21 |she/her| Aroace My current fandoms: ā¢ CRK āSTAR WARS (Luke I love you) āMJ (I kinda forgot to type here lol) I don't take any requests (I'm doing things on my own)
sfw / fem reader, fluff ) āāāāāāāself indulgent, but imagine accidentally meeting michael jackson in disguise at your local comic book shop! itās a shabby place, all dim lights and rows upon rows of wooden shelves with boxes full of comics. everythingās ordered by publisher, then further sorted alphabetically by character names, a system youāve had memorized since you were eight or nine. the shopās practically a second home for you, so itās no surprise to anyone when you happen to be there on this particular day, humming quietly while sorting through the wonder woman section.
the bell above the front door rings as someone else comes into the shop, although youāre too lost in your own head to look up or take notice of whoās there. shuffling footsteps can be heard, but the soundās distant, not nearly distinct enough to distract you. no, you continue perusing, sucking gently along your teeth as you realize thereās no new wonder woman books for sale.
āis she your favorite?ā a soft voice asks from beside you, jerking you out of your thoughtsā your body tenses automatically, and as you look to see whoās talking, the stranger begins to apologize. āiām sorry. i didnāt mean to disturb youā¦ i was just wondering,ā he explains.
imperceptibly, your eyebrows furrow. the man offers a small smile, which you try to return but struggle to maintain. in your head, all you can think about is how odd his outfit is. huge shades on even though youāre indoors, long pants that donāt necessarily match the more formal vibe of his shirtā¦ his shoes are suspiciously clean and crisp, possibly new. it feelsā¦ off. you canāt put your finger on it, but the clothes feel hodgepodge. they donāt feel his.
shifting your gaze back to the comics in front of you, you give a small shrug. āitās fine. sheās one of my favorites, yeah.ā and then, despite your better senses, you ask, āwhat about you?ā
āhm?ā
ādo you like wonder woman?ā you rephrase, thumbing through the different issues. itās a familiar feeling, a comforting one, the sensation of paper comics brushing underneath the pads of your fingers.
the stranger seems to pause, then move, leaning slightly on the wooden shelf. āi like her. i donāt know a lot about her, though.ā
you raise an eyebrow for just a moment. āwhat do you mean?ā
ājust that i havenāt kept up with her comics. you know, her storylines,ā he says casually, reaching forward to look at a few of them. his hand nears yours, but never touches it; he lets his hand work alongside your own, paralleling yours, going through the wonder woman comics at the same exact pace. when you look back at him again, his eyes are already on you. embarrassed, or maybe just surprised, you both quickly look away. a silence starts, but itās interrupted the moment he decides to speak again.
ādo you think you could give me a few recommendations? i wouldnāt mind getting to know her better.ā his voice, smooth and soft, fills the air like a melody, and you have a sneaking suspicion the āherā heās thinking of isnāt just wonder woman.
āyeah, sure,ā you murmur in reply, beginning to hum again as you slide out some of the best beginner wonder woman comics. āiāll start you with five.ā you hold each one up, showing off the cover art before handing them over. āthese should give you a good base understanding of her character and her values. then you can branch out to other comics. sometimes other authors donāt write her all that wellā¦ā usually, they fail to write her well, you think to yourself. āā¦but thereās still a lot of cool concepts and stuff. and her rogues gallery is pretty cool, too.ā
āright.ā he nods, taking the comic books gently. āand when i finish theseā¦ what should i read after that? or, do you think youāll be here to give me recommendations again?ā
āyou can always ask the owner,ā you suggest, jerking your head towards the register area where the owner sits, reading a comic book about the hulk. āheās really good with this stuff.ā
the man beside you smiles a little, turning to look at the owner. then, he brings his eyes back to you, still smiling. āiād rather ask you, though,ā he says, tilting his head by a degree or two and hoping you catch the hint.
unfortunately for him, youāve never been good at reading subtext.
