"That was amazing," he whispers near in your ear, swaying your bodies side to side.
"It was nothing." you smile, looking up at him.
You gaze at each other, glad that all of this is over. You grin as you start to guide him away from the seats.
"Let's get out of here."
He looks down at you, biting his lip, letting you guide him.
He was ready to show you just how amazing you were today.
— SUMMARY: After 6 months of being together, Michael decides that tonight’s the perfect time to ask for just one anniversary gift; he wants you to start controlling him in the bedroom.
— WARNINGS: sub!mike, needy!mike, lots of tension, body worship, size kink, angst (if you look through a microscope), dumbification (kinda…?), face sitting, oral (f receiving), handjob, unprotected p in v, nipple play, dacryphilia, no use of ‘y/n’, soft!dom reader, mean!dom reader, use of mommy (kinda), use of ma’am, mike is kinda pussy drunk, timestamps are unimportant, kinda slow burn, gets kinda fluffy at the end, implied aftercare.
— WC: 5.1k (I got carried away…)
— A/N: The winner of this poll. I fs got carried away lmaooo. Like, comment, n reblog! And don’t be shy to flood my asks, i don’t bite..always.
It wasn’t even noticeable at first. Well, not really, until you connected every small instance like one huge puzzle. A particularly suggestive flutter of his eyelashes, a nearly crimson blush on his cheeks whenever you praised him for anything. Then, there was that one time when you called yourself ‘mommy’ as a joke.
You’d just arrived home from your 4-month anniversary dinner date. Your feet were aching; clad in a pair of deep red 8-inch pumps that Michael practically begged you to wear. “I think it’s sexy that you’re taller than me in those heels. Your legs look extra long and beautiful. Please m-, baby? Please, wear them.” That just about undid you.
You’d started regretting letting him sway you like that, though, because you swore that with every step, you could feel a new callous forming on your pinky toe.
“Come help mommy take these things off, baby.” It was said so casually, because it was. Yet, his reaction had you thinking you’d said something offensive. He’d just finished taking off his own loafers, one knee on the floor. He nearly toppled all the way over, and he looked up at you with this almost pained expression. You could’ve sworn you saw tears welling up in his eyes.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound so direct. It’s probably the wine…I’ll take them off mys–” He’d waved off your thought with his left hand, cleared his throat, and mumbled something along the lines of “…seriously driving me insane” under his breath, but it sounded lighthearted enough for you not to question him further. The two of you had your best sex yet that night.
Last week, though? It got to a point where Michael damn near made you lose your mind. You put on a pair of jeans that were slightly too long, and you didn’t have time to get them hemmed, so you asked your boyfriend to cuff the bottoms for you, playfully pretending to press your stiletto onto his chest while he knelt down.
“Yes ma’am,” he responded earnestly. He looked up at you while he said it, eyes glazed over with sparkles and something else you couldn’t quite place. There was a faint, crooked smile playing on his lips. One that read: I’m right where I want to be. He clasped his hands behind his back and bowed his head like he was in the presence of royalty, then continued on with the task.
Really, it was a very quick exchange. Almost even casual; you just so happened to remember every aspect of it because it ruined you and your panties for the next two days.
That’s what’d been on your mind all afternoon. The two of you decided to spend your 6-month anniversary at a beachfront resort. Michael rented the whole thing out nearly two months in advance, your display of subtle dominance on your 4-month anniversary influencing the idea. He had a plan, and all he needed to do was gather up the confidence to act upon it.
You two took a series of photos on the digital camera he gifted you, involving various activities; a photo of you eating the breakfast he cooked the two of you in your suite’s kitchen, one of him almost missing his step on the jetski he was gonna race you on…One of you towering above him as he adjusted the delicate golden anklet he gave you the day prior, the cursive M glinting in the sunlight. He coughed hysterically to cover up the sound of its shudder, internally chastising himself for forgetting to turn off the sound in its settings.
When you two got home, he seemed overly eager about the evening, his attitude rubbing off on you. The both of you were a giggling mess, and you were completely sober. Just high off of the presence of the other.
The two of you had dinner reservations at 6:30pm, so you decided to shower together to ‘save water’ and time. Michael basically did the showering for the both of you though, making sure to do every step like you would. You’ve showered together enough for him to know your whole routine, and it made your heart swell with warmth, and your thighs unnoticeably squeeze together with want. He even rinsed and dried the both of you, making sure you didn’t lift your pretty fingers to do anything but grip onto his shoulders for balance.
It made you insatiable.
While you put on the finishing touches of your makeup, Michael approached you with a pleading look settled onto his face.
“Does this shirt look weird untucked? Should I button it up some more?”
You turned around, your unset makeup almost plastering onto his black button up. He looked delicious. Your mouth actually got watery at the sight right in front of you. You gulped down your lust, and met his eyes.
“Michael, you look beautiful. Leave it untucked and unbuttoned just like that. Wow.”
He ducked his head slightly, a faint blush crawling up his neck, as he let out a nervous chuckle. For a man so gorgeous, you’d think he’d be used to compliments from his own girlfriend by now.
“Y-you sure? Tonight’s important. I wanna look like we belong together. Like I belong with you.”
It took everything in you not to ruin your dinner plans and prove it to him right there, your hands fighting the urge to push him onto the bed and show him just how pretty you thought he was.
You cleared your throat and answered with a joking, “Michael, I’d swear you have a praise kink or something, because there’s no way you don’t see just how tasty you look right now.”
You turned back to the mirror, powdering up your face and putting on the remainder of your lip combo.
You didn’t notice just how badly Michael was holding it together from that point forward.
The two of you played the rest of the night cool, though. Nothing out of the ordinary, save for Michael fighting off his neediness when you ordered for him because you noticed him get shy, and when you wiped enchilada sauce off of his face, calling him your ‘clumsy baby.’ Or, the instance where you almost dragged him to the bathroom when you asked if he wanted dessert, and looked at you all lovesick with a, “Yes, please.”
He aggressively adjusted his black jeans, not so subtly, after you told him to pick up the napkin he (purposely) dropped. He felt like he was drunk. His nerves and his body were on fire. He started to down the bottle of wine he purchased for the two of you, for liquid courage. You quickly followed suit. It did nothing to help either of your states.
On the walk back to your suite, Michael’s demeanor nearly killed your buzz. He looked terrified.
“Mikey, baby. What’s wrong?” you asked, stepping in front of him and tilting his head up by his chin so he’d look you in your eyes. The heels you wore had you standing taller than him, and, unbeknownst to you, that only made it worse.
“It’s nothin, baby.” he responded, but his voice wasn’t matching his actions.
“Michael, come on, it’s me. What’s going o-”
“I said it’s nothin’,” he cut you off sharply. His voice was loud- too loud- and he wouldn’t look you in the eyes. He grabbed ahold of the hand that you had underneath his chin, and rushed the two of you the rest of the way to the hotel.
You were furious. Concerned by his terror-stricken face, mostly. But, his sharpness with you stirred something inside that you thought you’d buried, only fueled by the ache in your feet from nearly running in stilettos.
As you made it to your room, you pushed past his usually taller frame, and sat down onto the nearest plush chair, bending over to undo the straps of your pumps. You heard the door close with a click and looked up to see Michael rushing his way towards you, trying to stop you from removing them yourself. The two of you had your hands tangled in a mess; his fingers trying to gently push yours off, and yours almost aggressively shoving his.
“Enough, Michael.”
He gulped loudly, seeming almost embarrassed to look at you.
That was almost enough to ease the fire on your lips. Almost.
“Look at me while I’m speaking to you. What happened, and why are you acting so weird towards me?” Your voice quivered on the latter half of your question, insecurity starting to creep its way through your tone. Your cleared your throat and waited for him to speak.
He sighed visibly at the beginning of your monologue. The words affecting him in a way you couldn’t understand.
He continued removing your shoes as he answered, needing something to keep his eyes away from yours, due to the vulnerable truth behind his actions.
“I…” he cleared his throat. “I want you to control me.”
That was not what you were expecting. You waited, scared that you’d misinterpreted the intentions behind his words, hoping he’d expand on it further. By this point, both of your shoes were off, and he was still kneeling in front of your legs, both of his hands opting to massage on one of your aching feet. He still wasn’t looking at you.
“Mike…?” you asked. Your voice slightly deepened with a lust you were fighting so hard to control. You ran your fingers through his hair softly, eliciting a soft whine from his throat. You used the hand in his hair to gently guide his face up to yours. He obeyed your silent command as soon as you slightly tugged, actions already proving that he meant what you thought he did. Your stomach did a flip. The alcohol in your system was making you extremely sensitive to your emotions, everything heightened. Apparently, Michael was going through the same.
“I-I mean. Well look at you…Your legs are so long, ‘n you take care of me so good. You’re so good at telling people what to do and I always wish it was me on the other end of that. I- I think about you doing things to me. Things that I can’t control. I sometimes try ‘n push your buttons just so you can finally snap at me, but you’re so patient, even though your energy is kinda scary, and that somehow drives me even crazier.” The alcohol had him saying quite literally every word that came into his brain. He’d managed to fully massage all the tension from your feet during the rambling. He gave them each a quick peck and set them down gently onto the plush carpet beneath you. Then he sat up on his knees, properly. Both of his hands were placed on his lap like he was preparing for prayer.
“Please, baby. I can’t take it anymore. I want you to use me and control me and take everything I have. I want you to be mean to me and I want you to punish me for being rude earlier. Put me in my place, please. Please, pleasepleaseplease. It’s embarrassing, but I really do want this.” He added the last part after he noticed you weren’t responding, embarrassment and alcohol settling into his bones. He started sniffling, his eyes rimming with tears.
You didn’t say a word. Silently, you stood up, gripping Michael by the collar, dragging his frame up with yours, and then crashed your lips into his. He whimpered loudly. The sound shred the last bit of sanity you had left. The two of you tumbled through the doors that led to your room, his socks being kicked off and your shawl strewn onto the floor on the way there.
You turned him around and shoved him onto the bed forcefully. Michael looked up at you like you held the universe up just for him. Your hands made their way to his shirt first. The opened buttons were driving you crazy all day. You started unbuttoning, but grew impatient, opting to just aggressively pull them apart instead, buttons popping off and flying onto the floor in the act.
Michael was a whimpering mess beneath you, and you hadn’t even touched him properly. His hands were at his sides and his body was rigid. He hadn’t even tried touching you.
“Mikey, baby. You know you can touch me, right?”
“I just wanted your permission first ma- ahem. Baby.”
“What was that?” you questioned, catching his slip-up.
“Nothin’,” Mike said, clearly embarrassed. He tried kissing you after to cover it up, but the alcohol in your system made you not care. You pushed his torso back down onto the bed.
“Don’t lie to me, Michael. I can stop all this right now,” you said sternly.
“I..Uhm. It’s just.. sometimes I kinda wanna call you..mommy…?” He phrased it like a question.
That’s how you ended up the position the two of you were in right now. Him with his head propped up on the spare pillows he requested earlier, and your body propped up on his face, straddling it. Michael was going dumb beneath you, fully letting your core and the alcohol in his veins consume him.
“Mmm, Mikey. I didn’t know you had this in you,” you say with surprise laced into your voice. And it’s true. The two of you had sex a few times, but he usually seemed okay with taking over for you. Only now did you realize that it was more of him servicing you than taking control.
“I’ve always had it in me, m- ah baby,” he says, slightly pushing his head further into the pillow so he can speak.
You grab one of his nipples and pinch it harshly.
“Did I say you could stop? Don’t think I forgot about your little attitude earlier.”
That only turns him on further though, his hips jutting into the air immediately at the rough contact.
“N-no. I’m sor- ah- sorry baby. You’re right. I’ve been s-so bad,” his voice melting into a needy whine on the last word.
“Yeah, so bad. I- mmm- s-should teach you a lesson, shouldn’t I?”
“P-please. Please do whatever you want to me. I’ll make it up to y…ou, mmm.”
In one swift movement, you climb off of his face, and settle your soaking core onto his bare chest. You take your right hand and place it onto his neck with no pressure- yet.
“How sorry are you?” you question, his fucked out face only fueling your actions.
“Really sorry. Sorrier than I can even put into words,” he jumbled out. Not good enough. You give him a slight slap on the face, and then grip onto his neck with more fervor. He moans like it’s his first time being touched sexually.
“That’s it? You’re sooo sorry you can’t even say it?” you scoff at him, playing up your anger just to see him fold beneath your grasp. You begin grinding down hard onto his chest, reveling in this.
“N-no! I mean, yes, b-but, fuck keep using me like that please. I just, I have to show you. Let me show you?” he says, still trying to work your pussy between each word.
“Hmm, go ahead then,” you respond almost immediately, intrigued by his request.
He tenderly grabs onto your thighs and lifts your body up off of his chest, and places you next to him, sliding from the bed in the same movement. Then, he eagerly walks to the foot of the bed and sinks onto his knees, beckoning you toward him with two of his fingers, his twinkling eyes never leaving yours.
“Join me, please?” he asks, voice laced with desire.
You seductively crawl toward him, his body looking meek in this position. You can feel your core drip more at the sight of him. He uncrosses your legs for you, making sure to do all of the work. He’s gonna prove to you just how sorry he is for not being a good boy.
He takes one of your legs and starts to press hot, open-mouthed kisses to every inch of it; from the tips of your toes, to the backs of your knees. His eyes never leave yours. He’s waiting for some sign of approval, a praise, anything that tells him he’s making up for it, but you sit there in shock, staring at the submissive man beneath you. You’re almost too scared to move, afraid that any action or sound will break the spell.
Then he starts to speak. “You’re so beautiful. Your body’s like a painting that only Michelangelo himself could’ve imagined. How could I have been so stupid? You deserve everything. I’m gonna give you everything,” he says between kisses.
“This?” he says, kissing your inner thigh, “I don’t even deserve it. I’m lucky to be able to touch you like this. Lucky ta even see you like this.”
He grabs onto your hips, and looks up at you, pleading.
“M gonna make you feel so good. I promise.”
Michael kisses up the soft skin of your stomach, making sure to save what’s beneath it for last. Then, he makes it to your breasts, and drool dribbles out of his mouth as he speaks.
“I don’t even deserve these,” he says, almost to himself with a sigh. He peppers kisses to the undersides of them, teasing his way up to your erect nipples. Then, he takes one into his mouth, suckling like a man starved. You nearly scream from pleasure at the contact, causing Michael to look up with worry, only for him to see your blissed expression. He grabs your other nipple and rolls it between his fingers, still holding eye contact with you.
“F-fuck Michael, that’s it baby. Just like that.”
He switches his ministrations to your next nipple, replacing his mouth with his hand, and his hand with his mouth. He starts whimpering louder and louder with each gasp you take, your arousal fueling his tenfold. You feel high. You try clamping your legs together, but his lanky body is blocking you from doing so, eliciting a whine from your lips. He notices this. He notices everything. He removes the hand from your nipple and immediately starts rubbing languid, deep circles on it. You let out a loud moan straight from your diaphragm, internally thanking Michael for renting the whole resort out for the two of you.
Michael’s lips detach from your tit with a pop. “You like this?” he questions genuinely, wanting to be good for you.
“Mike- fuck- yes! L-love it! So good!” You can barely even think properly, your mind only focused on how his long fingers work your clit with ease.
“Mmm,” he responds, not fully satisfied with himself. He doesn’t want you to love it. He wants you to crave it.
He gets up and straddles your waist, fingers still slowly rubbing your clit, searching your neck for its sweet spot with his lips. When you buck your core into his hand at a particular area, he starts licking and biting on it, hungrily inhaling the perfume on your neck in the process.
“You-ngh. You smell so sweet. Did you wear my favorite perfume for me?” he asks, a wave of gratitude crashing onto him.
“Y-yes Mike. Come on- more. I need more. Give me more.” You’re desperate now. You have half a mind not to start fucking yourself on his fingers right there, but he’s one step ahead.
His fingers slide straight into your pussy, and your walls clenched around them immediately, not expecting the intrusion so suddenly. Your back arched up off the bed, lifting both of you in the process.
“M sorry. I’m gonna get you there baby. I promise.” Without another word, he carefully slides back down your frame, and starts suckling at your clit like he’s tasting ice cream for the first time ever, his fingers still curling and pumping in and out of you. Your eyes start to water.
“Ohhhh my- fuuuuuck. Mikeyyy, baby mmm. S-shit. I feel sososo good. So good. You’re so good to me baby. My perfect- ah. My perfect angel. S-so pretty on your knees for me.” You smile at him weakly and squeeze his head in between your thighs forcefully, grinding yourself onto his mouth and nose. The dichotomy is giving him whiplash.
The praise that you give Michael is driving him halfway insane. He moans erotically into your squelching pussy, pumping his fingers into you faster and harsher, squeezing his thighs together for his own relief. The sight of you using him like this is making his brain go numb, the only thing on his mind is making up for his behavior earlier. Making sure you’re feeling good.
Your legs start to shake uncontrollably now, a telltale sign of your orgasm approaching.
This fuels Michael further.
“Please cum on my face. I wanna taste it, ma.”
You almost do it on the spot, but you have other plans. You lightly kick his face from between your legs and his mouth detaches from your pussy loudly. He looks at you confused, his face glistening with your arousal.
“I’m sorry. Did I do something wro-” You interrupt him by slamming your lips onto his, the force of it pushing his torso onto the floor. You moan at the taste of yourself on his mouth, your tongue searching for his in the process. You break the kiss and lean into his ear with a seductive whisper. “I want to fuck you, Michael.”
His entire body goes rigid and he gasps loudly. You palm him through his jeans, feeling his dick straining against the black fabric. He sucks in a sharp breath, wanting so desperately for more friction, while simultaneously wanting to show you he can be good.
“Ohhh, were you this hard all this time, baby?” you coo at him, loving how the condescending tone in your words feels.
“A-ah yes. I just wanted you to feel good,” he replies between choked breaths, seemingly trying not to pass out. He loves how dumb you’re making him feel.
“Aww my good boy, you did so well for me. I think it’s time for us to both feel good together, hmm?” you ask him, eager for his response. He looks so pretty like this, and his whimpers sound even prettier.
“O-only if that’s what you want. Ngh- everything’s your choice. Everything, everything,” he slurs out, already losing his grasp on reality due to the way you’re speaking to him and the way you rub hungrily against his clothed erection.
You unzip his jeans faster than he can even process and pulled them down off his legs along with his boxers, his leaking erection slapping against his abdomen harshly.
“Look at me,” you command him. He obeys without a second thought.
You take your pretty manicured hands and begin to jerk him off slowly, enjoying the way he tries not to grind up into your hands because he’s your good boy.
You speed up your actions faster, faster, faster, until you see Michael nearing his climax. He’s warning you over and over that he’s gonna cum, not wanting to before you do. Not after his behavior today. He didn’t deserve it, and you agree.
“Baby, pleeeeease, ‘m so close. Can’t do it. You have ta first. Iss too good ‘n i can’t hold it,” he whines, tears threatening to fall from his eyes. You kiss them away and go faster, ignoring his cries. The tears only turned you on further.
“F-FUCK! BABY I’M GONN-” You stop moving your hand entirely, and squeeze down on his dick hard.
“Wh-wha..” Michael trails off, not knowing how to speak anymore.
“Thank you,” he says, looking up at you with tear-filled eyes, chest heaving. He knew better than to complain- you touching him at all was enough.
You lean up to give him a quick kiss, before lining his dick up with your entrance and sinking down onto it. The stretch was enough to make your legs shake and almost make you fall over. You can’t take it all at once, opting to go slowly, grinding yourself against it in the meantime.
“Oh my GOD,” Michael cries out, propping himself up on his elbows so he can look at you. You look like an answered prayer.
“Mikey, you’re too big,” you whine out, drawling the last word out on purpose.
“I’m sor-ry,” he sincerely apologizes. It would’ve made you laugh if you weren’t so turned on by his facial expression. You sink the rest of the way down, too impatient to care about the burn. You grip onto his neck for support and start riding him slowly, your thighs burning with pain and pleasure. Michael moans at the feeling of your delicate fingers around his neck again and he loses his filter completely.
“Please choke me again. Hard. Control when I can breathe,” he begs you. You do just that and start bouncing against his length, the begging and whimpering from your boyfriend turning you on more than you’ve ever been.
His eyes start to roll back, and you loosen your grip so that he can gasp for air, his lungs greedily swallowing the oxygen creeping in. He starts rolling his hips up into yours to help, knowing riding isn’t easy for women. Always the gentleman, even when you’re fucking his brains out. He looks into your eyes, grabs your free hand and starts sucking on your fingers, muffling his moans with them from embarrassment. You don’t know whether to be angry that he won’t let you hear them, or turned on from the sight, so you grind and choke him harder.
His eyes fog over and he drools onto his chest, arching his back up to meet all of your grinds. You loosen your grip once again.