āi mean, iām in here all the time. youāll probably see me again,ā you shrug, āthe ownerās still your best shot, but iāll probably be in here next time.ā
he chuckles, a light and nearly musical sort of laugh before his grin grows even more. heās being as obvious as he can be. well, as obvious as he can be while in this disguise. maybe youāre just uninterested. stillā¦ āhopefully we see each other next time.ā
āhopefully,ā you chirp. āyou can tell me what you think of those comics, then.ā
no, not uninterested. not entirely, at least. just a bit unobservant probably. āiād like that.ā one last smile is shared between you two, the fleeting matching grin of a friendly goodbye, before he turns to check out. he pays quietly, then goes outside, immediately taking a big inhale before beaming.
āyou like her?ā bill asks, standing from where he was leaning, tucked along the front of the shop. āi saw you inside, talking her up.ā
āsheās interesting,ā michael allows, glancing over his shoulder as they start to walk to the car. āi think she hated my outfit, though.ā
āyeah?ā
āyeah, she was staring then looked away, trying not to be rudeā¦ it was a little funny, really. iāll have to dress better next time,ā he muses.
authorās note ) āāāāāāāi canāt place exactly what era iām thinking of for this piece, like an older michael era or a younger michael era, but i think his little disguises are so cute and i love the idea of bonding over comics!!! i also love like alter ego fanfics im basic i know but i love like people in disguise falling in love and battling over whether or not to reveal the truth, ugh, i love me some angst, too.
ā you want your own bedroom, but your husband, bad!michael, strongly disagrees.ā
ā light suggestiveness. pouty michael.
you had a lifestyle magazine opened on your shared bed to a well-decorated, feminine bedroom, but michael wasnāt staring at itāhe was staring at you as if you just suggested moving to mars.
"a separate bedroom?" he repeated, his soft voice rising into a scandalized gasp.
he stood at the foot of the bed, his hands coming to rest firmly on his hips. he shook his head in disbelief. he couldnāt help but wonder if he had done something wrong or if you didnāt find him attractive anymore because of his snoring.
"y/n, we are married. husbands and wives share a bed. thatās how it works!ā
you were sitting on the edge of the bed as he stood in front of you flopping his hands around.
"mike, it's just for my own personal space," you explained, trying to suppress a smile at how offended he looked.
one of your friends told you all about how she felt happier having her own bedroom and how it can do wonders for a marriage. plus, sheās been married about twenty years longer than you. you didnāt realize that not compromising on every single thing was an option, and you truthfully couldnāt stop thinking about it.
you looked down at the sparkly bed set you were sitting atop of and the Jesus portrait above the bed.
āā¦besides, i want to decorate it in my own style. yāknow, my own books, maybe a giant pastel rug, a cheetah print loveseat. i love our bedroom, but sometimes i just want somethinā of my own." you shrugged your shoulders, unable to look him into his eyes that always appeared larger than life whenever he was upset.
you looked down at your swinging feet instead.
michael pouted and rolled his eyes.
"but our bedroom is cozy, and you have somethinā of your ownāit's my left shoulder!"
he marched around to your side of the bed, crossing his arms tightly over his chest. he huffed. he grew more and more upset the longer the looked at your empty side of the bed. he couldnāt bear for that sight to become the norm. he was also internally panicking because you were his personal nyquil; he slept much easier with your presence next to him.
āif you sleep in another room, who am i supposed to serenade at two in the morning when lyrics come to me in a dream? who's gonna steal the cover off me?"
"you can still visit, michael," you giggled, reaching out to tug on the fabric of his shirt.
"visit?" he repeated loudly, his lips curling in horror at the word.
"i have to make an appointment to see my own wife? no, no, no. i don't like the thought of it at all. it makes me feel like we're landlords." he violently shook his head as he walked back over to you.
he suddenly slumped down next to you, burying his face in your shoulder with a dramatic sigh, his long loose curls sprawled out.
"we can change the rug, y/n. we can buy booksāwhatever yāwant. just please don't leave me. iāll do whatever yāwant angel." he pleaded, pulling his head back and holding both of your hands into his.
when you looked forward instead of into his eyes, he slid off the bed and dropped down on his knees. he rested his head against your hard knee and looked up at you pleadingly. some of his strands partially covered his eyes.
āmichael!ā you groaned, trying to move your knee from his heavy skull, but he grounded the weight of his head into it. he was genuinely bothered by the idea and didnāt support it at all. you definitely werenāt expecting him to be so dramatic about it either.