“Let me hear your pretty voice, baby,” you drawl at him, removing your fingers from his mouth and using them to playwith your nipple. That basically does it for him.
“Baaaaaaby. Oh my god I-I can’t even think. You’re s-so good to me and- YEAH keep touching yourself like that please. You’re so beauti-f-ful. I’m never letting you go. You’re t-too perfect iss driving me crazy. Plea-”you choke him again- “Mmmfuck. Please cum on me. Please use my body to cum.”
“Then fuck me like you want it, Mike,” you order, dragging your fingers down from his neck, using your nails to scratch all the way down to his chest.
“Yes, ma’am.”
He flips you over and pins you beneath him, and begins thrusting into you the exact way he knows you like it, totally focusing on your pleasure.
“I won’t, baby.” He presses a hand onto your stomach for comfort, but what he felt flipped a switch in him. He looked down and saw himself moving inside of your belly.
“Oh my god…” he gasped out, making you look at him with concern. “B-baby. I can see myself inside of you,” he says, genuinely surprised.
“It’s ‘cause you’re so big,” you say, pouting at him. “G-go ahead, baby. Fuck me until m’ cervix is shaped like your dick.” He groaned at the filth in your words, doing just as you said. His body began to shake with pleasure. He feels so good, too good. Like something only his imagination could come up with. He starts drooling again.
The sight above you is getting you so close to your release. You reach your hand down to your clit and started playing with it, making sure to tilt Michael’s face down to watch before you do so. You want to put on a show for him. It is your anniversary, after all.
“M gonna cum for you Mikey. ‘M gonna make a mess of that pretty dick of yours,” you say nastily. You can feel the knot in your stomach start to tighten more and more.
“Y-Yes! Please cum all over me. Please turn me into a mess,” he begs, and that did it. Your entire body locks up and your vision turns blurry.
“Michael FUCK!” you scream- genuinely scream- out in pleasure. You grip onto his shoulders with all the force you could muster, mumbling out praises of “You’re so pretty” and “Did so good” until your lips fall numb. He rides you through the whole thing, legs shaking and forehead dripping with sweat.
“C-can I please cum? It hurts…” You look at him with surprise, not realizing he was still going for you, and it almost does enough for you to want a round two.
“Oh, Michael. You’re so obedient. I didn’t realize you were still going, love. Cum inside me, baby. Fill me up.”
He whimpers and cums on command, his body stilling and his toes curling up in pleasure. His eyes roll so far back into his head that you can’t even see his irises anymore.
“Thank you, thank you, thank y- ahh, thank you. ‘M so so-ahhhgghh, so sorry. I’ll be good forever ‘m sorry my pretty girl.”
His sweaty body collapses onto yours, and you two lay there for a while, his dick still inside of you, fully softened up.
After at least ten minutes of this, Michael speaks.
“So…Can we do this again?” he asks hesitantly.
“Michael,” you start, “I don’t think I can ever go back. Do you know how sexy you are when you’re submissive?” Your thighs start to clench again at the thought of what you two got up to tonight.
“O-oh. Really? It wasn’t too much?” he asks shyly as he rolls off of your body.
“Really. You should’ve said something sooner, angel face. I prefer being dominant,” you reveal, although you’re sure it was obvious.
“I was just shy, is all. But you? I don’t think- no, I know I’ve never seen anything or anyone as sexy as you were tonight. I feel like I died from bliss and met God. Truly, you were heavenly. I didn’t want any of it to end.”
“It doesn’t have to…We still have a whole weekend to spend here,” you offer, wiggling your eyebrows playfully. He blushes a deep red.
“I’m gonna go get our stuff ready for a bath,” you say. “Tidy up the room for when we’re back, yeah?”
“I’ll do anything for you,” Michael says, clearly still pussy drunk. He grabs your hand before you head to the bathroom.
“I love you. I’m not just saying that because of what we did tonight, you know that. But I love you. Thank you for being the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I’ll cherish you for all of my days, and even afterwards, if I can.“ He gives you a brief, yet passionate kiss on the lips. “I’ll be as quick as possible. Happy anniversary, pretty girl.”
“Happy anniversary, Michael,” you say, trying not to cry. You don’t know how you’d gotten so lucky.
SUMMARY: based on this request. The problem isn’t that women flirt with Michael Jackson. The problem is that Y/N notices. The bigger problem is that Michael notices Y/N noticing.
CONTENT: Michael Jackson x Reader. Established relationship. Jealous and slightly possessive reader. Protective and hopelessly devoted Michael Jackson. History era. Humor, fluff, backstage shenanigans, playful jealousy, a little bit of female rivalry, pda, and Michael being completely obsessed with his girlfriend.
.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・.・。.・゜✭
Everybody on the set knew Michael Jackson was hopelessly in love and obsessed with his girlfriend, Y/N.
Not regular boyfriend obsessed. Not casual celebrity relationship obsessed. No.
This man looked at her like every love song he’d ever written had somehow become a person.
And unlike people assumed Michael wasn’t oblivious. Naive sometimes? Sure. Too kind for his own good? Absolutely. But stupid? Never.
He noticed when women flirted with him. He noticed the lingering touches. The giggling. The way too-long stares. He just usually ignored it because none of it mattered to him.
Not when his Y/N existed.
And honestly? Michael kind of enjoyed letting people embarrass themselves sometimes.
Especially when Y/N got possessive.
Because underneath all her confidence his girl had a little crazy in her.
Not toxic crazy. Fun crazy. Sharp-tongued. Territorial. The kind that smiled sweetly while threatening somebody psychologically.
And Michael secretly adored it. Secretly even got a little bit turned on by it.
Especially during the making of his album History.
Because, lucky Michael, Y/N followed him everywhere during that time. Sets. Tours. Studios. Rehearsals. You name it, she was there. And he absolutely love it and begged for her to be around.
Sometimes she would sit behind the monitors in giant sunglasses and one of his jackets criticizing choreography like an offended sports commentator.
Sometimes she wandered onto stage during lighting checks just to bother (kiss) him while he worked.
And Michael? Oh, he orbited her constantly.
If she disappeared too long he noticed immediately.
If somebody annoyed her he noticed immediately.
If she looked jealous—oh, he definitely noticed immediately.
Which became a problem once that stupid (according to Y/N) backup dancer showed up.
Beautiful girl. Very aware she was beautiful too. One of those women who walked around like every room was an audition.
At first it was harmless. Too much laughing. Standing too close. Finding excuses to touch Michael during rehearsals. Nothing they weren’t used to. And Michael ignored all of it politely. Not passively, though. He’d subtly step away. Redirect conversations. Immediately look for Y/N afterward.
One afternoon during choreography rehearsal the dancer pressed herself against him during a move that absolutely did not require it. Michael caught it instantly.
His expression flickered. Not flustered, no.
Annoyed.
He stepped backward smoothly.
“Careful,” he said lightly. “That’s not part of the choreography.”
The room went awkwardly quiet.
Because the correction sounded polite, but very pointed. The dancer recovered quickly though. Smiling wider instead. “Sorry,” she purred. “It’s hard to focus around you.” Michael gave the smallest tight smile imaginable.
Then immediately looked across the room.
Right toward where Y/N was.
She sat on top of a monitor table sipping on some tea while watching the entire interaction over the rim of her cup.
Their eyes met instantly. And Michael saw it.
That little look.
Worse than insecurity.
Amusement. Dangerous amusement. Like she was deciding whether to kill somebody recreationally.
Michael bit back a smile and abandoned rehearsal entirely, walking straight toward her.
The dancer blinked in disbelief and confusion.
Michael stopped between Y/N’s knees automatically while she looked up at him lazily.
“You surviving over there?” she asked sweetly.
Michael leaned down just enough for only her to hear. “She’s annoying me.”
Y/N nearly smiled. Nearly. Instead she tilted her head innocently.
“Aw. You need me to save you?”
Michael looked at her through his lashes with a tiny smirk. “Maybe I want you to.”
That was the thing about Michael. People thought he was shy all the time. But around Y/N? He knew exactly what he was doing.
The next few days only got worse.
The dancer became bolder because apparently humiliation wasn’t enough to stop her.
One day Y/N walked into Michael’s trailer and immediately stopped in her tracks.
The dancer stood there laughing at something Michael clearly had not found funny.
Too close again. Hand on his arm. Michael looked up the second Y/N entered.
And immediately—immediately—his entire body language changed. Relief crossed his face and his shoulders relaxed.
“Baby.” He said, an enormous smile taking over his pretty face.
That one word alone made the dancer look irritated.
Michael stood up right away crossing the trailer toward Y/N while the dancer still talked. It was like he genuinely forgot she existed halfway through the conversation. And the best part was that he didn’t even did it on purpose.
He kissed Y/N’s forehead softly before murmuring. “Please tell me you’re done with wardrobe?”
The dancer stared at them like she wanted to scream. Or commit a felony.
Y/N smiled sweetly.
“Mhm.” Then she looked toward the dancer casually and waved her fingers at her. “Oh. Hi.”
The girl crossed her arms. “You’re always here.”
Michael answered before Y/N could. “Yeah.” He looked down at Y/N and smiled. “That’s where I keep her.”
Y/N bit her bottom lip, a small giggle getting through. The dancer clenched her jaw. And Michael noticed that too. Because again: that man was not oblivious.
That night after filming the music video wrapped, Y/N sat in Michael’s lap backstage while he removed the iconic tape pieces from his fingers. He grunted with frustration as one particular tape was stubbornly sticking to his hand. He shook his head lightly and placed his hand on Y/N’s lap, giving up on taking it off. She took his hand in his and started to work on it.
“Told you she wants you,” Y/N muttered, eyes on the tape.
Michael didn’t even look up.
“She wants attention.”
Y/N raised an eyebrow. “She does?”
Now Michael looked up. Completely calm. “Baby, women who actually get my attention don’t act like that.”
That sentence sat directly in Y/N’s bloodstream for the next forty-eight business hours.
Unfortunately the dancer overheard enough little moments like that to start resenting Y/N badly.
And truly? Y/N was handling the situation with all the grace and emotional restraint of a jealous housecat.
Not because she doubted Michael, never that. But because watching another woman repeatedly ignore boundaries made her act a bit mean.
One morning while getting some coffee with a makeup artist from the crew, Y/N watched the dancer laugh a little too loudly at something Michael said from across the room. She stared for a moment.
“You know,” Y/N said casually to the makeup artist, “I actually feel bad for her.”
He looked up.
“Why?”
Y/N sighed dramatically. “Can you imagine embarrassing yourself in front of Michael Jackson every day?”
“Babes, that’s literally all you do.”
“That’s different.” She argued, eyes not leaving Michael’s little annoyed expression as the dancer talked his ear off.
The makeup artist frowned. “How?”
“Well, he thinks it’s cute when I do it.”
That made him snort.
Across the room, the dancer laughed again. Too loud. Way too loud for Y/N’s liking.
Y/N’s eye twitched. Just a little. Michael looked up automatically. Their eyes met.
And immediately he knew.
Uh-oh.
The dancer kept talking. Y/N kept pretending she wasn’t watching. Michael kept pretending he wasn’t watching her watch him.
The cycle continued for approximately three full minutes. And then rehearsal finally broke for lunch.
Michael made it maybe halfway across the room before finding her. As usual. As he always did.
He dropped into the chair beside her, arms crossed over his chest and a tini-tiny smirk on his pretty face. He looked far too pleased with himself.
Y/N narrowed her eyes.
“I don’t like your face.” She motioned to his face.
“My face?”
“That face you have going on.”
“What face?” He was doing it on purpose at this point.
Y/N nodded, a bit annoyed, actually. “The one you’re making right now.”
Michael smiled. Exactly. That face.
Y/N sighed dramatically.
“She’s so annoying.”
Michael’s smile widened instantly, cheeks starting to hurt. “Oh.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah.”
Y/N looked away rolling her eyes.
Michael bit the inside of his cheek as he tried not to laugh. He failed, the tiniest of giggles leaving his lips. “Baby.”
“Oh, don’t you ‘baby’ me.” Y/N said, a pout taking over her face as she crossed her arms over her chest.
He shook his head in a very teasing way.
“Oh, my miss possessive.”
Y/N whipped her head around so fast. “Excuse me?” Voice laced with annoyance.
Michael’s smile got bigger.
“Miss Possessive.”
“Michael.”
“My miss Possessive.”
“I swear to God—”
Now he was just fully laughing. Shoulders shaking. Head ducked down. The worst part? The man looked delighted. Absolutely delighted.
“You were staring.”
“No, I wasn’t.”
“You so were.”
“I was observing.”
Michael nodded thoughtfully. “Right.”
“I was.”
“Very scientific.”
“Exactly.”
“Research purposes, am I right?”
“Absolutely.”
Michael looked away again. Trying (unsuccessfully) to recover.
Y/N pointed a sharp finger at him, eyes wide. “Stop enjoying this.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.” She nodded. “Too much, actually.”
“I’m really not.” He mumbled holding his hands up like a guilty man.
“Michael.”
“Okay, maybe I am enjoying little.” He clicked his tongue. “You’re cute when you’re jelous of me.”
Y/N groaned loudly and threw her head back. Michael looked like he’d just won an award. “I don’t get jelous.” Deny, deny, deny.
Michael nodded, a full ironic expression on his face. “Right, what ever makes you sleep at night, princess.”
Y/N narrowed her eyes at him. ‘Deny, deny, deny.’ She thought to herself. But then again, what the hell? “You know what?” She finally snapped, whipping her head in his direction. Immediately he perked up.
“What?”
She cocked her head to the side and raised her brows for a moment. “I lied.” She stared into his eyes. Michael blinked.
“You lied?”
“Yeah.”
She threw both hands into the air. “I’m jealous.”
Silence. Then Michael smiled so hard he nearly looked embarrassed.
“Really?”
“Oh, don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“That.”
Y/N pointed at him again.
“The face again.”
“What face?”
“The one I just said you do when you’re enjoying something way too much.”
Michael laughed. Actually laughed.
Oh, the audacity of this man.
“Baby—”
“Shut up.”
“Baby.”
“Nope.”
“You’re so cute.”
Y/N covered her face immediately.
“This is very humiliating for me.”
Michael gently pulled one of her hands away.
Still smiling. Still completely in awe of her.
“I like that you care.”
Y/N rolled her eyes. “Yeah, right.”
“I do.” He intertwined their fingers and kissed her hands.
“You’re making it worse.”
Michael leaned closer.
“Miss Possessive.” He whispered.
Y/N pointed at him immediately.
“Keep talking and I’m leaving.”
“No, you’re not.”
She stared at him for about two seconds. “Yeah, probably not.”
“Exactly.”
And somehow that made him smile even bigger.
One afternoon the dancer walked past Y/N and muttered. “Some girls get way too comfortable.”
The makeup artist nearby actually choked on her water at that.
Then came the shirt.
Michael arrived on set late one morning wearing black jeans, curls tied back loosely, sunglasses and a T-Shirt that read:
MY GIRLFRIEND IS HOTTER THAN YOU
That man.
That. Impossible. Man.
The crew in the studio did not know how to react.
Screaming.
Wheezing.
People dropping things.
Y/N’s hand just flew over her mouth, disbelief flashed across her face. She shook her negativity head at him.
That infuriatingly beautiful man.
“Michael Jackson, you are unbelievable.”
Michael looked around confused.
“What?”
“You cannot wear that!”
He glanced down at the shirt casually.
“What? I thought it was cute.”
“You are insane.”
Michael smiled slowly then. A little smug this time. Good Lord. “I know.”
Y/N stared at him in disbelief.
“You did that on purpose?”
Michael shrugged lightly. Then leaned close enough for only her to hear. “She keeps staring at me.”
Y/N went silent immediately.
Because oh. So he had noticed.
Michael slid his sunglasses down slightly.
“And she keeps making you mad.”
Y/N folded her arms trying not to look pleased.
“And?”
“And I don’t like it.”
That should not have been as attractive as it was. Unfortunately for Y/N it was devastatingly attractive.
Y/N just shook her head again, wrapping her arms around his waist and burying her face into his chest. Michael let out a loud laugh and kissed the top of her head.
The final confrontation happened two days later.
Y/N sat backstage getting her eyeliner fixed when the dancer appeared again.
Arms crossed, cocky expression on her face.
“You know,” she started casually, “it’s kind of embarrassing how attached he is to you.”
Y/N looked at her through the mirror.
“It is?”
“He’s obsessed.”
Y/N smiled faintly. “Yeah, I know.”
That clearly wasn’t the reaction the dancer wanted. She stepped closer.
“I just think if Michael met somebody more…” She actually looked Y/N up and down. “,exciting—”
Y/N actually laughed this time. Not fake. Real. Sharp. “Okay,” She mumbled still smiling.
Then finally she stood up slowly.
And suddenly the room felt different.
Because Y/N wasn’t intimidated. Not even slightly.
She walked closer until the dancer had to tilt her head upward slightly.
“My boyfriend would never look twice at you,” Y/N said calmly.
The dancer scoffed. “You sound very confident.”
“I am.” Then Y/N smiled. Mean. Beautiful. “But if you wanna embarrass yourself…” She shrugged lightly. “Try him.”
And apparently the woman was dumb enough to do exactly that.
Later during rehearsal Michael sat alone near the stage sipping on some orange juice while checking choreography notes when the dancer approached.
Y/N watched from across the set already bitting down a smile because she knew this was about to go horribly.
The girl leaned against his chair.
“You know…” she said softly. “I think you deserve somebody less possessive.”
“Huh?” Michael looked up slowly, brows frowned slightly. Already looking very unimpressed. “My girlfriend is a little possessive.” His eyes flickered briefly to where Y/N stood, a small smile appearing on his lips. “I like it.”
The girl laughed lightly.
“She watches every woman around you.”
Michael capped his water bottle calmly.
“Because every woman around me keeps bothering me.” The dancer blinked. Michael continued before she could recover. “And honestly?” He tilted his head slightly. “I’m starting to think y’all do it on purpose.”
The dancer forced a smile. “I just think maybe you’d get bored eventually.”
Michael stared at her for a long moment. Then glanced across the room toward Y/N. And the second he saw her? His entire face softened automatically.
Then he looked back at the dancer and said very simply: “I’ve been in love with her for years.” Silence. “People don’t get boring when you actually love them.”
Murder. Complete murder.
The dancer looked like she wanted earth to swallow her whole now.
And Michael wasn’t finished. Because suddenly he smiled politely. Not cruel, which felt, somehow, worse. “And respectfully…” He gestured vaguely toward Y/N across the room. “Have you seen my girlfriend?”
The dancer’s face went blank. She honestly didn’t know what to say.
Y/N covered her face laughing discreetly, pretending she wasn’t doing her absolute best to eavesdrop when Michael finally stood up and walked straight toward her.
The second he reached her he wrapped one arm around her waist naturally, pulling her closer.
Y/N looked up at him through a grin.
“You’re a little crazy in the head, you know that, right?”
Michael looked very pleased with himself.
“Yeah? Well, I’ve learned from the best.” He teased her and Y/N shook her head.
“You’re unbelievable.”
Then Y/N grabbed the front of his stupid shirt and kissed him right there in front of everybody. Just because she could.
And because Michael Jackson looked at her like she’d invented sunshine just to brighten his day.
I can’t remember if it’s an OC or Reader fic, but basically she’s John Branca’s assistant and works in PR, I guess?? If I remember correctly, at the beginning of the fic she and Branca go talk to Michael to go over some questions for an interview. From there, they become friends, and at one point she even supervises the filming of Smooth Criminal.
Later in the fic, Prince wants to meet with her because he’s considering hiring her as his manager. That’s pretty much all I can remember 😭
And idk if it was in here or AO3/Wattpad,
I stg my memory it’s horrible, I was reading it like 2 days ago.
Let me know if you know the fic I’m talking about!!
synopis: You accompany Michael to the filming of the Pepsi commercial, but you have an interview to do and need to leave. A few hours later, Bill calls you to tell you that Michael is in the hospital, and you completely freak out.
warnings: angst with a happy ending, established relationship, too much drama, Michael is sad (sorry), the reader feels guilty, joseph.
The smell of hairspray and stage lights filled the Pepsi set while dozens of assistants rushed around backstage adjusting cables, cameras, and costumes. The noise should have been overwhelming, but somehow everything always faded into the background whenever Michael Jackson was beside you.
Especially when he was holding your hand the way he was now.
His fingers were loosely intertwined with yours while a makeup artist carefully retouched the curls falling around his face. Even distracted, even focused on rehearsal notes spread across his lap, he still refused to let go of you.
He had always been like that.
Ever since the day he met you, he constantly needed some form of contact. A hand around your waist. Fingers brushing yours. His head resting against your shoulder during long studio nights. Tiny gestures that slowly became second nature between you.
You smiled softly while watching the makeup artist dust powder across his cheekbones.
"You look beautiful."
Michael immediately glanced at you through the mirror.
That shy smile appeared instantly.
The one that still made your chest tighten after two years together.
"You think so?" he asked quietly.
"You know you do."
He ducked his head bashfully, trying to hide the grin forming on his lips.
Sometimes it amazed you that the biggest pop star in the world still got embarrassed when you complimented him.
Your mind briefly drifted back to the night everything started.
The Oscars. Two years ago.
You had won Best Supporting Actress and nearly tripped walking to the stage because your hands were shaking so badly. Later, Michael confessed he barely remembered the rest of the ceremony after seeing you walk up to accept your award.
According to him, it felt like the entire room disappeared.
Later that night, he convinced David Lynch, who had directed your latest movie, to introduce the two of you.
The chemistry was immediate. Dangerously immediate.
Dinner turned into another dinner. Then another.
Two weeks of late-night conversations, laughter, and Michael finding increasingly ridiculous excuses to see you again.
Until one Saturday night, when you arrived at his house for dinner and discovered your entire home covered in roses.
Hundreds of them.
Bill later admitted Michael had forced him to organize an entire truck delivery because "normal flowers weren’t enough."
That same night, Michael asked you to be his girlfriend.
And now, two years later, here you were.
Hopelessly in love. Ridiculously happy.
Michael looked at you through the mirror again while the makeup artist fixed the last details around his eyes.
"Isn’t she beautiful?" he asked her suddenly.
You laughed immediately.
"Michael."
The makeup artist smiled knowingly.
"Very."
You rolled your eyes playfully while Michael looked entirely too pleased with himself.
A few moments later, the makeup artist finally stepped away.
"Done."
Michael turned toward you immediately.
"How do I look?"
You stepped closer, gently adjusting the collar of his red shirt.
"Beautiful. As always."
His smile softened instantly. Then he leaned down and pressed a quick kiss against your lips.
Before you could tease him about it, another voice interrupted the moment.
"The lighting is wrong over there."
Your smile disappeared almost immediately.
Joseph Jackson walked onto the set while scolding one of the assistants before finally noticing the two of you standing together.
"Oh. You’re here."
"Joseph," you greeted politely.
Tense. Careful.
Your relationship with Joseph had never been good.
He thought you distracted Michael. Thought relationships made him "soft." Thought Michael spent too much time with you instead of working.
Michael never cared.
He stayed with you anyway.
But for Michael’s sake, you tried to remain respectful whenever Joseph was around.
Even when he clearly disliked you.
"We need to go," Joseph told Michael firmly.
Michael nodded slightly.
"I’m coming."
Joseph walked away again.
You let out a small sigh before forcing a smile toward Michael.
"It’s okay."
Michael looked unconvinced.
"I have to go," he murmured apologetically.
"Yeah… me too.
Your fingers slid gently through the side of his curls.
"I’ve got interviews for the movie today."
"I wish you’d stay."
His hands slipped around your waist while he gave you the dramatic pout he knew always worked on you.
That look.
Pure emotional manipulation.
You laughed softly and wrapped your arms around his neck.
"I want to, Mike. But I can’t."
"But it won’t take long."
His expression brightened slightly.
"When you’re done… wanna sleep over tonight?"
You smiled immediately.
"What’s the plan?"
"We’ll have dinner, eat ice cream, watch a movie." He grinned. "You pick."
"That sounds perfect."
Michael’s entire face lit up. Then he kissed you again. Longer this time.
Completely ignoring the fact that people were actively walking around the set nearby. You laughed against his lips and gently pushed his chest.
"Go before the general comes back."
Michael burst out laughing. He gave you one last quick kiss.
"See you later."
Then he disappeared toward the stage.
You grabbed your purse and headed toward your own obligations, completely unaware that your entire world was about to change.
Hours later, exhaustion was beginning to settle into your bones by the time your final interview ended.
You smiled politely at the journalist, thanked her, and stepped behind the cameras where your assistant was already waiting nervously.
The second she saw you, she hurried closer.
"Bill called."
You frowned immediately.
"Bill?"
"He said you need to call him back as soon as possible."
Confusion twisted in your stomach.
Usually Michael called you himself.
Your assistant handed you a slip of paper with the number scribbled across it.
Something suddenly felt wrong. Very wrong.
You quickly walked toward the nearest phone and dialed the number.
It rang several times before Bill answered.
"Hello?"
"Bill?" you asked quickly. "What happened? Did Michael finish filming already?"
Silence.
Your stomach dropped instantly.
"Bill?"
A long pause.
Then finally:
"There was an accident."
Your entire body went cold.
"What?"
"He’s at the hospital."
For one horrible second, your brain stopped functioning completely.
Your heartbeat slammed violently against your ribs while fear unlike anything you had ever known spread through your body.
Tears instantly filled your eyes.
"No—"
You struggled to breathe properly. Your hand tightened around the phone. Finally, somehow, you forced yourself to speak.
"What hospital?"
The hospital waiting room felt suffocating.
Bright white lights. The smell of antiseptic.
Doctors and nurses walking past while your heart threatened to beat straight out of your chest.
The second you arrived, your eyes immediately landed on Michael’s family gathered near the chairs.
Then you saw Joseph.
And something inside you snapped.
Before anyone could stop you, you stormed toward him.
"This is your fault!"
Bill immediately grabbed your arm.
"Hey— hey—"
"You knew he didn’t want to do that commercial!" you shouted. "You pushed him anyway!"
Joseph stayed silent. Just staring at you.
That made you even angrier.
You ripped yourself away from Bill and shoved Joseph hard against the wall.
"If something happens to him, it’s your fault!"
"Enough!"
Everyone froze.
Katherine stepped forward, visibly shaken.
"Please," she said firmly. "Let him go."
Your breathing was ragged. Hands trembling violently. But after a second, you released Joseph. The rage immediately collapsed into panic again.
You stumbled backward and dropped into one of the waiting room chairs while tears blurred your vision completely.
Bill sat beside you quietly.
Then gently squeezed your shoulder, trying to calm you down while you stared at the hospital doors, silently praying Michael would walk through them again.
Time seemed frozen inside that waiting room. Every second felt suffocating.
You kept staring at the hospital doors while your leg bounced anxiously without stopping. Your hands were shaking so badly that you had to lace your fingers together in your lap just to hide it.
Then finally, a doctor appeared. Everyone stood immediately. Your heart slammed against your ribs.
“Michael is stable.”
Air finally returned to your lungs.
You closed your eyes for a brief second, almost feeling your knees give out from relief.
“The fire caused second and third-degree burns to his scalp,” the doctor continued calmly. “But he’s awake and responding well.”
Katherine Jackson placed a hand against her chest, visibly emotional.
“Can I see him?” she asked quickly.
The doctor nodded.
“He asked for his mother… and Mr. Bill.”
Bill let out a heavy sigh beside you.
Katherine walked past you and gently squeezed your hand, silently trying to reassure you.
Bill did the same before following the doctor down the hallway.
You stood there watching them disappear.
Then your eyes landed on Joseph Jackson.
For the first time that night, he actually looked worried. But all you could feel when you looked at him was rage. Pure hatred.
Joseph held your stare for a few seconds before slowly lowering his head, unable to face the hatred in your eyes.
After that, silence took over the waiting room once again. The minutes felt endless.
You paced back and forth, sat down, stood up again, flipped through old magazines without actually reading them.
Until finally, Katherine and Bill returned. You stood immediately.
“Is he okay?” you asked quickly.
Katherine smiled softly.
“He is. He’s just in some pain.”
Relief rushed through your body instantly.
“Can I see him?”
Katherine and Bill exchanged a quick glance. Your stomach dropped immediately.
“Michael asked for you to go home,” Katherine answered carefully.
You frowned in confusion.
“What?”
“It’s going to be okay,” she assured gently. “You don’t need to worry.”
“But why?”
She hesitated. Bill looked away.
And suddenly, you understood something was wrong.
“He doesn’t want to see me?” Your voice came out quieter this time.
Katherine didn’t answer directly. Instead, she gently touched your arm.
“I’m going to ask Bill to pick up some clothes for him.”
Bill nodded silently and started walking toward the exit. You immediately followed him.
In the empty hallway, you grabbed his arm.
“Bill.”
He stopped.
“Why can’t I go into that room?”
Bill let out a tired sigh. Because he already knew this conversation would hurt.
“Michael doesn’t want you to see him like this.”
Your chest physically hurt.
“He thinks…” Bill hesitated. “That you’ll leave once you see the burns.”
That shattered you completely. Michael truly believed that. Even after two years. Even after everything.
Tears burned your eyes again. You needed to see him.
Needed to hear his voice. Needed to see that beautiful smile and know he was really okay. So you took a deep breath and quickly wiped your face.
“Then I’m not leaving.”
Bill raised an eyebrow slightly.
“Not until I see that he’s okay.”
For a second, Bill almost smiled. He knew you well enough to understand there was no point trying to change your mind.
“I’ll get some clothes for him,” he murmured. “And some for you too.”
Then he left.
You returned to the waiting room and sat down again. Katherine watched you quietly for a moment before smiling softly. Like she finally understood that you truly loved her son.
The entire night passed painfully slowly. You didn’t sleep for even a minute.
You wandered the hallways, flipped through old magazines, checked the clock every five minutes.
When the morning sunlight finally began filtering through the hospital windows, a nurse appeared pushing a breakfast cart.
“I’m taking this to Mr. Jackson.”
Bill immediately stood.
“I’ll take it.”
But before he could grab the cart, you were already holding it.
“I’ll do it.”
Bill barely had time to react. You were already pushing the cart through the restricted wing of the hospital.
Your heartbeat echoed loudly inside your chest. One of the nurses pointed you toward the correct room.
You took a deep breath. Then slowly opened the door.
Michael was awake. Sitting up in bed, quietly staring out the window.
Your heart tightened instantly. His hand was wrapped in bandages. Part of his hair too. You hated seeing him like that.
Even though you wanted to cry, you forced yourself to stay composed. Michael noticed the door opening and slowly turned his head.
His eyes widened slightly when he saw you. Then almost immediately dropped downward.
“Please… go away,” he said quietly. “You can’t see me like this.”
That shattered your heart.
“It’s okay.”
You placed the breakfast cart beside the bed and carefully sat on the edge of the mattress.
“You don’t have to act like this.”
“I look horrible.”
“You don’t.”
You gently took his hand. And finally, that made Michael lift his head enough to look into your eyes.
You could see the fear there. Real fear.
Insecurity.
Like he truly believed you would stop loving him because of this.
“You won me over two years ago,” you said softly. “And now I’m not going anywhere.”
Michael went completely still. His brown eyes searched yours like he was trying to figure out whether you truly meant it.
Because when it came to you, Michael never felt good enough. He constantly tried to be worthy of you. Perfect, beautiful, enough.
But now, seeing you sitting there holding his hand without hesitation, looking at him with the exact same love as always…
Something inside him finally relaxed.
“Thank you,” he whispered, smiling weakly for the first time since the accident.
Your heart nearly melted instantly.
“You’re going to be okay,” you promised. “And I’m staying here twenty-four hours a day to take care of you.”
That made Michael genuinely smile this time. Because between your impossible schedules and endless commitments, the two of you rarely got time like this together.
“Brought your breakfast,” you said, picking up the tray. “Including your favorite: orange juice.”
Michael let out a soft laugh. You placed the tray in his lap and immediately stole one of the cookies.
He watched you do it, clearly amused. Then his eyes softened completely.
“I love you,” he said quietly.
And you knew he meant it.
“So much.”
You smiled immediately.
“I love you more.”
Michael made a dramatic expression.
“I’d kiss you right now if it weren’t for these bandages.”
You burst out laughing.
“When I get better, we’ll fix that.”
“Definitely.”
And for the first time since receiving that phone call, you finally felt like everything was going to be okay.
The two of you spent the rest of the morning talking quietly and laughing between conversations while Michael finally seemed relaxed again.
On the other side of the door, Katherine and Bill watched discreetly. Then exchanged a quiet look.
Because it was painfully obvious how deeply the two of you loved each other.
desc. - ( curiosity, has gotten the best of you. drawn in by the rumors of ghosts dancing up the walls of Someplace Else, and terrors you can't comprehend. but, the manor's resident is not who you're expecting, and you begin to wonder if the townsfolk even encountered the same person at all.)
warnings - none !
word count - 2.7k
“Someplace Else” is a taboo topic in your small town. People stray away from the manor, just at the edge of Normal Valley.
But you’re curious about it. Especially after you see the doctor running back into town with the most petrified face you’ve ever witnessed. Even the rest of the group that strayed behind him not long after seemed unsettled. Save for the excited looking children.
You can see it in his eyes, something he won't say, as he tries to light a cigarette with trembling hands.
Nobody seems to want to talk about it, at least not above hushed voices.
You’d refused to tag along with the mob initially. Their intentions were not something of interest. To drive the manor's owner out of town, marching through the woods with blazing torches, following the doctor’s lead. No matter how odd he made himself out to be.
Now? Now you had to go, riveted by their whispers of something spectacular and fascinating, and equally terrifying. Something about ghosts dancing up the walls.
That’s what’s leading you through thick brush and tangling vines, a few nights later, pushing past greenery with nothing but a lighter’s flame and cool moonlight that bleeds between dead branches.
The manor is huge.
A towering 2 stories with Victorian style windows and siding. You feel incredibly small standing in front of a pair of ornate iron gates. It takes a little courage to push them open, not sparing a second thought to why they’re already unlocked.
Tall, wood-carved front doors sit after the gated, dead lawn, awaiting for your hand to reach up and knock. So you do, twice. Not harsh, but pointed enough for whoever resides to hear echo in its huge walls.
The doors swing open, with a force you’re not expecting. An invitation from the manor’s resident, to step inside.
You’re expecting an elderly man to be standing past the threshold, aged with wrinkles and the kind of supernatural wisdom that are found in books. No such sight exists. Just you in an empty entry way.
“Hello?”
Colors are void in the foyer, faded by the layers of dust that rests over any surface it touches. Intricate furniture and decor are pushed against the walls, long untouched in their places. Grey, dismal, and hauntingly elegant. Somehow the air in here is cooler than outside, gentle breezes that brush past your hair like a beckoning whisper.
The doors click shut behind you, so quiet you don’t catch it.
You push forward in the silence, towards an extravagant staircase, that leads into an even more classy looking hallway. Cobwebs hang like delicate lace curtains on the stairs’ banister, and you opt not to disturb their gentle sway, while ascending to the second floor.
The walls seem impossibly tall, faded wallpaper patterned with intricate designs and carousel motifs. They're lined with antique tables draped in white sheets, oil lamps and age-old paintings, all filmed over with the same dust that coats the rest of the home, undisturbed.
Crystal chandeliers of all sizes dangle from the high ceilings. They glitter against the pale moonlight, spilling through tall windows.
You’re breathless at its eldritch charm. The house seems to have taken a liking to you. This was not what the people of Normal Valley described. It was welcoming you with open arms, a magnetic reel that pulls you in even further into its wonder.
Someplace Else is quiet, save for your careful footsteps, and the slightest hiss of your lighter, losing its glow.
A door to your right closes as you step closer, freezing you in your place.
You don’t call out to the silence, afraid of shattering its long-practiced perfection like a beast's frail temper, hesitating at every instinct to shout.
Both the urge to run away and to move closer overwhelm you.
The air thickens, tasting faintly of old paper, candle wax, and something metallic. You move forward.
Despite the stillness, there’s an unmistakable tug, like a sweater caught on a nail, to discover whatever secret lies in a closed set of doors in front of you, at the end of the hall. It’s guarded by two sets of armor, grasping onto their swords as a sound warning. Or, the welcome of a guest into royal chambers. Colorful light leaks under the doors' gap close to the floor
Another step. The hinges creak open, slow. Deliberate. The sight is beautiful. Bright, unfiltered light pouring through stained glass reveals the polished tile floors of a huge ballroom. It’s more pristine than the rest of the house, saturated in cool blues from the moon’s direct gaze into it. Tall marble pillars line it symmetrically, leading down to a long-since used fireplace. The ceilings reach high, stretching up to painted beams and a gorgeous, elaborately crafted chandelier in the center, throwing kaleidoscopic diamonds over the floor and walls, reflections dancing across the dark space with flecks of slow moving dust, like stars.
So far behind your time.
You take another careful step forward, floor cold and unyielding under your feet.
The sound of a raven’s ear piercing cry travels across the empty space and you nearly leap out of your skin, slapping the palms of your hands over your ears to try and muffle it. It’s followed by an intense scent. Aged cedarwood, warm amber, and the faintest trace of something floral meeting you. Sweet but unplaceable. So prominent against the smell of old books and heavy dust.
You’re glued to the floor just past the doorframe, chest tightening. The dizzying mix of fear and anticipation. There’s a pulse in the quiet, something that hums through the marble under your feet, threading along your spine. Your lighter flickers, sending a thin, trembling glow across the far end of the ballroom.
And then, you notice movement.
In the shadows, near the grand fireplace, a figure stands, leaning against the mantle. They seem to shimmer in the dancing lights of the chandelier, subtle enough that your mind wonders if it’s only a trick.
You blink. They’re gone.
And then you hear a petal soft laugh, seemingly from all directions, and simultaneously distant. Your blood runs cold, head twisting to try and place the source. Eyes darting, heart slamming up against your ribcage.
A whisper fleets past your ear.
“Boo.”
The sound is so sudden and frightening, any attempt at a scream is lost. A strained gasp is all you have the strength for, before you spin, dizzyingly fast, to look directly behind you, bracing for a confrontation your heart isn’t ready for. The first thing you notice are those doe eyes. Eerily gorgeous.
He’s not the aged, ghostly man you expected.
Dark curls fall over an angular face, spilling onto his shoulder. Shadows trace the hollows of soft cut cheekbones. His eyes, deep and brown, are hard to pull away from. They carry a surprising amount of warmth that makes your breath stutter. He wears that white poet blouse and black trousers like he’s stepped right out of the Pax Britannica, clean and stately.
Your ears hum with the blood that rushes to them, heartbeat still thundering from the panic.
“Did I scare you?”
That voice is more delicate than the cobwebs draping over every surface. Musical, like a bell just touched.
The words are stuck in your throat, so you just stare with wide eyes that flick across his face and trying to gauge his intentions. His smile is young, playful. He’s mystifying. The air around him feels heavy, charged with something ancient and imposing.
“I’m sorry,” a startlingly sweet laugh escapes him, “It’s my specialty.”
This man has undoubtedly enamoured you already. Was this him? The face that sent the doctor running for the hills?
“You’re quiet.” he observes, stepping around you in circles, smooth, almost silent footsteps with a boyish curiosity, hands interlocked behind his back.
“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” a sentence finally finds you, cautious.
“No, no. I enjoy visitors," he reassures.
You’re a deer in headlights under his sweeping observance. A beam of light casting down on his face gives his skin the illusion of slight translucence. He is absolutely captivating.
“What brings you here?” His eyes catch yours, glinting in a shimmer of the chandelier’s reflection, “Come to see the freak in the castle?”
“W-what? Oh no, I-” You swallow under his searching stare, “I know the people in town can be…quick to judge-”
His laugh is gentle. Laced with a wisdom he doesn’t look like he would carry. It eases your nervousness. Slightly.
“They can. They’re easy to scare.”
It's too quiet after he says that. Indication carries something you’re not sure you want to know.
A snap of his fingers is what breaks the silence. It commands the room, and the fireplace at the far end of the room roars to life in an instant. Dusty candles are suddenly flickering with soft light on their candelabras, lined on the walls and over the mantle.
“Come. Have a seat,” he brushes past you elegantly, towards the expensive looking rug in front of the fire. You have no choice but to follow him slowly, slack jawed and choosing not to ask any questions, in fear of an answer too big for you to comprehend.
He sits down just as effortlessly as he walked, cross legged. You join him, keeping a safe distance and hands folded awkwardly in your lap.
“I don’t get a lot of company,” he materializes a lavish teapot from somewhere to his right, and you don’t see the matching teacups and saucers sitting in front of the both of you until he’s pouring an even amount into them, steaming like it’s fresh off the stove, “Not unless they’re trying to scare me away.”
It’s unlike anything you’ve tasted. Warm and timely, freshly brewed spices, cinnamon and chai, settle as a comfort in your stomach. Just as velvety as his voice. It takes you a while to notice that he doesn’t drink his own tea, just holding the cup closely to him. His eyes continue to scan you, narrowed and examining. Testing.
“Your home is beautiful,” you say, earnest and quiet.
He offers a grin that reaches those dark eyes.
“Thank you. It’s all I’ve ever known.”
“You don’t leave?”
“Why would I need to?”
His hands open to dramatically gesture to the ballroom. For just a split second, the flames seem to dance higher.