āiām so serious baby. donāt go.ā he sighed.
you bit the inside of your cheek knowing that you already discussed the decorations with one of the onsite architects.
he raised his arms and began gently rubbing long ovals up and down your covered thighs.
āwhoās gonna love you when you need me, baby?ā he muttered slowly, grazing his teeth across his reddish pink lower lip.
you gulped quietly then rolled your eyes. you tried pushing his veiny hands off of you, but he instead took hold of your smaller ones and began kissing each of your fingers.
āmichael! seriously stop being childish.ā you groaned.
he, unfortunately, wasnāt going to stop until you let this grotesque idea go.
bad era! michael jackson x popular artist! female reader
summary. from the 1970s all the way to the late 80s, michael's answer has been so consistent whenever he was asked about who his favorite artist wasāyou. michael is not-so-secretly your biggest fan...and when he sees you do a duet with prince out of all people...he can't just be a fan anymore.
tags. romance, comedy, fluff. michael is kinda obssessed with you...jealous michael! too. michael and prince's rivalry!
There were many things the public believed they knew about Michael Jackson.
They knew he was painfully shy during interviews. They knew he always answered carefully, never wanting to hurt anyone's feelings. They knew he adored children, loved animals, and could somehow make an entire stadium scream simply by standing still for five seconds.
There was, however, one thing everyone else seemed to notice long before Michael himself realized he had made it painfully obvious.
He was absolutely, hopelessly, ridiculously fond of you.
Not in the scandalous way the tabloids desperately tried to paint it, nor in the passing admiration celebrities often exchanged through magazines.
Noāthis was the kind of admiration that quietly settled itself into every answer he gave, every compliment he offered, every conversation where your name somehow managed to appear despite nobody asking about you directly.
It had begun in 1979, shortly after Off the Wall was released.
Michael had only just begun to experience what true artistic freedom felt like. His interviews had become longer, more personal.
Journalists wanted to know everything about him nowānot just the music, but his favorite foods, his hobbies, what kind of books he read, whether he wanted to marry someday.
One television host leaned forward in his chair with a grin that suggested he already knew the question would embarrass him.
"So, Michael," he began, folding his cue cards together. "Millions of girls want to know this. What's your type? What kind of woman catches your eye? Who would you wanna ask out?"
Michael, who had been smiling politely only a second earlier, visibly stiffened.
His fingers, which had been folded neatly in his lap, tightened around one another.
"Oh..." A bashful laugh escaped him before he looked down at his loafers, rocking them against the floor. "I... um..."
The audience chuckled softly. The host waited patiently.
Michael rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks already turning pink beneath the studio lights. "I don't really... think about it much."
"Oh, come on." The audience laughed again. "There has to be someone."
Michael bit the inside of his cheek. He really hadn't planned on saying it. It simply... came out.
"I think..." he murmured, a shy smile tugging at the corner of his lips, "someone like (Name)."
The room immediately erupted into delighted laughter, the host raised both eyebrows.
"Oh?"
Michael blinked, suddenly realizing what he'd admitted.
"I justāI meanāshe..." He laughed nervously, waving both hands as if trying to erase the sentence from existence. "She's very sweet."
"So it's (Name)?"
"IāI didn't sayā"
"You literally just did."
"I mean..." He ducked his head with a grin so embarrassed it became contagious. "She's just... really wonderful."
The interview aired the following week, nobody thought much of it.
Then another interviewer asked six months later.
"If you could take any celebrity out to dinner, who would it be?"
Michael smiled thoughtfully. "Oh..."
He didn't even hesitate this time.
"(Name)."
The interviewer burst into laughter. "So you weren't joking last time?"
Michael looked confused.
"What?"
"You said exactly the same thing in your last interview."
"I did?"
"You don't remember?"
He frowned. "No."
The interviewer held up an old magazine. "'Someone like (Name),' ring any bells?"
Michael stared at the page, then slowly buried his face behind both hands. "Oh no..." The audience howled.
The pattern only became worse. Every interview seemed to circle back to you somehow.
"What female artist inspires you?"
"(Name)."
"Who's your favorite vocalist working today?"
Michael didn't even pretend to think. "(Name)."