“I have everything I could ever ask for.”
You laugh is breathy, graceless. His theatrics loosen your posture, ease your grip on the teacup a little less. That draw of infatuation with him, of Someplace Else, keeps you from the lingering thought of fleeing.
“Tell me your name,” he urges, leaning a little closer to you. You share it with him, flustering ever so slightly at the way he waits in an undemanding anticipation.
He tests it.
“It suits you.”
It’s matter of factly, but you still shy away at the compliment, hiding behind your drink and taking an avoidant sip.
“Can I ask yours?”
He taps his chin. It’s endearing how he feigns contemplation.
“I…can’t remember it. It’s been so long,” the way he looks at you has its playfulness, but you see there’s a truth behind his eyes. It’s confusing. You play along anyway.
“Call me… The Maestro.”
“The Maestro?” An entertainer. A creator.
“Fun, isn’t it?”
“It is.”
An expression flashes across his face. Something like surprise, maybe even excitement. Wonder.
“Would you like a tour?”
His inciting smile is hard to deny. So is the thought of walking through his home with someone other than your thoughts.
“That sounds nice.”
He’s off the floor in seconds, already offering a slender hand out towards you. When you take it, you try not to jolt at its coolness. So contrasting to the blazing warmth of the fire.
The Maestro lifts you from your spot easily.
“Come on.”
He leads you through the hall you’ve already explored, down into the first floor and past more old furniture. Every corner you round, more candles flicker to life, wax melting down them like they’d never stopped burning to begin with. It’s magical.
The Maestro brings you through a timeless dining room, places set at each seat with gold flaked chinaware and glass cups. There was an intimacy to wandering through someone’s memories disguised as an old house.
A few times, he would silently sneak away from your peripheral, and reappear from a shaded corner or doorway, scaring you shitless. Each time was a little less unnerving than the last. It seemed good natured. Adolescence weaved with sophistication. Cute, even.
You’re taken into more rooms. A ‘sleeping chamber’ (so he called it) with a canopy-adorned bed. A small library, lined with tall bookshelves and a stunning dark-wood desk. Paintings with eyes a little too lifelike.
Sometimes, just out of the corners of your vision, there are silhouettes of people, flickering and vanishing right as you look in their direction. The house feels alive.
With every new place, he tells you elaborate stories of the parties he once hosted. You can envision it, each room filled with music and people, glasses clinking, loud laughter. Eventually, it began to feel more like a habit of his. A practiced performance of someone who had once spent their life entertaining rooms full of people, arms sweeping in storytelling. He’s reminiscing, and it makes you a little sad. Even sadder, the idea of your townsfolk disliking him so much.
The Maestro was kind. Sure, he had an extraordinary, antique, weirdness to him. And some tricks up his sleeve that you dare not test. But the softness of his voice and grace with which he moved was so far off from terrifying.
Dangerously alluring. Charm that felt out of this era, balletic steps. How a mystery hangs on each word he says. Each minute you spend exploring Someplace Else has you wondering why anyone would want him to leave. The way the floors and walls warmed in color with every step he took, it was obvious the manor loved him as much as he seemed to love it.
Eventually, you end up back in the ballroom. The fire’s dimmed down to a warm glow, flitting long shadows across the walls. Now, you’re gazing out of the towering windows down into a dying garden, that he says he loves just as much as he once did when it was still green and full of life. He sees beauty in something long past alive
Fitting, you would come to learn.
You’re contemplating a question that’s been lingering in the back of your mind for most of the night. The Maestro seems to know what it is.
“Tell me, do you believe in ghosts?” It's soft, tentative. A test. He doesn’t look to you when he asks, eyes locked in the same place as yours. You’re afraid to face him. A subject you weren’t prepared to touch.
“I…don’t know.”
The two of you turn to each other in tandem. His face is unreadable. Something glitters behind those pooling eyes, caged in long lashes to keep their secret from spilling out.
“Do you?”
That smile is dangerously pleasant, playing at the corners of his mouth.
“I’d like to think they’re real. And if they are, they’re very misunderstood.”
His words are heavy, bending under the weight of something you can’t place your finger on. You don’t press him further. Instead, the thought of time having passed so quickly crosses your thoughts.
“It’s late. I should probably head back into town.”
The Maestro catches your faltered tone, and offers you a smile anyway. He can hear the hesitance.
“I’ve enjoyed your company.”
“I’m glad,” You hold out to him, a gentle hand, which he takes. Just as cold as before. You shiver. “Thank you for having me.”
Your hands slip from each other.
It's hard to begin the slow walk out of the large double doors, drawing out the seconds he’s nearby. Already missing that childlike wonder.
The Maestro’s voice calls out a final time before you pass through them.
“Come back soon?”
“I-” You turn your head to acknowledge him. He’s gone. The ballroom is bathed in darkness and a rush of cold wind. Like he was never there. Fire blown out, candlelights snuffed, leaving nothing but smoke. That lingering smell of rich perfume, warm, woody, and floral, fades instantly, “will…”
You can’t fight the incredulous smile on your face, turning away again and walking through the house with less uncertainty than you entered with.
“I will.”
•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•
part 2??
i've missed my babes! hope this was a nice little meal for my hungry readers! if you're new, welcome to my page, and hopefully its met your expectations 🩷💞
please lmk if you want to be added to a tag list for the next part (that I'm already working on 😛)!! <33
Content: Post off the Wall/Pre thriller Era- physical touch, kissing, Making out, Vet Reader x Michael , this story is so cute, fluff, more spicy , reader and Michael sneak around. Part 2 for all who ask!! Part 3 will come if anyone wants it :)
Summary: After you help Michael with his llama Louie he invites you over to his house. You both are so nervous to be around eachother alone it’s ridiculous, but sweet. The tension is thick between you too , not anything bad , but gosh do you too need to communicate how you feel for eachother.
————————————————————————
The night you helped Louie felt like the beginning of something neither of you fully understood yet.
The air outside still smelled faintly of damp pavement and summer flowers, and the porch light beside your house gate flickered softly while Michael stood in front of you.For a moment, he just stared at you.
Not in a frightening way.
In a soft way.
Then suddenly, almost fumbling with himself, he reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out the small notepad and pen he always carried around for autographs.
You recognized it instantly.
Fans had probably begged for signatures from that very notebook all across the country. Including your brother…
But tonight, his hands shook using it for something entirely different.
Something personal.
Something that made his chest ache in a way he’d never experienced before.
He looked down at the paper while scribbling his number, tongue peeking slightly between his lips in concentration. His curls fell forward near his eyes, and the porch light caught the smooth golden-brown glow of his skin beautifully.
“There…” he mumbled softly before tearing the paper free and handing it to you.
His fingertips brushed yours for barely a second.
Still, it sent warmth flooding straight through your body.
Then came the part that made him even more nervous.
“Could I… um…” Michael scratched lightly behind his ear before glancing away bashfully. “Could I maybe have yours too?”
You tried to stay calm while writing your number down, but your heart beat so hard you worried he might actually hear it.
When you handed the paper back, Michael looked at your number like it was something precious.
The same notebook once filled with autographs now carried your handwriting.
Your phone number.
Something intimate.
Something meant only for him.
And goodness, he thought his heart might actually burst clean out of his chest.
That entire night after you left, he kept reopening the notebook just to stare at your number again.
Smiling to himself.
Touching the ink with his thumb.
Completely lovesick already.
The very next afternoon, your phone rang.
You nearly dropped the glass you were holding when you answered it.
“H-Hello?”
A familiar soft laugh floated through the receiver.
Instant butterflies.
“Hi,” Michael said warmly.
The sound of his voice alone made your stomach flip.
He had called simply because he wanted to know how you were doing.
Nothing important.
No reason.
He just… wanted to hear you.
You curled yourself tighter around the phone cord while he spoke, listening to every little breath and pause like they were treasures.
Michael explained that the next 3 weeks were going to be incredibly busy because of performances and appearances.
“But after that,” he added softly, “I’m gonna be home at Hayvenhurst for a while. We’re starting work on Thriller.”
Thriller.
The word alone made your eyes widen.
You congratulated him excitedly while he laughed shyly at your enthusiasm.
But the second the call ended, you collapsed face first into your pillow and screamed.
Actually screamed.
Because once those 3 weeks passed…
You’d get to see him again.
Not accidentally.
Not briefly.
Really see him.
Maybe even spend time together alone.
And unfortunately for your sanity, your imagination completely spiraled afterward.
You wondered what Michael’s room looked like almost obsessively.
Was it spotless and organized?
Or messy in the way young men usually were?
Did he leave records scattered around everywhere? Song lyrics crumpled on the floor? Jackets hanging over chairs?
Did he dance around while writing music?
Would he introduce you to his family?
Would his brothers tease him mercilessly the second they saw the way he looked at you?
Oh, your brain could barely survive it.
Your friend called it “Michael brain fry.”
And she was absolutely right.
The next 3 weeks crawled by painfully slowly.
Every day felt stretched thin with anticipation.
Every single ring of the phone made your heart leap into your throat.
You found yourself lingering nearby constantly, pretending not to wait for him while secretly waiting for him every second.
Then finally
Exactly 3 weeks and two days later
The phone rang in the middle of the afternoon.
You bolted toward it so quickly you nearly tripped over your own shoes.
By the time you grabbed the receiver, you were completely breathless.
“Hello?”
There was a tiny pause.
Then Michael laughed softly on the other end.
God.
You missed that laugh so much.
“Hi,” he said quietly, almost smiling through the phone.
Immediately, warmth spread through your chest.
Michael sounded shy again, almost nervous admitting how much he’d missed you without actually saying the words directly.
But you could hear it anyway.
You could hear it in the softness of his tone.
In the way he lingered on your name.
In the tiny happy sigh he let out after you answered.
For nearly an hour, Michael talked to you about everything that had happened during those two weeks apart.
He described the enormous theaters he performed in, the bright stage lights, the screaming crowds, the hotel rooms that all started blending together after a while.
Sometimes he drifted into funny little stories, awkward encounters backstage, fans throwing strange gifts at him, one of his brothers nearly slipping during rehearsal.
And you listened to every word like it was sacred.
His voice felt warm and velvety through the receiver.
Comforting.
Intimate.
Like he was sitting right beside you.
Then eventually he asked about you.
You smiled softly while telling him about helping your friend care for her injured pet snake over the past couple weeks.
That immediately sparked something in Michael’s memory.
“Oh!” he said suddenly.
You could practically hear him sitting up straighter.
“My animals…”
His voice softened again instantly afterward, shyness creeping back in.
There was a tiny silence.
Then another.
And then finally
“Would you maybe wanna come over this weekend?” he asked carefully.
Your heart stopped.
“To meet Muscles,” he added quickly afterward, almost nervously.
Your cheeks burned so hot you had to press your hand against them.
It was happening.
Actually happening.
Ever since that night you both kissed, the both of you had secretly replayed the idea over and over in your minds.
Michael especially.
He had imagined opening the gates for you.
Walking beside you through his house.
Watching your reactions to everything he loved.
And now the moment was finally here.
You smiled so hard your face hurt.
“I’d love to,” you answered immediately.
On the other end of the line, Michael grinned so widely his dimples appeared.
And for the rest of that night, neither of you could stop thinking about Saturday.
————————————————————————
Saturday arrived painfully slowly.
By the time the sun finally rose that morning, you’d already been awake for nearly an hour staring at your ceiling, heart fluttering every few minutes whenever you remembered where you were going today.
Michael’s house.
Michael’s room.
Alone with Michael.
The thought alone nearly short circuited your brain.
At exactly 8:03 AM, your phone rang.
You practically launched yourself across the room to answer it.
“H-Hello?”
A soft laugh immediately met your ears.
Michael.
Still sleepy sounding.
Still warm.
And somehow hearing his voice first thing in the morning felt dangerously intimate already.
“Morning,” he murmured softly.
Your stomach flipped instantly.
Michael sat on the edge of his bed while talking to you, one sock half on and curls messy from repeatedly running nervous hands through them all night. Truthfully, he hadn’t slept much at all.
Every time he closed his eyes, he pictured you.
Your laugh.
The way you looked at him while listening.
The feeling of your lips against his.
And every single thought made him more restless instead of less.
“I was thinking…” he said carefully. “I could walk to your house first? Then we can walk back together.”
Your heart melted immediately.
It was such a small thing.
But it felt sweet in a way only Michael could make it feel.
Like this wasn’t just hanging out.
It was something gentler.
Something courting like almost.
Like picking you up for a date without actually calling it one.
“I’d like that,” you answered softly.
The smile in Michael’s voice was impossible to miss afterward.
The next hour was torture.
You changed outfits four separate times before finally settling on something simple enough not to look like you were trying too hard , even though you absolutely were.
A soft red sweater hugged comfortably against your frame, the color warm and rich beneath the morning sunlight spilling through your curtains. You paired it with fitted blue jeans and shiny red Mary Jane shoes that made you feel cute without being overly dressed up.
And yes.
Part of you absolutely remembered Michael mentioning once that red was his favorite color.
You stared at yourself in the mirror afterward trying desperately to calm down.
“This is ridiculous,” you muttered to yourself.
But your heartbeat refused to cooperate.
Because although you and Michael had spent time together before…
This felt different.
You’d always been outside.
Walking.
Talking beneath open skies.
But today?
Today you’d be alone together inside his home.
Inside his room.
And the thought made nervous warmth flood through your entire body.
Meanwhile across the neighborhood, Michael was losing his mind quietly.
His room looked like a tornado had swept through it from how many times he’d changed clothes already.
At first he’d tried dressing nicer.
Then too nice.
Then not nice enough.
Then changed again.
Eventually he settled on dark fitted jeans and a soft cream colored button up left slightly undone near the collar beneath a black cardigan. The outfit looked effortless in the way Michael somehow naturally achieved, casual but impossibly attractive at the same time.
His curls framed his face perfectly no matter how many times he tried fixing them.
And God.
He hoped you’d think he looked okay.
Michael paced his room anxiously afterward, glancing around every few seconds.
Board games scattered near the television.
Video game cartridges stacked messily.
Toys and collectibles sitting openly on shelves.
For a brief insecure moment, he considered cleaning it all away.
Maybe you’d think it was childish.
Maybe you’d think he was childish.
But then he stopped himself.
Because hiding those things would mean hiding himself.
And somehow you’d already become the one person he didn’t want to pretend around.
So the games stayed.
The toys stayed.
The real Michael stayed.
Unfortunately, what also stayed was the absurd amount of cologne he’d sprayed all over the room.
Michael coughed dramatically halfway through the third spray.
“Oh my God-“
The room smelled like a department store exploded.
But he was nervous and wanted everything perfect for you.
He’d even carefully made sure the house would be empty today.
His brothers were out.
His parents were busy.
Everyone scattered elsewhere.
Not because he was ashamed.
Not exactly. Not really. Kind of? He didn’t know.
But what existed between you still felt delicate. Undefined.
Sacred almost.
And Michael selfishly wanted this first real visit to belong only to the two of you.
Back at your house, you peeked through the window approximately a hundred times.
The clock seemed frozen.
Your parents were at work.
Jamal was at a friend’s house.
And you were pacing around your living room like a lunatic waiting for the most exciting thing that had happened to you in months.
Then finally
You saw him.
Your breath caught instantly.
Michael’s tall lanky figure appeared down the sidewalk moving toward your house, hands tucked nervously into his pockets while morning sunlight filtered gold across his curls.
He looked beautiful.
Actually unfairly beautiful.
Your stomach flipped violently.
And Michael?
The second he saw you open the front door wearing red, his brain practically stopped functioning.
Red.
His favorite color.
And you looked so pretty.
The sweater made your skin glow warmly in the sunlight, and those little red shoes nearly destroyed him emotionally for reasons he couldn’t even explain.
Michael smiled immediately, unable to help himself.
“You look really nice,” he said softly.
But internally?
He was swooning so hard it bordered on pathetic.
Meanwhile you were busy trying not to die from how handsome he looked standing there in cream and black with shy brown eyes and curls falling near his face.
And just like that, the nervousness softened slightly between you.
The walk back to his house felt dreamlike.
The neighborhood glowed softly beneath the late morning sun while warm wind stirred through the palm trees overhead. Michael walked beside you slowly, close enough that your shoulders occasionally brushed.
Every accidental touch sent sparks straight through both of you.
The unspoken tension since the kiss lingered constantly now.
Neither of you had truly addressed it.
What you were.
What this meant.
But it existed there quietly beneath every glance and every laugh.
Sometimes Michael would look over at you mid conversation and suddenly forget what he was saying entirely.
And sometimes you’d catch him staring already.
Looking at you with that same soft expression that made your chest ache.
Eventually the massive gates of Hayvenhurst appeared ahead.
Even though you’d seen them before, walking toward them beside Michael himself felt surreal.
The property looked impossibly beautiful up close.
Sunlight shimmered across fountains.
Perfect gardens stretched endlessly around the estate.
The house itself stood enormous and elegant against the blue sky, almost dreamlike in scale.
You slowed slightly in awe.
Michael noticed immediately, smiling shyly beside you.
“It’s kinda big,” he admitted sheepishly.
“Kinda?” you laughed.
Your voice echoed softly through the open grounds while Michael watched your reactions more than the house itself.
Because honestly?
He didn’t care about impressing you with fame.
He just wanted you to like him.
As if reading your thoughts, Michael added gently:
“It’s just us here today.”
Your face heated instantly.
“Oh.”
Michael immediately got nervous hearing your tone.
Not bad nervous.
Just suddenly hyperaware that yes,
You two were completely alone together.
Inside his home.
The realization affected both of you equally.
Excitement.
Nervousness.
Anticipation.
And Michael’s heart practically pounded itself unconscious by the time he led you toward the backyard.
The second Louie spotted you, the llama perked up excitedly and trotted over.
You immediately smiled brightly.
“Well look who it is,” you teased, rubbing his neck affectionately. “Chomper says he’s still offended you called him chunky.”
Michael burst into laughter beside you.
“He did not!”
“He absolutely did.”
Louie made a loud snorting noise mid conversation, and the timing was so absurdly perfect both of you lost it laughing harder.
You stumbled slightly into Michael’s side while laughing, and Michael instinctively steadied you with his hands on your waist.
Then suddenly
Silence.
Not awkward.
Just thick.
Your laughter faded while your faces stayed close, both of you caught staring at each other again.
Michael’s hands lingered slightly too long.
Your heart raced.
And for one dangerous second, it genuinely looked like he might kiss you again right there beside the llama enclosure.
Michael panicked first.
“A-Anyway” he cleared his throat quickly, blushing. “You should meet Muscles.”
You bit back a smile immediately.
God, he was cute when he got nervous.
Michael’s room somehow managed to feel exactly like him.
Warm.
Creative.
Comfortable.
Sunlight filtered through large windows across shelves packed with records, books, stuffed animals, arcade games, and scattered board games stacked near the carpet. A keyboard sat near one corner beside notebooks filled with lyrics and scribbled thoughts.
The room wasn’t overly polished.
It felt lived in.
Personal.
And strangely innocent.
You loved it instantly.
Then your eyes landed on the terrarium.
Inside rested a beautiful green tree python coiled carefully around a branch, its vivid emerald scales almost glowing beneath the warm enclosure light. Tiny flecks of yellow shimmered across its body whenever it moved, and its pale eyes watched the room with calm curiosity.
Your entire face lit up instantly.
“Oh my gosh”
Michael smiled immediately watching your reaction.
“That’s Muscles.”
You crouched beside the enclosure immediately, completely fascinated.
“He’s beautiful,” you breathed softly.
Michael leaned casually against the wall nearby, though internally he was absolutely melting watching you get excited.
You carefully studied the snake with the kind of focused admiration Michael had already fallen hopelessly in love with.
“Green tree python…” you murmured excitedly. “Wow, his coloration is gorgeous. Look how healthy his scales are too, and his body condition is perfect.”
Michael practically melted hearing you ramble.
He loved this side of you so much.
The passion.
The intelligence.
The tenderness.
You carefully held Muscles afterward while Michael hovered nearby completely enchanted by how natural you looked with him draped gently around your shoulders.
And honestly?
Michael swore both you and the snake had never looked prettier.
Then suddenly Michael brightened.
“Oh! I forgot, I have more animals coming.”
Your eyes widened immediately.
“You do?”
“A monkey named Bubbles,” he said excitedly. “And eventually I wanna get a giraffe too.”
You nearly gasped.
“A giraffe?! Michael please tell me the SECOND they get here.”
He laughed warmly. “You really wanna meet them that bad?”
“Yes!”
Michael grinned before holding out his pinky.
“I promise.”
You immediately locked pinkies with him.
Then kissed your joined fingers dramatically.
Michael burst into laughter.
“You’re such a dork.”
“So are you.”
And somehow the childishness only made the connection between you sweeter.
Realer.
Then you noticed the games scattered everywhere.
Your eyes widened excitedly.
“You play all these?!”
Michael blinked. “Yeah?”
“I love board games!”
That immediately launched both of you into animated conversation.
You explained how your parents worked constantly and Jamal stopped wanting to play games with you once he got older.
Michael’s expression softened instantly.
“I know that feeling,” he admitted quietly. “I always ask my brothers to play but everybody’s busy now.”
Something sad flickered briefly behind his smile.
Then suddenly:
“Wanna play?”
And that was how both of you ended up sprawled across Michael’s bedroom floor aggressively competing over 80s board games for the next two hours.
Michael was infuriatingly good at every single one.
“You cheated.”
“I absolutely did not.”
“You’re smug.”
“You’re losing.”
You pointed accusingly at him while Michael laughed so hard he nearly fell backward.
The flirting became impossible to hide after a while.
Every tease lingered too long.
Every smile softened.
Every accidental touch became charged.
Then eventually you spotted Twister shoved near the shelf.
Your eyes lit up dangerously.
Michael immediately narrowed his eyes suspiciously.
“Oh no.”
“Oh yes.”
Twister turned out to be the worst possible idea.
And also the best.
Within minutes both of you were tangled across the colorful mat laughing uncontrollably.
“Left hand blue,” you read out.
Michael groaned dramatically while stretching awkwardly across you to reach the circle.
His face ended up inches from yours.
Way too close.
Your breath caught instantly.
And Michael,
Michael completely lost track of the game.
All he could focus on was your face this close to his.
Your eyes.
Your lips.
The way you were smiling.
“Michael,” you laughed breathlessly. “You’re literally crushing me.”
“Sorry, sorry-“
Except neither of you moved immediately.
Because the tension had become unbearable now.
Your bodies tangled together.
His hand planted beside your waist.
Your knee brushing his thigh.
Both of you breathing too hard for this to still just be about a game.
Then Michael slipped trying to reposition himself.
And suddenly both of you collapsed together onto the Twister mat laughing helplessly.
You landed half beneath him, your legs tangled together while the spinner rolled uselessly across the carpet nearby. Michael caught himself at the last second with one hand beside your head, curls falling messily into his face as laughter spilled breathlessly from both of you.
For a few seconds, neither of you could stop laughing.
Every time one of you calmed down, the other would look at the ridiculous position you’d ended up in and start all over again.
But slowly
The laughter faded.
And the room changed with it.
Michael remained hovering over you slightly, breathing hard from laughing, dark curls shadowing his soft brown eyes while his chest rose and fell unevenly.
You became painfully aware of everything all at once.
How warm his body felt above yours.
How one of his knees rested between your legs.
How his cardigan sleeve brushed your arm every time he moved.
How close his lips were.
Way too close.
Michael swallowed softly.
His eyes dropped to your mouth before immediately flicking back up again like he hadn’t meant to do it.
But you noticed.
And the second he realized you noticed, nervousness flooded his expression instantly.
God, he wanted to kiss you.
He’d wanted to kiss you again nearly every day since that night in your backyard.
Every phone call.
Every letter.
Every accidental brush of your hands.
He’d replayed the feeling of your lips against his so many times it nearly drove him insane during those two weeks apart.
And now you were underneath him looking at him like this?
Michael thought his heart might actually explode.
Your fingers lifted slowly toward his face, brushing one curl carefully away from his eyes.
The touch made him visibly melt.
A shaky breath escaped him quietly.
Then you smiled softly.
And that was all it took.
Michael kissed you immediately.
Not hesitant this time.
Not careful in the way he’d been during the first kiss.
This kiss carried weeks of wanting behind it.
Longing.
Missing you.
Thinking about you late at night while staring at ceilings and replaying your laugh in his head.
His hand slid instinctively to your waist, fingers curling there almost desperately while his lips moved against yours with a softness that somehow still felt overwhelming.
Michael kissed like someone emotionally starved for affection.
Every kiss lingered.
Every movement carried feeling behind it.
He kissed you slowly at first, savoring you, almost like he was afraid this might disappear if he moved too quickly.
But the second you kissed him back harder, something inside him unraveled completely.
A quiet sound escaped his throat against your lips before he could stop it.
Your fingers slid into his curls again, and Michael swore he nearly lost his mind.
He loved when you touched his hair.
Loved it far more than he could probably survive.
His other hand moved carefully to your cheek, thumb brushing softly against your skin while he deepened the kiss again and again like he couldn’t get close enough to you.
And honestly?
He couldn’t.
The tension between you both had been building for weeks now.
In lingering stares.
Mini late night phone calls Michael would sneak in while he was gone for those 3 weeks.
The evening walks.
The letters you too would share.
Late night thoughts.
Tiny touches that lasted too long.
And now all of it poured into the kiss at once.
Warmth flooded through your entire body when Michael shifted slightly closer, his chest pressing fully against yours now while his lips parted softly against your own.
You could feel how fast his heart was beating.
Could feel his nervousness tangled together with want.
Michael’s kisses grew deeper after that, more emotional than polished, like he wasn’t trying to impress you anymore.
He was simply feeling you.
His hand tightened gently at your waist while your fingers tangled deeper into his curls, and every time you kissed him back, Michael reacted like it physically affected him.
Like he couldn’t believe you wanted him this much too.
The room around you disappeared completely.
The games scattered across the floor.
The fading sunlight outside.
The world itself.
None of it mattered anymore.
Only this.
Only him.
Only you.
Michael finally pulled back just enough to breathe, forehead resting against yours while both of you sat there dazed and breathless on the Twister mat.
His lips looked slightly swollen now, like last time, and his curls completely ruined from your hands running through them repeatedly.
And his eyes
God.
His eyes looked absolutely gone for you.
He stared at you like he didn’t know what to do with how deeply he felt things.
Then suddenly, like reality crashed back into him all at once, Michael let out the softest embarrassed laugh and looked away shyly.
You immediately hid your face too, both of you smiling helplessly from pure nervousness.
Neither of you knew how to act normal around each other anymore.
By the time Michael walked you home later that night, the neighborhood had gone quiet beneath the dark sky.
Streetlights cast soft golden pools across the sidewalks while warm summer wind stirred through the trees overhead. Your fingers remained intertwined the entire walk home, neither of you wanting to let go first.
And honestly?
Michael was already dreading saying goodbye.
When you finally reached your front gate, both of you slowed instinctively.
Neither moved to leave.
Neither wanted the night to end.
Michael rubbed his thumb softly over your knuckles while looking down shyly for a moment before finally speaking.
“…You know,” he murmured carefully, “you could come over again tomorrow.”
Your heart fluttered instantly.
“Tomorrow?”
Michael nodded, suddenly nervous again.
“Yeah. Maybe at night though.” He glanced away bashfully. “Everybody’ll probably be home by then but… I can sneak you in.”
You blinked softly.
The idea sounded strangely thrilling.
And sweet.
And intimate.
Like the two of you shared some secret little world nobody else knew about yet.
A smile spread slowly across your face.
“I’d like that.”
Michael’s expression brightened immediately.
And just before leaving, he leaned down and kissed you one more time beneath the porch light.
Softer this time.
Slower.
Like a promise.
————————————————————————
And somehow, sneaking into his home at night became your thing afterward.
Constantly.
Beautifully.
Romantically.
You’d wait until the house lights dimmed low before quietly slipping through the side entrance Michael would leave unlocked for you. Sometimes he’d already be waiting nearby in soft sweaters and messy curls, smiling the second he saw you.
Other nights he’d practically pull you into his arms immediately the moment the door shut behind you.
Those nights became your favorite part of life.
Sometimes the two of you spent hours tangled together on his bed kissing until neither of you could think straight anymore, Michael’s hands warm against your waist while he kissed you deeply like he’d been waiting all day just for this exact moment.
Other nights were softer.
Playing board games.
Watching movies beneath blankets.
Listening to unfinished demos while Michael nervously watched your reactions to every song.
He only ever let a few people hear his unfinished work.
But you?
He wanted you to hear everything.
You became part of his private world slowly.
The real world.
Not the performer version everyone else saw.
And that made your feelings for him deepen dangerously fast.
But eventually…
The secrecy started hurting.
Not because Michael treated you badly.
Never that.
If anything, he treated you too gently.
Too lovingly.
But still
You had to sneak in.
Sneak out.
Hide.
And after weeks of it, insecurity slowly crept into your chest no matter how hard you tried fighting it.
What were you two exactly?
Why did this beautiful thing between you still feel hidden?
One night, after climbing quietly through his window once again, the question finally became too heavy to ignore.
Michael sat beside you on his bed while music played softly from a cassette nearby, one of his unreleased demos humming low through the room.
You twisted your fingers together nervously before finally speaking.
“…Michael?”
He looked over immediately.
The softness in his eyes nearly made you lose courage.
Still, you forced yourself to continue.
“Should I be doubting this?”
Michael’s expression fell instantly.
Your chest tightened seeing it.
“I just…” you swallowed nervously. “Sometimes I wonder why I have to keep sneaking around like this.”
Silence filled the room afterward.
Michael looked down immediately.
And suddenly you realized this wasn’t something simple for him.
His shoulders slumped slightly while emotion flickered visibly across his face.
“No,” he said quietly. “No, baby, don’t doubt us.”
Him saying baby alone nearly broke your heart.
Michael rubbed nervously at his hands before continuing softer this time.
“My family…” He sighed quietly. “It’s complicated.”
You stayed silent, letting him speak.
“We love each other but…” Michael shook his head slightly. “Sometimes everything gets messy. We argue. We fight. Then things get better again.” His voice lowered. “And then they get bad again.”
There was so much exhaustion hidden underneath his words.
So much sadness.
Michael stared down at his lap for a long moment before speaking again.
“What we have means everything to me,” he admitted quietly. “And I think I got scared.”
Your heart ached instantly.
Michael’s eyes looked glossy now.
“I didn’t want anybody ruining this before I even understood it myself.” He laughed weakly through his emotions. “I didn’t want somebody saying the wrong thing and making you leave.”
The tears gathering in his eyes shattered you.
Especially when he whispered:
“And I hate that I made you feel insecure because of that.”
Immediately you moved closer, wrapping your arms around him tightly.
Michael melted into you instantly.
You held him carefully while your fingers stroked gently through his curls.
“We can take our time,” you whispered softly. “Really. I’m not going anywhere.”
Michael closed his eyes tightly at that.
“You don’t have to rush anything,” you continued gently. “Whenever you’re ready… I’ll support it.”
For a moment Michael said nothing.
Then slowly, he pulled back just enough to look at you.
The tenderness in his expression nearly hurt.
He leaned forward and kissed your forehead softly.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
You smiled faintly, touching his cheek.
Michael looked at you for another long moment afterward before finally murmuring quietly:
summary: When you stop by the studio to drop off your father's lunch, the friendly duet turns into an ironically realistic competition.
content: playful rivalry, light teasing, flirting, harmless tension, mild jealousy, studio setting, (you guys know the song lol)
a/n: sorry for the short one, guys, just a bit of a requested drabble as I prepare a longer oneshot for you (and possibly a story on wattpad ~ @cartii078 👀)
You only came to the studio because your dad forgot his lunch — for the 3rd time in a row. You started to think he was doing this on purpose. Quincy barely looks up when you walk in, entirely focused on the mixing board.
"Daddy?" You step closer to him, setting the brown paper bag on the mixing table, earning a playful glare from him.
"Now what'd I say about food on the mixing table, girl? This equipment is expensive."
"Well, we wouldn't be having this conversation if you didn't leave the lunch I made at home."
He chuckles before turning in his chair, giving you a peck on the cheek and a small, "Thank you, baby girl."
You look up to see Michael and Paul sitting in the chairs, distant from the two of you, now staring at the interaction. You know better than being rude, so you wave and say hello.
Paul knew that Americans loved small talk, but for some reason, he was more than happy to engage in the meaningless conversation with you.
Your soft-spoken voice became music to his ears — more than any tune could satisfy. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, giving you his full attention as you talked about your own studio projects, your father was helping you with.
Michael, on the other hand, didn't speak. You can feel his eyes on you as he listens. Granted, you two have met numerous times beforehand and have even hung out countless times afterward. Especially since you two were closer in age than you and Paul.
Nonetheless, you invite Michael into the conversation anyway.
"Yeah, I've been enjoying the songs I've made so far. Michael has heard a few of them. Surely, he'll tell you. Right, Michael?"
His posture straightens, and for a second, he looks almost shy, caught between wanting to impress you and not wanting to sound like he’s bragging too much. Michael clears his throat softly. “Yeah… I’ve heard them,” he says, voice warm. “They’re really good. She’s got her own sound. Style.”
"Style?" Paul repeats.
"Yeah."
Your father hums in agreement, not looking up from the board, playing with the volume of certain adlibs previously recorded.
Paul smiles at you, but there’s a flicker of something competitive in his eyes now — like he suddenly realizes Michael has a head start he didn’t know about.
“Oh? And how come I haven’t heard any of these masterpieces he speaks of?” Paul asks, leaning back in his chair.
You shrug lightly. “Because Michael actually shows up when he says he will.”
Michael tries not to smile at your comment, while Paul’s jaw drops dramatically.
You snort. “Don’t start, you’re late to everything. You work on black people time more than we do.”
Michael finally lets the smile slip, eyes flicking to you like he’s grateful you're finally on his side.
Paul recovers quickly, leaning back into the chair. “Well then,” he says, pointing between you and Michael, “I suppose I’ve got some catching up to do.”
"Eh, probably not. She's been a bit busy helping me. She may not have the time."
"Surely, she has some free time."
"She doesn't."
Part of you wanted to curse them both out for speaking for you, instead of asking what you wanted, but Michael was right. Not about being busy, though, but you knew what he implied.
Given what you two have said during your hangouts, Michael knew that you wouldn't be interested.
You inhale slowly, trying not to roll your eyes at either of them.
"Actually," you say, leaning against the soft acoustic form on the wall behind you. "I can speak for myself."
Both men look at you immediately, a bit guilty, but also waiting patiently for your final verdict.
"I'm not always busy. I just don't say yes to everything." You flicker your eyes to Michael, as if it was directed towards him.
Paul grins, leaning back as if he's already won you over, "And what does it take to get a yes from you?"
But before you could think of a response, you could see Michael shift, not talking over you, or interrupting, or assuming, just giving you a look.
You don't say yes to everything. You also don't owe him an explanation.
And that's exactly why you'd never be interested in Paul.
Well, one of the reasons aside from the fact that he was 15 years older than you.
You shrug lightly, still trying to be polite. "It depends on the person."
Paul opens his mouth, ready to attempt to charm his way into another question, but your father cuts him short.
"Alright, enough... socializing — whatever the hell this is," he says, spinning in his chair as he takes a bite out of his sandwich. "If y'all are done circling my daughter, we gotta finish this song by tomorrow."
Paul laughs as Michael stands and steps inside the booth, a smile on his face.
But the atmosphere has visibly changed, the increasingly frequent glances you and Michael share. The moment you decide to stay a bit longer to "help Michael," when everyone decides to go home for the night. It's now known that any kind of playful rivalry that once existed is now completely meaningless and unmistakably pointed.
seems like michael is interested you, but why a toy store?
i never thought i would end up writing something like this but michael has been on my mind non-stop so why the hell not it was a fun idea and it was fun to write!
cw : nothing too serious ! fluff, RPF, tooth rotting sweetness light slow burn and this is not proof read LMFAO thriller era mike, reader is a bit stubborn
The toy store was loud in the way only toy stores on a weekday afternoon could be, squealing wheels on linoleum, a demo radio somewhere in the back playing something tinny, a toddler three aisles over making his feelings known to the entire building. You navigated through it all with the focused energy of someone on a mission, list in hand, your little brother’s very specific instructions replaying in your head like a voice memo you unfortunately could not delete.
The red race car. The one with the yellow stripe. Not the orange one, not the blue one, the red one with the yellow stripe, and if you get the wrong one I’m not speaking to you.
He was seven. The threat was empty. You were getting the right one anyway.
You found the aisle, crouched down to the lower shelf where the die-cast vehicles lived, and scanned methodically. Blue. Blue. Orange. A green one that looked promising but wasn’t. And then — there. Red body, yellow stripe down the side, exactly as described. You reached for it.
Another hand got there at the same time.
You looked up.
He was tall. Dressed plainly enough, dark trousers, a simple jacket, unremarkable except for the wide-brimmed fedora pulled low and the sunglasses sitting on his face indoors, which you clocked immediately as the symbol of I believe I am someone important. He had a stillness about him, something gentle in the way he held himself, but he was also very clearly holding your brother’s race car.
“Oh,” he said. Soft voice. Genuinely surprised, like he hadn’t anticipated anyone else existing in this aisle.
“Yeah,” you said. “Oh.”
Neither of you moved.
He seemed to be waiting for something — maybe for you to step back, defer, let the moment resolve itself in his favor the way moments perhaps usually did for him. You tilted your head instead. He had good cheekbones, you noticed distantly. Didn’t change anything.
“My brother asked for this one,” you said, pleasantly, in the tone that meant this is a courtesy statement, not a negotiation.
“I was going to—” He stopped himself. Glanced briefly to his left.
A few steps behind him stood a large, broad-shouldered older man with watchful energy of someone who had stood behind this particular person through a great many situations. He had his arms loosely crossed and was studying a display of toy trucks with very deliberate interest.
The man in the hat looked back at you. Then, unhurriedly, he released the car.
You smiled at him — full, bright, just the slightest edge of triumph in it. “Thank you so much,” you said, already straightening up, already turning. “Very generous of you.”
You didn’t look back. You were almost to the end of the aisle when you heard, just barely beneath the store noise, the older man’s low voice: “She didn’t even blink.” And then something that sounded very much like a quiet, delighted laugh.
You were on your way to the checkout when you heard it — a hushed, rapid exchange near the front display.
“Did you see her?” The soft voice, quieter now, aimed at the older man.
“I saw.”
“She didn’t — she had no idea who I—”
“I know, Mike.”
A pause. “I want to talk to her again.”
The older man — Bill, Michael had called him once or twice quietly during the exchange, you’d caught it, made a sound that was half agreement, half something else. Amusement, maybe. The careful kind, from someone who knew better than to make it obvious.
You were already at the register. You didn’t think much of it.
He came back the following Tuesday. You weren’t there.
He came back Thursday.
You weren’t there either, but the woman at the register, who had worked the afternoon shift for years and had seen many things, noted the tall young man in the hat who walked one slow loop of the store and left without buying anything.
He came back the Tuesday after that.
You were there.
You were in the same aisle — not by any design, just because your neighbor had asked you to pick up a specific set of building blocks for her nephew’s birthday and the blocks were adjacent to the vehicles display and you’d paused to look at something on the lower shelf. You were crouched again, in the same spot, which in retrospect was a detail that would make you laugh later.
A tap on your shoulder. Light. Almost tentative.
You stood and turned.
The hat. The jacket. The sunglasses. The same man, and this time there was something different in his posture — a careful kind of hope, chin slightly ducked, like he’d decided to do this and was now fully committed but also fully aware it could go sideways.
“You,” you said.
“Me,” he agreed. The corner of his mouth moved upward, just slightly. “Do you remember me?”
You made a show of considering it. Looked at the hat. The sunglasses. Let your gaze drift to the lower shelf where the cars were.
“Hat,” you said. “Sunglasses indoors. Tried to take my brother’s toy.” You looked back at him. “The one who thought about arguing and then thought better of it.”
He laughed — a real one, open and a little breathless, tilting his head back with it — and from a few feet behind him, Bill pressed his lips together and looked very pointedly at a shelf of action figures.
“I wasn’t going to argue,” the man said, recovering.
“You had the face of someone considering it.”
He blinked innocently. “I don’t know what that means.”
“You do,” you said, amused despite yourself, “but that’s okay.” He was still smiling. It was a good smile — soft, a little shy around the edges, like he wasn’t entirely sure what to do with the fact that it was there. He extended his hand.
“I’m Michael.”
You shook it and told him your name. He said it back to himself quietly, deliberate, like he was making sure he had it right.
“So,” you said, shifting the building blocks under your arm. “You came back.”
He didn’t try to dress it up. “I wanted to see you again.”
Something about the directness of it caught you off guard — not aggressive, nothing like that, just simple and honest. You looked at him for a moment. He looked back, patient, waiting.
“Well,” you said, “you found me in the same aisle. That’s either fate or a concerning pattern.”
“I’m hoping fate.”
“I’m keeping my options open,” you told him pleasantly, and his smile widened.
You walked the aisle slowly, no real destination, and he fell into step beside you with the ease of someone who had been waiting for exactly this. He asked about your brother, the one the car was for — and you told him about the specificity of seven-year-old demands, the yellow stripe, the thirty-minute lecture you’d received about the difference between red-red and orange-red. He listened with full attention, genuinely charmed by it, asking small questions at the right moments. He was quiet in the way that felt considered rather than absent. Careful with what he said.