"What artist do you think deserves more recognition?"
"Oh, definitely (Name)." His entire expression softened the instant he said your name. "Her voice is... it's just beautiful."
"What makes it beautiful?"
Michael actually sat forward in his chair.
For the first time in the interview, he looked genuinely animated.
"Oh... everything." His eyes lit up with that familiar childlike excitement he always had whenever music became the topic. "It's so... effortless. She doesn't force anything. She lets the melody breathe."
He absentmindedly moved one hand through the air as though conducting invisible notes. "Sometimes singers think louder means better, but she doesn't have to do that. She knows exactly when to hold back. She knows when to whisper. She knows when to let one little note do all the work."
He smiled to himself, almost forgetting there were cameras pointed at him. "Her phrasing is unbelievable. You can hear every emotion in the way she finishes a sentence. Even if she sings something simple, she makes it feel... important."
The interviewer blinked.
"...You've really listened to her albums."
Michael looked surprised by the question. "Well... yes."
"How many times?"
He laughed sheepishly. "I don't know."
"Take a guess."
Michael scratched his eyebrow. "...A lot."
"How many is 'a lot'?"
"I... um..." He looked down with another embarrassed grin. "...I lost count."
It became increasingly difficult for journalists to ignore.
Especially because Michael never complimented you the way celebrities usually complimented one another. His praise was strangely... detailed. As though he'd studied every song you'd ever released.
One afternoon, during the filming of a European television special, a journalist asked, "Have you heard (Name)'s newest duet?"
Michael smiled immediately. "Oh, yes."
"What did you think?"
"I loved it."
"What did you like most?"
Without missing a beat, he answered, "Her harmonies."
The interviewer tilted his head. "Anything else?"
Michael nodded enthusiastically.
"The second verse was incredible. She changed the melody just enough to make it sound fresh without taking attention away from the lyrics. And the little run she does before the final chorus..." He gently snapped his fingers as if replaying the moment in his head.
"That's difficult to do because if you over-sing it, it loses its feeling. She didn't. She made it sound so natural."
The interviewer glanced down at his notes. "...What about her duet partner?"
Michael frowned slightly. "Oh."
He genuinely seemed to have forgotten another person had even been on the record.
"He was..." Michael searched for the right word. "Very good too."
"'Very good?'"
"Yes."
"Anything specific?"
Michael thought for several long seconds.
"...He stayed in key."
The cameraman snorted.
The interviewer had to bite his lip to stop himself from laughing.
Michael looked between them, confused.
"What?"
The more interviews he gave, the harder it became to deny the obvious. He simply loved talking about your music.
Not because he was trying to impress anyone. Not because he expected to meet you. But because whenever someone mentioned your name, his entire demeanor changed.
His shoulders relaxed, his smile became brighter, his voice grew warmer.
He stopped speaking like a carefully rehearsed celebrity and started speaking like someone discussing the artist who genuinely inspired him.
"You know," he said during one radio interview, "I think one of the hardest things in music is making people believe what you're singing. Lots of people have beautiful voices." He shrugged gently. "But not everyone can make you feel like they're telling you the truth."
The radio host nodded. "And (Name) does that?"
Michael smiled to himself. "Every time."
"You've never met her."
"No."
"But you're this confident?"
He nodded without hesitation. "I think you can tell a lot about someone's heart through the way they sing."
The room fell unusually quiet, even the host looked momentarily touched.
Michael noticed the silence and quickly became flustered. "I-I mean..." He laughed awkwardly. "As an artist."
The host couldn't help smiling. "Sure, Michael."
"I did mean artistically."
"Mhm."
"I did."
"If you say so."
Michael covered his face with one hand, laughing into his palm while everyone in the studio joined in.
Back at Hayvenhurst, one evening he was sitting cross-legged on the living room carpet, absentmindedly humming along to your newest single while scribbling lyrics into a notebook.
He didn't even realize he was smiling until Janet quietly walked in, stopped beside the couch, and watched him for nearly a full minute.
Without saying a word, she reached for the remote wanting to watch a show.
Click. The television switched to another channel.
Michael looked up immediately. "...Hey."
Janet innocently shrugged. "What?"
"My song was on."