“You’re not what I expected,” you said at some point, not meaning to say it out loud.
He tilted his head. “What did you expect?”
“Someone who argues about toys.” He laughed again, softer this time. “I almost did.”
“I know,” you said. “I appreciated the restraint.” Bill, trailing at a respectful distance, was finding the educational games section deeply fascinating.
You’d been talking for a few minutes, easy and unguarded, when you stopped in front of a display and turned to him properly.
“Okay,” you said, “I have to ask. The hat, the glasses — are you hiding from someone or do you just really commit to a look?” He paused. Something shifted, a flicker of something that might have been amusement, might have been mild anxiety, might have been both.
“Little bit of both,” he said, carefully.
You studied him. He was still, watching you. And that’s when you actually looked — past the low brim and the tinted lenses, at the line of his jaw, the particular architecture of his face, the way his mouth was set.
Something tugged at the back of your mind. You frowned, not unkindly.
“Michael,” you said slowly.
“Yeah?”
“That’s funny. There’s a singer.” You tilted your head. “Michael Jackson. You kind of — your face is—” You stopped.
He went very, very still.
You looked at him. He looked back at you with the careful patience of someone who had been in this exact position and knew better than to rush it. “You kind of look exactly like him,” you finished, quieter now.
He said nothing.
Your eyes moved to the sunglasses. Back to the jaw. The cheekbones. The soft mouth. The hat, which now that you were thinking about it was a very particular kind of hat.
“Michael,” you said, differently this time.
“…Yes?”
“Michael Jackson.”
A beat. “Yes,” he said, gently.
You stared at him. He let you. You opened your mouth and closed it again. You were not — this was important — you were not the kind of person who lost composure. You were composed. You were always composed. You had been raised to be composed.
“In a toy store,” you said. The words came out very flat.
“I like toys,” he said, with complete and simple sincerity.
“You’re Michael Jackson and you’re in a toy store on a Tuesday afternoon—”
“It’s a good store—”
“With a hat,” you continued, gesturing at the fedora, “as a disguise—”
“It works more often than you’d think,” he offered.
You pressed the back of your hand to your mouth. The laugh came anyway — you couldn’t help it, it climbed up through your chest and out of you, and for a moment you were just standing in the building blocks aisle laughing with your hand over your face while Michael Jackson stood in front of you looking quietly, helplessly delighted.
From somewhere behind a display of board games, Bill made a sound that was technically a cough. It was not a cough.
“You didn’t say anything,” you said, when you had recovered some portion of your dignity. “When I — the first time, with the toy—”
“You didn’t recognize me,” he said, and there was that warmth again, that almost-relief in it. “It was nice. It’s been a while since someone just…” He searched for the word. “Didn’t.”
You looked at him. Took in the careful honesty of it, the way he meant it without performance.
“How long have you been coming back here?” you asked, though you suspected you knew.
He glanced, very briefly, at Bill. “A few times,” Michael said.
“A few.”
“A few,” he confirmed, and he had the grace to look slightly sheepish about it, ducking his chin in a way that was, against your better judgment, completely endearing.
You were quiet for a moment. He waited, unhurried, watching you with those dark eyes that were soft and steady and hadn’t looked anywhere else since you’d turned around.
“For the record,” you said finally, “the hat is not a disguise. You look exactly like yourself.”
He laughed — bright and real, head tilting back again. “You’re the first person to say that.”
“I’m not going to apologize for having eyes.”
“I’m not asking you to,” he said, and he was still smiling, that careful soft smile, and the afternoon light was coming through the storefront windows and catching the brim of his very insufficient hat, and your building blocks were getting heavy under your arm.
“Well, Michael Jackson,” you said, adjusting your grip on them, “you went to a lot of trouble to stand in a toy aisle again.”
“It was worth it,” he said simply.
You looked at him for one more moment. Then you nodded, once, acknowledging something unspoken, and started toward the register.
“You should pick better disguises,” you called back.
Behind you, you heard him laugh again, quiet and warm.
Just a shy and lonely Off the Wall era MJ accidentally gets invited to spend Christmas with a girl and her family after she catches him staring at her decorations outside.
Soft fluff, awkward Michael and him finally getting to feel like a normal boy for once <3
5k+ words
This is actually the first time I’ve really written something like this, so it might not be perfect
I’m still learning and I’ll probably improve with time, so be nice pls <3
The neighborhood was glowing, every house on the street seemed alive in its own way with warm yellow lights spilling through windows, Christmas music drifting faintly into the cold air, families moving around behind curtains like scenes from a movie Michael had spent his whole life watching from the outside.
He walked slowly beneath the strings of lights hanging over the sidewalks, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his coat.
He should have been elsewhere tonight, like at the studio or at home. Anywhere but wandering alone in his neighborhood on Christmas Eve.
But the closer the holidays got, the more difficult it became to ignore the silent pain that reigned somewhere deep in his chest.
People talk about Christmas as if it were magic, with childhood memories, family traditions, staying up too late to decorate trees and fall asleep on sofas while old movies were playing in the background.
Michael had been hearing people talk about these things for years, smiling softly while listening as if he understood.
But honestly he didn’t do it, Christmas has always been something distant. Something that other families have done.
And at twenty-one years old standing in the middle of a quiet street with snow clinging slightly to the edges of the sidewalk, he realized that part of him still wanted it anyway.
He really wanted it, not the celebrity, not the crowds screaming even though he loved his fans.
He just wanted that.
His steps slowed down when he arrived at a house near the end of the street, it looked almost unreal.
They were colorful lights wrapped around the porch railings shining softly against the snow. A huge Christmas tree stood by the front window filled with ornaments and garlands that sparkled every time someone walked past it inside.
Michael watched a little too long.
Laughter spilled through the open front door for half a second before it closed again and something about the sound made his chest tighten unexpectedly.
He wondered what it felt like to grow up with noise like that.
To have sisters and brothers pulling you into snowball fights and parents yelling from the kitchen. Friends showing up unannounced because they knew they were welcome.
He tried to imagine himself as a little boy in a house like this and the image hurt more than he expected.
“Um…”
Michael blinked out of his thoughts and he saw two girls standing in the front yard now.
The younger one was bundled in a bright red coat, snow clinging to her boots while she stared at him with absolutely no subtlety. The older girl, probably around his age looked nervous.
“Lily, you can’t just stare at people” she whispered harshly to her little sister.
“But he’s been standing there forever.”
Michael looked down immediately suddenly embarrassed.
“Sorry” he said quietly. “I didn’t mean to be weird or anything.” His voice came out softer than intended, almost swallowed by the cold air.
The older girl looked at him.
There was something strangely sad about him despite the gentle smile on his face. Like he’d been caught longing for something he wasn’t supposed to have.
“It’s okay” she said carefully. “You just looked a little lost.”
Michael laughed softly at that, though it barely sounded like a laugh at all.
“Maybe I am.”
For a second nobody said anything.
Snowflakes drifted lazily between them. Somewhere down the street children were yelling over a snowball fight.
Then the little girl suddenly stepped closer.
“Do you wanna help us build the snowman?”
Michael looked genuinely startled.
“Me?”
“Yeah.” She pointed at the half-finished snowman beside them. “He looks ugly.”
The older girl groaned. “Lily-”
But before she could apologize again Michael laughed.
A real laugh this time. Warm and bright and surprised enough that it caught even him off guard.
And somehow standing there beneath the Christmas lights with snow melting slowly into his curls, he looked younger all of a sudden.
Just a lonely boy being asked to play for the first time in a very, very long while.
“I’m freezing” Lily complained dramatically after another failed attempt at fixing the snowman’s lopsided head.
She stepped back to examine it, frowned deeply then pointed an accusing finger at Michael.
“You made him ugly.”
Michael looked genuinely offended for half a second before laughing softly under his breath.
“I think he had problems before I got here.”
“Nope. It was definitely you.”
Her older sister rolled her eyes fondly as Lily huffed and brushed snow off her mittens.
“I’m going inside. Mom made gingerbread cookies and I deserve at least four for suffering through this.”
“You already had five!”
“Exactly. and i need more.”
Before either of them could answer, she spin around and sprinted toward the house, nearly slipping across the icy porch. The front door swung open, warm light spilling briefly into the yard before disappearing again behind her.
And suddenly it was quiet, the kind that only seemed to exist on winter nights.
Snow drifted slowly from the dark sky settling over the sidewalks and rooftops while distant Christmas music floated faintly through the neighborhood. Somewhere farther down the street people were laughing loudly enough for the sound to carry through the cold air.
Michael stood beside the half-finished snowman with his hands tucked into his coat pockets staring at the glowing lights wrapped around the porch railing.
He looked calmer now that Lily was gone but quieter too.
Like her presence had distracted him from his own thoughts for a little while.
“You don’t talk much, huh?” she teased gently, mostly to ease the strange nervousness she could still feel radiating off him.
He glanced at her, visibly caught off guard by the question before smiling shyly.
“I do sometimes.”
“Sometimes?”
“Depends who I’m around.”
His voice was soft and almost careful, and she noticed he still avoided holding eye contact for too long. He kept looking away toward the lights, toward the snowman, toward the windows of her house glowing gold against the dark street.
He seemed lonely.
And somehow that felt far more important than the fame.
Michael noticed the way she kept talking to him naturally, like he was just another guy from the neighborhood standing in her front yard on Christmas Eve.
There was no expectation in her eyes, just warmth and kindness and it made his chest ache in a way he wasn’t prepared for.
Because God he’d wanted this for soo long.
Not the screaming crowds or the attention people swore he should be grateful for.
He just wanted to stand outside in the cold talking about nothing important with somebody who saw him as a person before anything else. Somebody who didn’t look at him like a star. Somebody who laughed at his terrible snowman skills and didn’t seem to care who he was.
For years he had watched other people his age form friendships so easily, had watched them move through life without constantly wondering whether they were loved for themselves or for the name attached to them.
And standing here now beneath glowing Christmas lights, he realized how badly some part of him had always wished for a normal life.
A normal childhood, friends.
Memories that didn’t involve stages and cameras and pressure.
The thought sat heavily in his chest while snowflakes melted quietly into his curls.
“You okay?” she asked softly after noticing how distant he’d gotten.
Michael blinked, pulled abruptly back into the moment.
“Yeah” he murmured quickly, though his smile this time looked smaller. “Sorry. I was just thinking.”
His gaze drifted once more toward the house behind her, toward the silhouettes moving warmly through the windows.
“Your family seems really nice.”
“They are” she said with a small laugh. “A little insane sometimes, but nice.”
Michael smiled at that. A real smile this time, soft enough to make him look almost boyish.
For a second neither of them spoke.
Then slowly, Michael shifted his weight backward and glanced down the street behind him.
“I should probably head home.”
Something about the way he said it made her chest tighten unexpectedly.
Like he already sounded disappointed before even leaving.
“Oh.”
He nodded lightly, hands curling deeper into his sleeves against the cold.
“I just wanted to thank you before I go.”
She frowned a little. “For helping ruin the snowman?”
A quiet laugh escaped him.
“For this moment.”
The humor faded from his expression after that, replaced by something softer. More vulnerable.
“I know it probably doesn’t seem like a big deal to you, but…” He hesitated briefly, eyes lowering toward the snow beneath his shoes. “I’ve never really done this before.”
“Done what?”
“All that things.”
The word left his mouth carefully, almost embarrassed.
“I mean..” His voice softened further. “I’ve never stood outside making snowmen or listened to Christmas music coming from somebody’s house or…“
He laughed quietly to himself, though there was sadness hidden inside it.
“I don’t know. I guess I never really had that kind of childhood.”
The honesty in his voice hurt to hear.
Michael looked back up at her then, smiling gently despite it all.
“But it was really nice.”
His eyes flickered toward the glowing lights one last time.
“I don’t think I’ll ever forget it.”
Something inside her heart cracked completely at that.
The fact that this tiny moment, just standing in front of somebody else’s house while snow fell around him and trying to fix a snowman meant so much to him made her chest ache unbearably.
Before she could think twice, she blurted out “Wait here.”
Michael looked startled. “What?”
But she was already hurrying toward the front door before he could say anything else.
He stood frozen near the sidewalk while she disappeared inside the house, the warm light swallowing her instantly. Through the windows he could see her talking rapidly to her parents in the kitchen while Lily bounced excitedly beside her.
Michael’s stomach tightened immediately.
Maybe he’d made things awkward. Maybe she regretted talking to him. Maybe her parents were upset she’d been outside alone with some strange man lingering around their yard on Christmas Eve.
He almost convinced himself to leave before she came back.
But then the front door flew open again.
She ran back down the porch steps breathlessly, snow crunching beneath her boots as she hurried toward him with the brightest smile he’d seen all night.
“They said yes.”
Michael stared at her in confusion.
“Yes to what?”
“To you coming tomorrow.”
He blinked slowly.
“For Christmas,” she clarified softly. “Dinner, presents, watching movies.. all of it.”
For a moment, he just looked at her completely speechless.
She watched every emotion cross his face all at once confusion, disbelief, hope so sudden it almost looked painful.
“You mean that?” he whispered finally.
“Of course I mean it.”
He laughed shakily under his breath, overwhelmed in a way he clearly didn’t know how to hide. His eyes had gone glassy beneath the porch lights, and for a second he looked younger than twenty-one.
Nobody had ever invited him into something so normal before.
Not because he was famous.
Not because he was useful.
Just because they wanted him there.
“Okay” he said quietly, almost breathlessly.
Then he smiled.
And she thought she had never seen anyone look so genuinely happy over something so simple.
Later that night, Michael walked slowly back down the snowy street toward his house with his hands pressed tightly against his sleeves, trying helplessly to contain the warmth blooming inside his chest.
The neighborhood looked different now. Softer somehow.
He could still hear her laughter in his head. Still picture the lights glowing around her porch.
Halfway home, emotion overwhelmed him so suddenly he had to stop walking.
He stood there alone beneath a flickering streetlamp, tears slipping silently down his cold cheeks while he laughed quietly at himself under his breath.
He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt wanted somewhere without needing to earn it first.
And the feeling was almost unbearable in its gentleness.
By the time he finally reached home, he already knew he wanted to bring them something tomorrow.
Something thoughtful. Something that could somehow express the gratitude sitting far too heavily inside his heart for words alone.
Meanwhile, only a few streets away, she and Lily were bundled in ridiculous Christmas sweaters while wandering through crowded little shops together, debating chocolates and books and warm winter gifts.
“Do you think he likes reading?” Lily asked seriously while holding up a mystery novel.
The girl smiled to herself.
Somehow, she thought he probably liked anything that made him feel understood.
The front door closed softly behind him.
The warmth of his house hit Michael immediately but it didn’t feel the same tonight.
He stood there for a moment in the hallway, still carrying the cold on his coat.
“Michael?”
He looked up.
Bill was standing here, arms crossed clearly waiting.
“Where have you been?”
Michael hesitated, then slowly stepped further inside taking off his gloves like he wasn’t fully present.
“I was just walking” he said quietly.
Bill raised an eyebrow. “Walking where?”
Michael looked down at his hands.
“Around the neighborhood.”
“For that long?”
“Humm yes.”
Bill stared at him for a second longer, then his expression softened slightly when he noticed something was off. Michael wasn’t just tired. He looked different, quieter.
“Alright” Bill said more gently. “Sit down.”
Michael did, slowly sinking into the couch as if his body had finally caught up with his emotions.
“What happened?”
Silence stretched for a moment. Then Michael let out a small breath, almost like he’d been holding it all night.
“I met someone. She is Kind.”
Bill blinked. “Okay…”
Michael rubbed a hand over his face, embarrassed by how difficult it was to explain something so simple.
“She lives in the neighborhood.”
“And?”
“She invited me to Christmas.”
That made Bill pause completely.
“She what?”
Michael gave a small, almost helpless shrug.
“I don’t really know what I’m supposed to do” he admitted.
Bill looked at him for a long moment, then sighed, sitting down across from him.
“Mikey” he said more softly, “Christmas is just… people. Being together. Eating too much food. Giving each other things that don’t matter that much but feel like they do.”
“That’s it?” Michael looked up slowly.
“That’s it.”
A faint smile appeared on Michael’s face, uncertain but growing.
Michael leaned back into the couch, staring up at the ceiling. And for the first time that night his chest didn’t feel heavy anymore.
That night sleep came slowly.
Michael lay in bed staring at the dim light coming through the curtains, replaying everything in his head over and over again thinking about the snow, the laughter, her voice saying you can come tomorrow.
It didn’t feel real, and yet it was the first thing in a long time that made him fall asleep smiling.
The next morning he woke up too early.
Not because he was tired but because his mind wouldn’t stop moving.
He sat up immediately already thinking. Already worrying and already excited.
“You’re awake early Mike” Bill said when he found him in the kitchen.
Michael was half-dressed, hair still messy, holding a list he had clearly written too carefully.
“I don’t know what I’m doing” he admitted.
Bill glanced at the list. “Games. Chocolate. Flowers. That’s what we say yesterday.”
“What if it’s bad?”
“It’s not bad.”
Michael hesitated. “What if they don’t like it?”
Bill chuckled lightly. “Mike, everybody like chocolate and games. ”
That helped a little, but not enough to stop the nervous energy in his chest.
The shops were loud, warm and crowded with last-minute Christmas chaos.
Michael moved through carefully, almost overwhelmed by how normal everything felt. People arguing over gift wrapping, children pointing at decorations, music everywhere.
Bill stayed close guiding him when he hesitated too long in front of shelves.
“Pick something” Bill said.
“What if I pick the wrong game?”
“There is no wrong game.”
Michael picked one anyway, then put it back, then picked it again.
“This one?”
“That one.”
He added chocolate next, then stood frozen in the flower section.
“Flowers are hard” he whispered.
Bill smirked. “They’re literally flowers.”
Michael chose them carefully anyway, as if they mattered more than anything else in the store.
By the time they were done, his arms were full and his nerves were worse than ever.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to say when I get there” he admitted on the drive back.
Bill glanced at him. “Just be yourself.”
Michael let out a quiet laugh. “That doesn’t help.”
“You’re gonna be okay.”
When the car stopped in front of the house, Michael’s stomach tightened immediately.
He could already hear faint voices inside. Smell something sweet. See the same lights from last night, only brighter in daylight.
“You fine?” Bill said calmly.
Michael nodded, though it didn’t feel like he believed it.
Then the front door opened and she ran out.
“You came!”
The words hit him harder than he expected.
Before he could even respond Lily came barreling behind her, nearly crashing into his legs.
“YOU BROUGHT PRESENTS?!”
Michael laughed instantly, tension breaking all at once.
“I… I tried.”
“Lily! He came, that’s the most important.” the girl said softer.
Michael looked at her, and for a second forgot how to be nervous.
“Hi,” he said simply.
“Hi,” she replied smiling.
Inside, the house was exactly what it sounded like from the outside.
Her parents greeted him like he was expected. Like he belonged there.
“So you’re the friend,” her mother said kindly.
Michael blinked. “Friend?”
“Yeah that’s what she told us.”
The girl shrugged innocently ”What else was I supposed to say?”
Michael laughed under his breath, something loosening in his chest.
The day blurred into something he didn’t think he’d ever get to experience properly.
They were sitting around the living room watching Christmas movies with too many blankets. Laughing over burnt cookies.
Lily stealing chocolate and getting caught every five minutes.
“She’s a professional thief,” Michael whispered at one point.
“She’s eight,” the girl whispered back.
“Exactly.”
At some point, someone put music on and Michael instinctively started moving to it without thinking, making Lily scream “HE CAN DANCE!” like it was the greatest discovery of her life.
He went red immediately. “It’s not that serious—”
“IT IS.”
When gifts were exchanged Michael looked almost overwhelmed again.
He watched them open his carefully chosen things. The game, the chocolate, the flowers, he was holding his breath like he was waiting to be told he did it wrong.
But they smiled.
“It’s perfect Michael thank you,” she said softly.
“Okay!” Lily announced loudly, crawling toward the tree. “Now it’s Michael’s turn.”
Michael immediately looked alarmed.
“Mine?”
“Yes, yours,” she said like it was obvious.
The room laughed softly, but Michael only smiled shyly and lowered his eyes for a second, visibly trying to hide how much it affected him.
Her mother reached toward the tree first and handed him a small wrapped box with a gentle smile.
“This one’s from us.”
Michael accepted it so carefully it almost hurt to watch, like he was afraid of doing something wrong.
“You really didn’t have to get me anything,” he murmured immediately.
“Open it,” her father said warmly from the couch.
Michael glanced around the room once before slowly peeling back the wrapping paper, trying not to destroy it too badly. Lily groaned dramatically watching him.