"Your song?"
"You know what I mean."
She folded her arms, struggling to keep a straight face. "Oh... you mean (Name)'s song."
Michael froze.
Jermaine chose that exact moment to walk into the room carrying a bowl of popcorn.
"What happened?"
Janet pointed toward Michael.
"I changed the channel."
Jermaine looked at his younger brother's expression and immediately burst into laughter. "You interrupted his daily concert."
"I was listening."
"No," Jermaine corrected with a grin. "You were studying."
Michael rolled his eyes, trying very hard not to smile. "I appreciate good music."
Jackie wandered in next, curiosity written all over his face. "What's so funny?"
Jermaine didn't even hesitate. "Janet changed the channel to another, Mike's mad that he can't watch his girlfriend."
Michael's head whipped around so fast his curls bounced. "She is not my girlfriend!"
The room erupted. Janet clutched the couch cushion against her stomach. Jackie pointed at him, laughing in his face.
"You got defensive way too fast."
Jermaine leaned against the wall, wiping tears from his eyes. "That's it."
"What?"
"You've got it bad."
Michael buried his burning face into one of the couch pillows. "I hate all of you."
The room only became louder with laughter.
āāāāāāā
If there was one thing Michael Jackson believed with his entire heart, it was that fans deserved to be treated with kindness.
He had built his career on that belief.
He knew what it felt like to admire someone from afar, to save magazine clippings, to memorize lyrics, to wait outside venues hoping for just a glimpse of an artist who had unknowingly changed your life.
So perhaps it shouldn't have surprised anyoneānot even himselfāthat when it came to you, he acted almost exactly the same way.
The only difference was that he happened to be Michael Jackson.
And Michael Jackson, despite being one of the most recognizable people on Earth, was convinced that a baseball cap, an oversized brown windbreaker, a pair of thick-framed glasses that magnified his eyes just a little too much, and an obviously fake mustache were enough to render him completely anonymous.
He stood across the street from one of the largest unofficial fan clubs dedicated entirely to your career, adjusting the brim of his cap lower over his face before looking up at the storefront.
Your name stretched proudly across the front window in elegant lettering.
The display windows were filled with framed album covers, imported vinyl records, glossy concert photographs, promotional posters, handwritten lyric books, fan-made scrapbooks, newspaper clippings, cassette tapes, keychains, buttons, oversized tour jackets, and shelves upon shelves of memorabilia that looked as though they'd been lovingly collected over years.
Michael's eyes widened behind his glasses. "...Wow." The word escaped him before he could stop it.
He looked exactly like a child standing outside a toy store on Christmas morning.
After glancing once over each shoulderāas though the FBI were monitoring his movementsāhe quickly crossed the street and slipped through the front door.
A tiny bell chimed overhead.
Immediately, the scent of old magazines, cardboard record sleeves, and fresh coffee greeted him.
Dozens of fans milled around the shop, quietly chatting while flipping through photo albums or browsing stacks of imported merchandise.
Nobody paid him much attention.
Michael released the breath he'd unknowingly been holding. "See?" he thought proudly. "The disguise works."
It did not.
The young woman working behind the register took exactly one look at him. She blinked. Looked again. Then slowly leaned toward the employee beside her.
"...Is that..."
The second employee glanced over, his shoulders immediately began shaking.
"...That's absolutely Michael Jackson."
Neither of them said anythingāInstead, they exchanged amused smiles.
If Michael Jackson wanted to pretend to be an ordinary fan...
Well...
Who were they to ruin his afternoon?
Michael wandered through every aisle with quiet fascination, stopping every few steps to examine another piece of memorabilia with almost reverent care.
He carefully lifted a limited-edition concert booklet from its display stand, smiling to himself as he turned each page with the gentleness usually reserved for priceless museum artifacts.
A wall filled entirely with your magazine covers kept him occupied for nearly fifteen minutes as he studied each photograph, occasionally nodding to himself whenever he found one he particularly liked.
He eventually reached an entire shelf dedicated to your albums.
Every pressing. Every country. Every alternate cover. Every promotional release.
He slowly reached out and ran his fingertips across the collection.
"...They even have the rare Japanese release..."
His voice carried just enough for another customer nearby to hear.
"You noticed that too?"
Michael looked down.
A middle-aged woman smiled warmly at him while holding one of your lyric books against her chest. "The mastering's different," she said. "The vocals sound warmer."
Michael's entire face lit up. "They do!"
"You've listened to it?"
"Oh, dozens of times."
She laughed. "I knew I wasn't imagining it."
For the next hour...they talked.
Then another fan joined them.
Then another and before long, nearly eight people had gathered around one tiny listening station near the back of the shop, passionately discussing your albums with the enthusiasm only genuine fans possessed.
Michael completely forgot he was supposed to be hiding.
He animatedly gestured with his hands while talking about your vocal technique, occasionally humming tiny sections of songs to explain exactly what he meant.
"I think one of my favorite things she does," he said, carefully balancing an unopened vinyl beneath one arm, "is how she never sings exactly the same melody twice during live performances. Most people don't even notice it, but she'll change one noteājust oneāand suddenly the whole phrase feels brand new."
Several fans nodded immediately. "Exactly!" "I've been saying that!"
"And when she sings softly," Michael continued, becoming more excited with every sentence, "she doesn't lose any emotion. That's really difficult. Usually singers compensate by adding more volume, but she doesn't need to. She trusts the audience enough to lean in and listen."
A younger fan grinned. "You sound like you've analyzed every performance she's ever done."
Michael looked down sheepishly. "...Maybe."
The entire group laughed.
One elderly gentleman folded his arms. "So..."
Michael looked up.
"...what's her best song?"
Michael answered so quickly it was almost startling. The room erupted into another lively debate.
Nobody treated him like the King of Pop. Nobody asked for an autograph. Nobody interrupted him.
For nearly three hours, he wasn't Michael Jackson.
He was simply another person who adored your music as much as everyone else in the room. And strangely...
He loved it.
Eventually, he made his way toward the register carrying what could only be described as an alarming amount of merchandise.
Three oversized shopping baskets overflowed with tour books, imported records, promotional posters, fan-made photo collections, commemorative pins, cassette tapes he already owned, several duplicate albums "just in case," two sweatshirts, four T-shirts, calendars, magazines, and a stack of glossy photographs so tall he had to balance them carefully beneath one arm.
The cashier slowly scanned the mountain of items, sighing through her nose.
"...Big fan?"
Michael nodded with complete sincerity. "The biggest."
"I can tell." After everything had been bagged, she slid the last receipt across the counter before leaning forward ever so slightly. "You know..."
Michael looked up.
"...Your mustache is peeling."
His entire body froze. Slowly...very slowly...he reached up. Sure enough...one corner had come unstuck. Silence.
The cashier blinked, she then spoke dryly. "So... should I make the receipt out to 'Michael Jackson'?"
Michael stared at her for a full three seconds before letting out the most defeated little laugh. "...You knew?"
She looked around the shop. Every single fan looked back at him with identical amused smiles. One of them raised a hand. "We knew the second you walked in."
Another nodded, "The glasses didn't help."
"The mustache made it worse."
Michael covered his face with both hands. "Oh, my goodness..."
The room filled with affectionate laughter, one fan gently nudged his shoulder.
"Don't worry, we weren't going to bother you."
"We figured today..." another added with a grin, "...you deserved to just be one of us."
Michael lowered his hands and his smile softened. "...Thank you."
It was a simple sentence. Quiet. Completely genuine.
The room fell warmly silent for a moment before someone held up one of your newest posters. "So..."
Michael immediately smiled again.
"What about this photoshoot?" The discussion resumed as though nothing had happened. Unfortunately for Michael...
The paparazzi had much sharper eyes than he did, because the next morning, newspaper stands across Los Angeles displayed nearly identical headlines.
MICHAEL JACKSON SPOTTED IN MYSTERIOUS DISGUISE!
KING OF POP VISITS (NAME) FAN CLUB?
SECRET SHOPPING TRIP ENDS WITH ARMS FULL OF MERCHANDISE! KING OF POP OR PRESIDENT OF THE FANCLUB?!
Grainy photographs covered nearly every entertainment section.
One showed Michael standing outside the shop in his oversized coat, awkwardly tugging at the fake mustache that had already begun peeling away.