“You unwrap presents like an old man.”
“I’m trying to be careful!”
“Rip it!”
His laugh came out soft and surprised again, and for a second he looked younger than he had all night.
When the paper finally fell away, Michael blinked down at the box in confusion before opening it carefully.
Inside was a thick knitted scarf, dark red with little stitched stars along the ends.
His fingers froze against the fabric.
“My wife made it,” her father explained gently.
Michael stared at the scarf for a long moment without speaking.
Then he touched it again, slower this time like he was trying to process the fact that somebody had sat down and made something specifically for him.
“You made this?” he asked quietly, looking toward her mother.
She smiled softly. “Of course.”
Michael swallowed hard enough for her to notice.
“Nobody’s ever…”
He stopped himself before finishing the sentence, eyes lowering quickly back to the scarf in his lap.
Nobody’s ever made me something before.
The words hung there anyway, unfinished but understood by everyone in the room.
“Do you like it?” Lily asked impatiently.
Michael looked up so quickly it almost startled them.
“I love it.”
His voice cracked slightly around the last word.
He immediately laughed under his breath afterward, embarrassed by his own emotions, and rubbed quickly beneath one eye before anybody could pretend to notice.
But she noticed, of course she did.
She watched him hold the scarf carefully against himself for another second before Lily suddenly shoved another gift directly into his hands.
“This one’s mine.”
Michael blinked. “You got me another one?”
“Open it.”
He obeyed this time a little faster, smiling despite himself while tearing through the wrapping paper more confidently under Lily’s intense supervision.
Inside was a box of chocolates covered in ridiculous Christmas drawings and a tiny handmade ornament shaped like a star.
A crooked star.
“That’s you” Lily informed him proudly.
Michael stared at it. “Why?”
“Because you looked sad yesterday.”
The entire room went quiet.
Lily continued innocently and completely unaware of the effect her words had.
“But stars make things less dark, so…” She shrugged. “Now you can hang it on your tree.”
Michael’s face crumpled so subtly most people wouldn’t have noticed it.
He looked down immediately, blinking hard while turning the little ornament carefully between his fingers.
Nobody rushed him, nobody laughed.
The room just stayed patient around him while he silently tried to hold himself together over a child’s handmade gift.
“Thank you,” he whispered eventually.
Lily grinned proudly. “You’re welcome.”
Then finally, her turn came.
She reached beside the couch quietly and held out a small rectangular package wrapped in gold paper.
Michael looked at her uncertainly before taking it carefully from her hands.
“I didn’t really know what to get you,” she admitted softly.
“You already invited me here.”
“Still.”
Michael looked down at the gift resting in his lap for a moment before opening it slowly.
Inside was a soft cream-colored sweater with tiny embroidered snowflakes near the sleeves… and beneath it, a book.
His expression shifted immediately at the sight of it.
“Peter Pan,” he murmured quietly almost to himself.
“ I thought maybe you would like it..”
She trailed off when she saw his face properly.
Michael looked overwhelmed. Completely overwhelmed.
His fingers rested lightly over the cover of the book while something unbearably tender moved across his expression.
“Michael?” she asked softly.
He looked up quickly, eyes visibly glossy again.
“Sorry,” he whispered immediately, laughing shakily at himself. “I just…”
He stopped because his voice was betraying him too much to finish properly.
The room stayed quiet.
Michael looked back down at the gifts in his hands and smiled in a way she knew she would remember for the rest of her life.
Like somebody who had spent years convincing himself he didn’t need softness suddenly being handed more of it than he knew how to carry.
“This is the first and the nicest Christmas I’ve ever had,” he admitted quietly.
Then after a tiny pause, voice even softer
“Thank you for letting me be part of it.”
Dinner came later someone passed him food before he even had to ask. Someone else made him laugh mid-bite and Lily insisted he try everything twice.
“You’re part of the family now,” her father joked at one point.
And Mike froze slightly at that then smiled.
“Thank you” he said quietly.
When night finally settled and the house grew softer they ended up back in the living room, wrapped in blankets again, a Christmas movie playing in the background no one was really watching anymore.
Michael leaned back against the couch exhausted in the best way possible.
For once, he wasn’t thinking about stages or schedules or expectations.
Just this, people around him laughter and happiness.
“You’re very quiet,” she said softly beside him.
He glanced at her.
“I’m just… happy,” he admitted.
The simplicity of it made her smile.
“Good,” she said.
Michael looked back at the room, and for the first time in a very long time, he didn’t feel like Michael Jackson.
He just feel like Michael, and that somehow, was everything.
The house had finally quieted down.
Not completely, not in the way empty houses were quiet but in that soft and warm way that comes after a long day of laughter, food, and too many voices overlapping at once.
The Christmas tree still glowed faintly in the living room casting golden light through the curtains. Somewhere inside, Lily had fallen asleep on the couch mid-movie, and her parents were clearing plates in the kitchen with tired smiles.
“I’ll be right back,” she murmured after another round of laughter from the living room, standing up from the couch and brushing cookie crumbs from her sweater. “I’m going to the bathroom.”
Michael smiled softly as she disappeared down the hallway, but once the room quieted again, he found himself glancing toward her parents with something more thoughtful lingering behind his expression.
Michael didn’t really want to leave.
He realized that painfully while slipping his coat back on that for the first time in a very long time, going home felt lonelier than staying.
“You heading out?” her father asked gently from the living room.
Michael nodded a little.
“I should probably let you all rest.”
“You survived Lily for an entire day,” her mother laughed softly while drying her hands with a towel. “That deserves respect.”
“I heard that,” Lily mumbled sleepily.
The room laughed quietly, and Michael felt warmth bloom in his chest all over again at how easy it had become to laugh with them.
God he didn’t want this feeling to end.
He lingered awkwardly near the doorway for another second afterward, fingers tightening slightly around the scarf folded over his arm.
Then slowly, his expression softened into something more serious.
“Can I…” He hesitated briefly. “Can I say something?”
Her parents immediately gave him their full attention and suddenly Michael looked nervous.
“I just wanted to thank you,” he said quietly.
His eyes drifted around the room while he searched for the right words.
“For letting me stay here today.”
her mother smiled softly. “Michael—”
But he shook his head quickly, like he needed to say it properly before he lost the courage.
“No, I mean it.”
His voice grew quieter after that. More honest.
“I don’t think you realize what this meant to me.”
The room fell completely silent.
Michael lowered his eyes briefly, visibly embarrassed by how emotional he was becoming again, but he kept going anyway.
“I’ve spent most of my life around people,” he admitted softly. “But not… like this.”
He glanced back up slowly.
“Today felt real.”
Something in her mother’s expression immediately broke at those words.
Michael laughed faintly under his breath afterward, almost apologetically.
“I know that probably sounds stupid.”
“No,” her father said gently. “It doesn’t.”
Michael swallowed hard.
“I just…” His voice cracked slightly before he steadied it again. “I’ve never had a Christmas before.”
The sincerity in his voice hurt to hear because he wasn’t fishing for reassurance.
He truly meant it.
Her mother crossed the room before he could retreat back into himself too much and placed a hand gently against his arm.
“Michael,” she said softly, “you never have to earn being welcomed somewhere.”
Michael looked down immediately at the words visibly overwhelmed by how naturally it had been said.
Like she meant it, like he belonged there enough for tenderness to come naturally.
“And besides,” her father added with a warm smile, “you made our daughter happier than we’ve seen her in months, so I think we should be thanking you too.”
Michael’s face flushed instantly.
“Oh- no, I didn’t- ”
her mother laughed softly “You’re blushing.”
“I am not.”
“Michael.”
He hid his face slightly behind the scarf in defeat while her parents laughed quietly.
And standing there in the middle of their warm living room surrounded by soft and blinking Christmas lights, Michael felt something settle deep inside his chest that he hadn’t realized he’d been searching for his entire life.
Home.
Michael carefully gathered the gifts back into his arms, holding the scarf and book almost protectively against his chest while he slipped his shoes back on near the door.
“Thank you again,” he said softly, looking toward her parents with that same shy sincerity that had been in his voice all evening. “Really. For everything.”
Her mother smiled warmly. “You’re welcome here anytime, sweetheart.”
Michael visibly softened at that, lowering his eyes with a small, almost bashful smile.
“Drive safe,” her father added jokingly before remembering Michael literally lived three streets away. “Or… walk safe, I guess.”
Michael laughed quietly. “I’ll try my best.”
He glanced once toward the hallway where she still hadn’t returned from the bathroom, hesitating for a second before looking back at them.
“I’m just gonna wait outside for her,” he murmured. “I wanna say goodbye.”
Her mother’s smile turned immediately knowing.
Michael noticed and nearly tripped over his own gifts in embarrassment.
“I just- before I leave-”
“Mhmm,” her father hummed innocently.
Michael’s face turned red almost instantly as he escaped onto the porch while Lily’s exhausted laughter followed him from the couch.
The cold air hit him gently this time, nothing like the loneliness of the night before. It felt more like a pause than an absence.
He sat down on the front porch steps carefully, like he wasn’t fully sure he was allowed to be there and rested his elbows on his knees.
A few seconds later he heard the door open again behind him.
She didn’t say anything at first. She just sat down beside him close enough that their shoulders almost touched, and pulled her sweater tighter around herself against the cold.
For a moment neither of them spoke.
The neighborhood was quiet now. Snow falling slower. Lights still blinking softly across the street like the world was breathing more gently.
Michael stared at his hands.
“I don’t really know what I’m supposed to say,” he admitted quietly.
His voice sounded smaller outside like this. More honest.
“Today was…” He paused, swallowing. “It was a lot.”
She turned slightly toward him. “In a good way?”
He gave a small nod. “Yeah. In a good way.”
Another silence followed, but this one felt heavier.
Like something in him had been holding on all day and was starting to loosen now that everything was quiet again.
He let out a shaky breath and looked away toward the street.
“I never thought I could have such a good time ” he said softly.
“Why?”
He hesitated searching for the right words.
“I was always made to believe that it wasn’t right ”
His voice broke slightly on the last word, and that was enough.
He pressed his lips together quickly, trying to stop it, but the emotion had already built too much inside him.
“Sorry,” he whispered immediately.
But she shook her head.
“Don’t be.”
And before he could overthink it, she shifted closer and gently wrapped her arms around him.
It wasn’t sudden or overwhelming. Just warm and careful. Like she was giving him space to decide if he wanted to stay or pull away.
Michael froze at first, his whole body went rigid the way it always did when someone touched him unexpectedly like his mind needed a moment to catch up to the idea that he was safe.
Then slowly almost hesitantly he leaned in.
His head lowered until it rested against her shoulder and that small movement alone seemed to undo something inside him completely.
He exhaled shakily and this time he didn’t stop the tears.
They weren’t loud or dramatic, just quiet and tired like they’d been waiting a long time for permission to exist.
“I always thought…” he began, then stopped again, voice trembling.
She didn’t rush him.
Just stayed there, holding him gently.
“I always thought I’d have more of this,” he continued after a moment. “Friends. Normal things. Growing up like other people.”
A soft breath escaped him, almost like a laugh that didn’t know how to form properly.
“But I didn’t.”
The words weren’t bitter. Just honest.
“And I didn’t even realize how much I wanted it until tonight.”
Her grip on him tightened slightly, just enough to reassure him without saying anything.
“You have it now,” she said softly.
Michael stayed still for a moment longer, as if trying to believe that sentence could be real.
“Yeah,” he whispered. “I guess I do.”
They sat like that for a while the world quiet around them, snow drifting lazily past the porch light.
Eventually Michael pulled back slightly, rubbing at his face quickly like he was embarrassed to have cried in front of her.
“Sorry,” he said again, softer this time.
“Stop apologizing,” she replied immediately, lightly nudging him. “You’re allowed to feel things, you know.”
That made him laugh a little through his remaining tears.
“I’m not very good at it.”
“I noticed.”
He smiled properly then, real and small and tired in the best way.
The silence returned again, but this time it felt different. Not heavy. Just… ending.
Michael glanced toward the street leading back to his house.
“I should probably go,” he said quietly.
She nodded, but didn’t look sad about it. Just understanding.
He stood slowly, brushing snow off his sleeves, then hesitated.
Like there was something still stuck in his chest he didn’t know how to say out loud.
“Hey,” she said gently, noticing.
He looked at her.
“If you ever need someone,” she continued, “I’m here. Okay? Like… actually here.”
Michael blinked, something soft flickering in his expression.
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
Michael stepped closer without thinking too much about it, then paused like he was suddenly aware of everything again
But this time he didn’t step back.
Instead, very gently he leaned forward and pressed a quick shy kiss to her cheek.
it was soft, almost hesitant like he was testing courage he didn’t know he had.
When he pulled away his face was already red.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
And before she could even fully process it, he turned and started walking down the snowy street toward home.
Except this time, he wasn’t sad.
Halfway down the road, he laughed to himself with his breath visible in the cold air and started walking in little excited steps with a big smile on his face
He held the gifts tighter under his arm like they were something precious, glancing back once at the glowing house behind him.
And that night was probably the best of his life, he fell asleep with a smile on his lip and tears of happiness in his eyes.
Also, let me know if you’d want a part 2 maybe?? I could focus a bit more on the girl’s feelings or expand the story more. And if you have any feedback at all, like if I should change the writing style or write in first/second person instead, I’d honestly love to hear it :)))
Review ・・ Michael has a crush on his next door neighbor.
⠀ Sound Check・・ Deep thanks to my pookies @confetti-cakemix and @vampgothicz for enabling me to write this! I said I would never write a rpf but the Michael movie has been on my mind and his music is currently being injected into my brain.
⠀ Credits・・ General audience! Fluff. Light teasing. First kiss. Post Off the wall/ Pre thriller! MJ Era. not proof read , I am free. wc. 3k
Disclaimer ‼ I’m basing this on Jafaar's performance of Michael. That means his personality is taken straight from the movies portrayal! This is all purely fictional. Thank You .ᐟ
It wasn't often that Michael had people over to his house. Sure, he had Managers and musicians come and go. The mailman and other various company movers ride through, but he doesn't ever remember a time when somebody so normal, someone whose main task wasn't to appeal to the Jacksons, came through here.
Michael didn't have friends, not human at least. He had Bubbles, Louie, Muscles— but none of them was a girl— a human girl— who was currently sitting in the stables of Louie's pen. Waiting for Michael to introduce another one of his exotic friends.
You waited patiently, eyes filled with sparkle, cheeks blooming with warmth. You came over, your first time, usually only conversing through the cracks of the walls or by mail due to the massive amounts of fans outside of his gates.
It happened by coincidence, a mistake that turned into a blessing of sorts.
You had packages delivered to his front door, a mishap by the mailman, but you didn't seem to mind it too much. You simply found the perfect opportunity to catch him while he was leaving from his recording studio, calling for someone to answer because you've been trying to get past the gates all week.
He heard, remembering that Latoya had mentioned that there were a few packages that weren't meant for the Jacksons a few days ago and he followed the tune of your shouts.
After another helpless call, he answered.
"I think we have your packages," he said, your voice immediately stopping.
He heard silence for a while, the breeze brushing through the trees. "Um, Hello?" He said. The sun was slowly making its way down to introduce the night. He was getting cold, and he had a meeting to get to in the morning.
He thought you left, but you spoke up.
"Y-Yes! I'm sorry, I've been doing this every day, I thought I started to hear things!"
He chuckled lowly, finding it all amusing. "Sorry, the front gates are always guarded, but I can have someone deliver it to you tomorrow."
"Oh, that would be perfect! Thank you!"
It wasn't the last time he got your packages, occasionally getting them every few weeks. But it was all cleared when he had the mailman return them.
"Do you really read through all of this mail?" Latoya gasped, opening a red envelope with decorated hearts. "There are so many, it'll be next year by the time you finish."
"I don't mind, it makes me feel important to people when they take the time to write to me."
He picked up a white envelope, his eyes immediately drawn to the last name.
He's seen that name before, on the wrong packages often delivered to his front step.
He opened it, turning away from Latoya who was still in awe of the thousands of letters scattered around on his floor.
He finally got your name— a pretty name at that. Handwriting that was cursive and bubbly, penmanship you don't see often decorated the paper.
You thanked him. A few sentences written about how grateful you were that even with the mishap, he didn't mind sending the packages back. You also mentioned how you were amazed at the fact that you could see a giraffe from your bedroom window sometimes, a sight you don't see often but felt delighted by it.
"I would love to see one up close the same way you do. But maybe when I'm much older and can travel the world on my own, perhaps I will. Thank you once again!"
And that was it.
He probably read the letter ten times before he realized that for the first time, you didn't want to see him as everybody else did— hoping they could get something out of him like a picture or an autograph— but you didn't mention any of it. You simply stated that you wanted to see his animals.
Not him.
His animals.
And that is what started his deep infatuation with you.
He wrote a letter back in the dead of night. The Pen scratching off certain words, frustration hitting through him, and then he was crumpling the paper once more, a fresh sheet already settled under his hand. It's been an hour, the fifth paper so far, and he tried his best to make sure the letter was perfect. It's easier sending a fax to businessmen about his ideas and new musical ideas regarding his career and the next album of his life, but sending a letter to somebody so… regular felt like the hardest thing in the world.
And sending it out was even harder.
But it happened.
And he kicked himself for it.
When he got his fan mail in two large bags, the only thing he wanted to read was yours.
The dial rings once before the line is picked up, the receiver immediately placed against his ear. You greet him first, voice trembling. “Oh! H-Hello? Im S-Sorry, is this the Jackson’s residence?”
“Depends." Michael was lying on his back, the cord stretching from his night stand. “Missing a package again?”
"Michael? Oh goodness, I thought I got the wrong number. I thought that, maybe you were pranking me or something—"
That was a few days ago.
"Why would I give you a fake number?"
"Why wouldn't you?"
There's some hidden underlying fact in your words, like this wasn't the first time you've gotten somebodies number and it was fake. But Michael wasn't like that. He was kind and genuine— he liked having someone to talk to, even if they were animals sometimes.
"No, this is real. My own personal number."
"O-Oh, I see."
It went quiet on the other line.
"I hope I'm not bothering you, I know it's late but you said if I needed anybody to talk to you… you were always free—"
"Did I say that?" He sounded dead serious.
"Huh? I think so? Wait— I'm pretty sure?" You gasped in distraught. "Oh my gosh, did I read that wrong? I'm so sorry, I-I thought the letter —"
Michael laughed behind the line. "I'm joking with you."
“Hey! Come on, don’t be a tease!" you whined.
He found comfort like this, something he only truly found in his family centric circle— besides Joe.
"So, what's the matter?"
He heard you shuffling, the line going quiet.
"I um…needed to hear someone other then my parents… I guess?"
Michael sat up, the tension hardening. "What's wrong with your parents?"
"They think it's okay to control your life," you sighed. "I understand, respect your parents, blah, blah, blah— but I have dreams too you know? I wanna be an actor! Or maybe a journalist? I'm not sure yet, but I'm working it out."
He could relate to that. All of his life has been controlled by Joe. Singing, dancing, shows, music— all of it. His last album was probably the first time he's felt free and the thought of making another one gave him hope but that heavy presence has never left.
"I get it. I have issues with my parents too."
The connection sparkled.
You both talked for hours afterwards, bubbles sleeping besides him, curled up against his side. You talked about more of your dreams, thoughts you had of the world and he listened.
Eventually it turned into him listing off exotic animals he liked and planned on inviting to his home. He was on number 47, the list already bizarre as it was.
"— and If I could own a panda, I could have free cuddly hugs every minute of the day."
"Panda… elephant… koala…" you said in anstonishment. "Gee, what are you going to say next? A snake?"
"No, I wouldn't say that."
"Thank goodness—"
"I already own a snake. His name is Muscles."
Another slew of chuckles shot through him at how silent you had gotten. "Are you surprised? I mean, do you think that's…" his laughter died, jaw setting tightly. He didn't want to say that word, he hated using that word, but he wouldn't be surprised if you used it. "—That's … not like…weird…to you?"
"Weird?" You started, voice shooting up an octave in offense.
"Y-Yeah, I mean, some people say it's weird. My brothers think so, and Joesph—"
"Oh Michael—" He thought he heard an angel on the other line. "—that's not weird at all. If anything, it makes you more interesting. Not a lot of people care about animals."
He chewed his bottom lip. "If you want— I mean, only if you want, you can say no if you want too. But… You can come over— I mean, visit. I can show you what I have so far."
"You mean that?"
"Yes. How about tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow is no good—" He kicked himself for asking. "— the day after is perfect though. If you still want me?"
He jumped from the bed and bubbles snorted in annoyance but went back to sleep. "Yes! yes, of course. I'll have Bill come for you."
"Who's that?"
"He's my body guard, but I trust him like a father."
"Okay."