Another captured him leaving with so many shopping bags that they nearly reached his shoulders, forcing him to peek around them just to see where he was walking.
Perhaps the most humiliating picture of all showed him enthusiastically pointing at one of your posters while speaking to a circle of laughing fans, his hands moving animatedly as though he were giving an academic lecture instead of discussing his favorite artist.
Hayvenhurst was unusually quiet that morning. Michael sat at the breakfast table with the newspaper folded neatly beside his plate.
He hadn't touched it in ten minutes. He was pretending it didn't exist.
Unfortunately...His brothers had eyes.
Jermaine walked into the dining room first, coffee mug in hand. He noticed the newspaper immediately. He stopped. Looked at the front page. Looked at Michael. Looked back at the newspaper.
A grin slowly spread across his face. "Oh..."
Michael kept buttering his toast. "No."
Jermaine hadn't even said anything yet as Jackie wandered in next, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Morningā"
Jermaine silently turned the newspaper toward him. Jackie read the headline. Then doubled over laughing so hard he had to grab the back of a chair to stay upright.
"What?" Tito called from the hallway. Jermaine couldn't answer, he simply pointed. Tito picked up the paper.
Five seconds later, he burst into laughter loud enough to bring Marlon into the room. "What happened?"
Jackie wiped tears from the corners of his eyes. "Our little brother..." He could barely finish the sentence. "...joined a fan club."
Michael sighed deeply. "I did not join a fan club."
Jermaine snorted. "No?"
He tapped one photograph.
"Then why are you buying enough merchandise to open your own museum?"
"I was supporting her."
"You bought four copies of the same album."
"They're different pressings."
"The article says you debated her bridge on track six with strangers for almost an hour."
"They understood what I meant."
"They called you 'Mike' by the end."
Michael muttered something unintelligible into his coffee as his brothers laughed.
From that day forward...an inside joke was born.
Whenever Michael entered a room, one of his brothers would immediately stand up, walk over with exaggerated seriousness, and extend a hand. "Welcome to the fan club."
Michael would groan before reluctantly shaking it.
Jermaine always followed with an overly formal nod. "Our president has arrived."
Marlon would clap dramatically before cackling.
Tito usually added, "Have you paid your membership dues this month?"
And Jackieāwho somehow found the joke just as funny every single timeāwould lean over and ask with the straightest face imaginable, "Any new merchandise releases we should know about, Mike?"
The four of them would dissolve into laughter before Michael even had the chance to defend himself.
"I hate every single one of you," he'd mumble, unable to hide the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
Jermaine would throw an arm around his shoulders, still chuckling.
"No, you don't."
Jackie nodded toward the newspaper still sitting on the table. "You know what the funniest part is?"
Michael sighed. "What?"
Jackie grinned.
"You never denied being her biggest fan."
Michael looked down at the photograph of himself leaving the fan club with his arms full of shopping bags. After a moment, the corner of his mouth lifted into a sheepish smile. "...Because it's true."
āāāāāāā
The award show itself was spectacular.
Every seat in the auditorium glittered beneath golden lights that swept across the audience like slow-moving stars.
Crystal chandeliers reflected flashes from hundreds of cameras, while orchestral music drifted through the room between commercial breaks.
Conversations filled every corner of the theater as the biggest names in entertainment greeted one another with hugs, laughter, and handshakes.
Backstage was even more chaotic.
Stage managers hurried down hallways with clipboards tucked beneath their arms, assistants rushed costumes from one dressing room to another, makeup artists chased performers for last-minute touch-ups, and producers spoke urgently into headsets while counting down to the next live segment.
Michael had just stepped offstage after delivering one of the most electric performances of the evening. His breathing was still uneven from the choreography, tiny beads of perspiration clung to the curls framing his forehead.
An assistant gently draped a towel around his shoulders while another handed him a bottle of water. "You were incredible, Michael."
"Thank you."
"You can go back to your seat now." He nodded absently, barely listening.
His attention had already drifted somewhere else.
Down the hallway, standing near a cluster of dressing rooms...
Was you.
You were speaking with your manager, one hand wrapped loosely around a cup of tea while the other moved naturally as you laughed at something someone had said.