Michael got the excited jitters, pumping his fist.
"The day after tomorrow then?" You asked.
"The day after tomorrow then," he repeated back, like he couldn't believe what he was saying.
"Goodnight Michael."
The line cut, and Michael felt like he was on cloud nine.
You came over, just as he hoped, and he immediately showed you his home. The pool, the garden, his room. Nobody was home but the maids, his brothers and father were off somewhere he didn't care to know. All that mattered was that he got the house to himself so that he could show you around without questions following.
You were amazed at his room, the collections of toys and posters he had almost made your eyes pop. You asked about his endless figurines of the Disney character Peter Pan and he gave you the simplest answer.
"He's me."
You didn't make a face in disgust, but you did ask a question.
"Can you fly too?"
He laughed at that. "I'm working on it. If we can land on the moon, it's not far off that a man could fly too."
He introduced you to Bubbles first and while you were scared to get close— holding onto his hand and shaking like an earth quake— you told him that it was very kind of him to rescue a chimpanzee. Muscles on the other hand you refused to go in the room.
He's never laughed so much in his life.
Louie made you calmer. Finding that he was cute and cuddly. And the famous giraffe you often saw outside of your window made the time spent perfect.
You had to go of course, but the late night call was filled with joy.
After that, the calls only kept coming. When he was away, far off while traveling with his brothers, he would send letters to your home in hopes that you would send back. It made him feel special in some way, knowing that somebody cared more about who he was then just the musical aspects of his character.
Whenever you felt down, expressing concern about life and your parents exhausting expectations, he would sneak you over to his house and play twisters in his room.
The maids saw you enough, but they didn't say anything.
And he was thankful for that.
But Bill, his bodyguard and trusted friend had a whole lot to say with a sharp raise of his brows and that light smirk on his face.
"She's your girlfriend now?"
Michael would dodge the question with another question. "So men can't have female friends?"
Bill didn't push for more, but he knew deep down that as long as Michael was happy, that's all that mattered.
"I wonder what he's thinking?"
You were sitting besides him, arms stretched out to pet Louie's head, a small grin adorning your face.
He's known you for a year and your friendship still felt new. Like always, you snuck over, played one of his many board games, and he talked about the stress he had over his upcoming album. So, you suggested that some fresh air could do him good.
Here you were, dangerously close, while showing one of his friends love that he so desperately wanted himself. He believed this was his chance to confess his deepest desire. He chewed the inside of his lips, formed the words in his head, and let it go.
"I think…" He took a deep breath, eyes scanning your face for your next reaction. You were petting Louie's head, comepletly enamored by him— a girl unlike anybody he's ever seen. "I…um, I think he likes you," He finally said, his breath leaving seconds after.
Your eyes slowly found his, attention drawn, your hands slowing down but still acknowledging Louie. "Really?" You questioned, lips curling into a grin. "How'd you know that?"
He gulped, suddenly put on the spot. "He told me."
"Told you?" You titled your head, cheeks puffing with your grin. "Who Louie?"
If this was anybody else, they would have laughed in his face. Called him insane, maybe delusional— in need of more time with humans and less time with animals— but you didn't do either.
You stared at him in wonder, your attention all on him.
Michael cleared his throat, "Y-Yeah, when they like someone, t-they make this small humming noise— sometimes you can tell by the ears. It's down, relaxed— he likes you. A lot." And he probably shouldn't have stumbled on his words so much, painfully obvious, but thankfully you didn't seem to catch it.
"Oh wow, you sure know a whole lot about llamas." you drew your attention back to Louie.
He could finally catch his breath.
"I should probably leave soon. Your family might be back any minute now."
He didn't want you to leave.
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah, Your probably a very busy man. Don't need to cut your time to spend it with me."
And that was the problem, he wanted to spend it with you.
He needed an excuse to get you to stay longer. "Wait— can I show you something?"
"Show me what?" You looked at him questionably.
"I've been working on something but I need input."
"You want my input?" You looked down in thought, "I mean, sure, but I'm not that very good at criticizing things."
"Don't worry, I don't bite."
You shoved him with your elbow lightly. "Please, I'm more scared of the snake."
"Then let's go." He stood up abruptly, dusting off his pants. "It's only a few steps away from here—"
Michael's jaw almost dropped.
You were leaning forward, placing a kiss against Louie's cheek, a goodbye filled with love. Michael wasn't often jealous, but standing here, now, watching you show affection for someone other than him filled him with jealousy beyond comprehension.
"Goodbye Louie." You petted his head once again and stood up.
Michael swallowed around a lump.
"Where is it again?" You questioned.
The studio felt warmer than before. Inches away from you once again but this time it was in his most vulnerable field.
He finished playing a few of his demos, the ones Quincy gave his stamp of approval. You listened and bobbed your head, side eyeing him at particular high ending sections of the songs with a amazement on your face.
"These were really good," you smiled, "I particularly like Starlight, although I'm a little confused on the meaning."
"It's upbeat— something to get the crowd moving."
"Sure,but—" you tapped your chin, "I feel like it's missing something."
He wrote something down on paper, a few words taken straight from your mouth.
Good but missing something
He placed his pen down, turning towards you. "The album isn't done yet, but I'm hoping it becomes the biggest album ever. Still working through some other songs, a title for the album, promotional pictures— other tedious things that you probably don't want to hear."
"I don't mind," you looked over at him. "I like when your like this— happy. You get so hyper about music, I can't help but be hypnotized."
Michael begin to sweat, his face suddenly warm. "You do?"
"We're alike, you and me. Although I'm not a Super Star like you," you laughed. "I can barely handle cleaning my room and your here mixing instruments and doing tours."
"T-That makes sense."
A knock on the door startled you both.
Bill came in, tapping his watch. "You family will be back soon, time to go."
Michael screamed internally.
"Guess I'll see you later?" You titled your head, rubbing a hand over his arm.
"I-I guess so."
You both couldn't break eye contact even if you tried.
"Can I do something real quick?" You asked, catching Michael off guard.
"Sure—"
He wasn't sure what this feeling was— if he was going through cardiac arrest or if someone was hitting him with a bat at the chest, but all he knew was that he didn't want that feeling to go away.
You leaned in, same way you did with Louie and kissed Michael's cheek. Your eyes shut close and your hands resting over his knee. You didn't pull away, even when Bill knocked on the door again. Time fell still. The moment so right that everything was swept away and replaced by your presences only.
Michael didn't know what to do with himself.
Finally, you broke away and chuckled to yourself. "See you later Mikey." You stood up and left a very flabbergasted Michael Jackson.
You opened the door, Bill greeted you and you left with a light skip in your step.
Bill came in, checking in on Michael. "You alright?"
"Hm? Oh, yeah," he shook the shock from his body, cheeks still warm. "I was going to write down a new song."
"Ohhh, Okay. Well, if you need me, I'll be out here— " before he turned, he called out. "— and Michael?"
Michael looked at him in question. "Yes?"
Bill pointed to his cheek. "You got a little something there. It's red, like a kiss—"
Michael quickly rubbed his hand over his cheek. "O-Oh okay! I gotta get to work. I'm a very busy man Bill."
Once Bill left, Michael finally left to his thoughts. He wrote something else under your critique, his face still bloomed with heat.
tags: bad era!michael, female!reader, musician!reader, mutual pining, studio sessions, friends to lovers, slow burn romance
summary: you’re a rising star but it wasn’t always that way. you originally started out at CBS Records as a background singer for multiple artists until you get a specific request from michael jackson himself.
note: this is my first time writing on here, i hope it’s not too cringe or boring. 😭 this is a slow burn!!! emphasis on slow!!!
disclaimer: this is a fictional story created purely for entertainment purposes. while it may reference real public figures, events, or time periods, all situations, relationships, dialogue, and portrayals are imagined and should not be taken as factual representations of real individuals or real-life events. any similarities to actual people or occurrences are entirely coincidental and part of the fictional narrative.
1985 — los angeles, california.
it was just another regular tuesday for you. the early morning birds sing as you get out of your shared bed with your partner. the sun peeks through ever so slightly through the kitchen window as you make breakfast for your boyfriend, who wakes up way after you do, and yourself before getting ready for the workday ahead of you. you do your vocal warm ups while you brush your teeth, get dressed, and in the car on the way to the studio, really anytime you can.
“i’m heading off to work.” you call to your boyfriend, in which he replies with a hum. you roll your eyes, “yeah, goodbye to you too.” you close and lock the door behind you.
you scan yourself into westlake recording studios, greeting the receptionist and heading into the elevator to get to your usual recording spot. it was another day, recording harmonies for an artist who didn’t seem to be in attendance.
“hey.” you say to the producer and other background vocalist who was working with you today.
“you look tired, ma.” the vocalist says.
you reply with a dry laugh, “yeah, couldn’t sleep last night. i had all these ideas running around my head.” she nodded with a paper cup of warm tea.
“i feel you.” she rubs your arm and heads into the recording booth.
you do your lip trills as you prep a warm cup of tea. this was your everyday ritual, just a different artist. every time you were in that booth, though, you seen yourself recording harmonies for your own tracks. that’s what was keeping you going.
2 pm
you had about 3 hours left of recording, finishing up your harmony runs that you were playing around with, not paying any mind to what was happening in the control room. an artist in a red jacket and sunny’s swept in with his producer while you were in your own world, it was michael jackson. he had heard your voice from down the hall where he and Quincy were working. he didn’t interrupt the session in any dramatic way. there was no chaos, no sudden stopping of the music, no producers rushing to figure out what went wrong. it was quieter than that, almost reverent. he simply lifted one hand, palm hovering in the air, and the room instinctively fell into silence.
inside the booth, you slowly pulled one side of your headphones off, confused as the instrumental track cut mid-flow. through the glass, you could see everyone turning toward him, waiting. michael leaned forward slightly in his chair, fingers resting against his lips as if he were still replaying what he’d just heard. his eyes stayed fixed on the control room.
“that harmony,” his silk smooth voice finally said.
the producer blinked. “which one?”
michael didn’t look away from the glass. “the second one. the girl singing the lower harmony.”
for a second, you genuinely looked around, as if there might be another woman standing behind you. the producer laughed lightly, trying to ease the tension. “there’s… there’s two women in there, michael.”
but he shook his head gently. “no. not her.” he pointed—calm, precise. “her.”
your stomach dropped instantly. you looked down at the floor like it might swallow you whole. being heard in a studio like this was one thing. being singled out by michael jackson was something else entirely.
the producer waved you back toward the mic. “you think you can run it again for us?”
you hesitated slightly as you pulled at the sleeves of your shirt, then gave a small nod. “yeah… yeah, of course.” you weren’t usually shy when it came to singing, it came so naturally, but in the presence of him, you couldn’t help the nerves.
the instrumental started again, softer this time. you adjusted your headphones, and closed your eyes. you sang the harmony and riffs the way you always did—careful, steady, tucked just beneath the lead vocal, letting it sit where it naturally wanted to. you weren’t trying to stand out. background singers weren’t supposed to.
but when the music cut again, the room stayed completely still. then Michael smiled. it was small. like he’d discovered something he wasn’t entirely ready to share.
“that’s beautiful,” he said simply.
heat rushed to your face immediately, turning your cheeks a soft pink, but you forced yourself to brush it off immediately, “thank you, michael.”
the producer chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “she’s one of our regular session girls. quiet. sings on half the records in this building.
michael’s attention didn’t move from you. not even for a second. “what’s your name?”
you told him softly.
he repeated it under his breath, testing it like a melody. “mm.” then he nodded once, decisively. “i want her for Bad. i think she would be perfect.” he said with a grin.
you thought it was a joke at first. “are you serious?” you take the headphones off, looking over at the other girl in the booth with you excitedly, her giving you the biggest smile and squeezing your arm a bit as you walked through the door into the control room.
“yeah, of course i am.” michael chuckles, “so.. what do you say?”
“duh!” you laugh softly and shake his hand.
even hours later, driving home in your slightly unreliable car, windows cracked just enough to let the night air in, you kept waiting for your phone to ring so someone could explain the misunderstanding. but three days later, you were standing in the studio with a paper coffee cup shaking slightly in your hand while people moved around you like a storm. and somewhere down the hallway, michael was recording vocals.
your stomach twisted in on itself, you’d worked with big names before. famous people, difficult people, distant people. most of them carried themselves like they were above the room they were in. but michael… michael felt different. almost disarmingly gentle in a way that made you more nervous than anything else.
the first thing he ever said to you directly had nothing to do with music.
“You look nervous.”
you turned to find him standing beside you like he’d always been there, sunglasses pushed into his soft curls despite the fact it was late, almost midnight.
“I’m not nervous,” you said quickly, shaking your head.
he smiled immediately, like he’d already caught you. “you’re twisting your coffee cup.”
you looked down. of course you were.
“i can’t believe you noticed that.” you say softly, a small laugh slipping under your breath.
“i notice a lot,” he said lightly, sounding almost shy.
that was the beginning of it—the strange ease between you two that nobody else seemed to understand at first.
Warnings ཆི❤︎ཆྀ: Jealousy, Michael sneaking into reader’s room. Not much else?
Summary ཆི❤︎ཆྀ: After Michael sneaks into your bed, you accidentally rejects him in your sleep by claiming you have a boyfriend. Once a jealous and hurt Michael wakes you for an explanation, you reassures him it was just a dream and ask him to stay.
Tags ཆི❤︎ཆྀ: Fluff, Jealousy, Possessiveness,
The halls of Hayvenhurst were never truly silent. Even at three in the morning. There was the distant, rhythmic ticking of grandfather clocks, the faint rustle of the wind through the valley trees, and the occasional, soft vocalisation from the birds in the backyard.
Inside his private suite, Michael was wide awake. Michael found that sleep was the one thing he couldn’t command. He paced the length of his bedroom. He felt restless, buzzing energy beneath his skin. A deep, gnawing loneliness that fame only seemed to sharpen.
But tonight, the loneliness was tempered by a secret knowledge, you were only a few doors away.
You had been his closest friend for years, the one person who didn’t look at him like a monument. When things got loud, you were the quiet. When the world felt fake, you were the truth. Tonight, after a long evening of watching old Disney movies and eating popcorn on the floor. He had insisted you stay over. The drive back to your apartment was too long, and the hour was too late.
In reality, he just didn’t want you to leave.
He stopped his pacing in front of the door that connected his wing to the guest rooms. His heart gave a strange, fluttering thump against his ribs. Michael was a man of often intense, overwhelming emotions, and right now, that pull toward your room was like gravity. He wanted to talk more. He wanted to hear you laugh. He wanted to feel the simple, human comfort of being around someone who actually knew him.
His fingers trembled slightly at he turned the brass handle. The hallway was dim, lit only by the soft glow of recessed lights. He watched where he stepped, careful not to step on the creaking floorboards.
He lightly pushed your door open an inch, wincing when it creaked.
The room was bathed in the silver-blue light of the California moon, filtering through heavy drapes. He could see the silhouette of your form beneath the thick duvet. The rhythm of your breathing was slow and peaceful that instantly gave him a sense of calm.
He crossed the room, eyes adjusting to the dark. He watched the way your hair was fanned across the white pillowcase beneath your head. The soft curve of your shoulder visible where the blanket had slipped.
Carefully, with precision, he lifted the edge of the duvet. He slid into the bed beside you, the mattress dipping beneath his frame.
“Y/N?” He whispered, he had done this so many times, but he had always asked for permission just to be safe not to cross your boundaries.
You stirred. A small, soft groan escaped your lips. He expected you to realise it was him, and offer that sleepy, lopsided smile that he was dangerously obsessed with.
Instead your hand moved.
With the slow, movements of someone deep in the throes of a dream, you brought your hand up, pressing it firmly against his chest. It wasn’t a violent shove, but it was firm.
“Mmm… no,” you murmured, your voice thick and gravelly with sleep. “You can’t… stop.”
Michael blinked, a small, playful smile forming on his lips. “It’s just me,” he whispered, leaning closer, thinking you were just confused by the darkness.
But your next words hit him like a bucket of ice water, freezing the blood in his veins.
“You can’t do this,” you mumbled, your eyes still tightly shut, your head turning away from him on the pillow. “I… I have a boyfriend. I told you…”
The silence that followed was deafening.
Michael didn’t move, he didn’t even breathe. He felt a sharp, stinging sensation at the back of his throat, the warmth that had filled his chest moments ago evaporated.
A boyfriend?
The words looped in his brain, each repetition louder and harsher than the last. He searched his memory, frantic and desperate. You hadn’t mentioned a boyfriend. Not today. Not last week. Not in the months you had both spent inseparable. You went to dinners with him, sat in a studio for hours with him, you were the one he called at 2am.
How could there be someone else?
Michael pulled away a little, his back becoming as stiff as a board. His eyes wide as he stared at your sleeping vanilla. The jealousy was immediate, a green, jagged thing that clawed at his insides.
Who was he?
He started running through a list of everyone you know. That photographer from vogue? The guy that works at that art gallery you like?
The thought of you with someone else, laughing at their jokes, holding their hand, sleeping in their bed, mad Michael’s stomach twist in a knot of pure misery. He felt a sudden, childish urge to wake you up and demand an explanation. He wanted to shake you and ask, why? Why had you kept this a secret?
But Michael was nothing if not controlled. He sat there in the dark, his jaw tight, his eyes shimmering with a mixture of hurt and rising possessiveness. He looked at the door, thinking he should leave. Go back to his room, lock the door, and never come out.
But he couldn’t leave. He was anchored to the spot by a need to know more.
“Who?” He whispered, his voice trembling with a rare edge of sharpness. “Y/N, who is it?”
You shifted again, your brows furrowing in your sleep. You didn’t answer the question. Instead you pulled the blanket tighter around you, retreating further into sleep.
He stayed there for what felt like hours, a silent sentinel of resentment. Every time you let out a soft sigh, a new jab of jealousy stabbed through him. That’s why she was on the phone for so long on Tuesday, he thought to himself. That’s why she didn’t want to stay late on Friday.
He imagined you whispering the same soft words of affection to a faceless man that you usually only reserved for him.
Not able to take it anymore. He reached out and shook your shoulder. “Wake up.”
You gasped, your eyes snapping open. The room was dark, but you could see the silhouette of a figure hovering over you.
“Michael?” You croaked, squinting. “What… what’s wrong?”
“Who is he?” Michael demanded. His voice uncharacteristically sharp.
You blinked rubbing your eyes, trying to process the sight of Michael sitting on the edge of your bed at three in the morning looking like he was about to cry. “Who is who? What happened?”
“A boyfriend?” He snapped. “You just told me. You told me not to because you have a boyfriend?”
You stared at him, completely bewildered. The fog of sleep was still thick in your brain. “I… what? Michael, I don’t have a boyfriend. What are you talking about?”
You sat up, the realisation finally hitting you. You remembered the heavy sensation of a dream. Something about being at a crowded party, someone being too pushy, a faceless stranger trying to grab your arm.
“Michael," you said softly, reaching out for his hand. He flinched slightly but didn't pull away. "I was dreaming. I was literally half asleep. I didn't even know it was you."
Michael stared at you, quietly contemplating. Hesitating before speaking again, “are you sure?”
“Yes,” you insisted, leaning closer so you could see his face. "Michael, look at me. When do I have time for a boyfriend? I’m always with you. If I had a boyfriend, don’t you think you’d be the first person to know? Or, more likely, the person I’d be complaining to about him?"
His expression was a mix of hurt and desperate hope. “You aren’t just saying that because I’m upset?”
"I am 100% sure that I am single, lonely, and currently being interrogated in the middle of the night," you said, a small, sleepy smile tugging at your lips. "It was a dream, Mike. A weird, nonsensical dream where some guy was bothering me. In real life, if you crawl into my bed, I’m not exactly going to complain."
The tension in his shoulders melted away, let out a deep long sigh. He slumped forward, resting his forehead against your shoulder.
“You scared me.” He murmured.
“Jealousy doesn’t suit you.” You teased gently, running your fingers through the soft curls at the nape of his neck.
He let out a weak, sheepish laugh. “I don’t like secrets. Especially not from you.”
“No secrets, I promise.” You said. You felt him relax completely, his weight leaning more heavily against you. “Since you’ve already ruined my sleep and accused me of leading a double life, the least you can do is stay.”
Michael lifted his head, his eyes searching yours. “You want me to stay?”
You lay back down, pulling the duvet up, and opened your arms in an invitation. Michael didn’t hesitate. He slid back under the covers, laying beside you he tucked his head under your chin, his breathing finally evening into a slow steady rhythm.
"I don't have a boyfriend, Michael," you whispered one last time reassuring him.
"Good," he mumbled, his voice thick with returning sleep. "Because he wouldn't know how to take care of you anyway."
You smiled, closing your eyes and pulling him closer. Outside, the owls hooted in the trees, but inside the room, everything was finally still.