Even from several yards away, your smile carried easily through the busy corridor, warm enough that people passing by found themselves smiling back without realizing it.
Michael stopped walking. His fingers slowly lowered the water bottle. His shoulders straightened instinctively.
For just a moment, the bustling hallway seemed strangely quiet. He couldn't hear the stage crew anymore.
There was only one thought in his mind.
She's actually here.
Not on a television screen. Not on the cover of an album. Not across an arena.
Right there.
Only a few steps away.
His heartbeat picked up so suddenly that he instinctively pressed a hand against his sweaty chest. "Oh..."
A stagehand walking past noticed where he was looking and smiled to himself before continuing on.
Michael inhaled slowly, he smoothed the front of his blue polo. Ran a nervous hand through the curls at the back of his neck.
Then quietly muttered to himself, "Just say hello."
He took one stepāstopped. Shook his head.
"No, that's weird."
Another step.
"What if she's busy?"
He took a third.
"What if she doesn't know who I am?"
An assistant passing by blinked at him. "...Michael." He looked over. "She definitely knows who you are."
"Oh." He laughed softly at himself. "Right."
He felt ridiculous but still...
He started walking again, one careful step after another. Trying very hard not to look like someone walking toward the person he'd admired for nearly a decade.
You happened to glance in his direction, your eyes met for the briefest instant.
You smiled politely.
Michael forgot how to function.
His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. He managed exactly one tiny wave.
You returned it with a smile. The most beautiful smile he's ever seen.
He thought his heart might actually stop. He was close enough now that another few seconds would have been enough.
Enough to introduce himself, enough to tell you how much your music had inspired him, enough to finally have a conversation after years of only speaking about you in interviews and defending your artistry to anyone who would listen.
Thenā
A familiar voice called your name.
You turned. Prince appeared from the opposite end of the hallway, already dressed for his upcoming performance.
He greeted you with an easy grin. You smiled back.
One of the producers hurried over. "There you two are!"
He clapped his hands together. "You're on in two minutes."
Michael's smile slowly disappeared.
He watched as Prince naturally fell into step beside you. The two of you exchanged a few words that he couldn't hear before disappearing behind the stage entrance together.
Michael remained exactly where he was, completely still.
His eye twitched.
A dancer from his crew approached cautiously. "...uh..Mike?"
Without taking his eyes off the curtains, Michael answered in an unusually flat, low voice. "They're performing together?"
"I... think so."
"They're doing a duet?"
"...Looks like it."
Michael slowly nodded once. "I see."
The dancer shifted awkwardly.
"You okay?"
Michael smiled. It was the tightest, most painfully forced smile anyone in the room had ever seen.
"I'm wonderful."
"You don't look wonderful."
āāāāāāā
The moment the lights dimmed, the entire atmosphere of the award show shifted.
The endless chatter that had filled the room softened into anticipation as the stage transformed, the golden glow of the spotlights cutting through the darkness while the audience settled into their seats.
Michael had been expecting another performanceāanother impressive display from two of the biggest artists in the world, trying to put his jealousy asideābut he was not prepared for the sight that unfolded in front of him.
The opening notes echoed through the venue, smooth and dramatic, and then you stepped onto the stage beside Prince, immediately commanding the attention of everyone watching.
There was a confidence in the way you carried yourself, the kind that came from years of knowing exactly who you were as an artist. You didn't need to demand attention; the room naturally followed you.
Every movement was deliberate, every expression matching the emotion of the song perfectly.
The audience immediately reacted, cheers rising as you began the first verse, your voice filling the arena with a warmth and power that made people instinctively lean closer.
Michael, however, barely moved.
He had been sitting with the composed expression he always wore at award shows, one hand resting against his chin, the other tapping lightly against his armrest.
But the second your voice came through the speakers, that carefully controlled expression disappeared.
His eyes widened slightly, his head tilting forward as if he needed to make sure he was hearing every single note correctly.
He knew your voice better than most people did.
He had spent years listening to your albums, studying the choices you made, admiring the way you could turn a simple lyric into something emotional.
But hearing you live was always different. There was something raw about it that recordings could never completely capture.
He watched you move across the stage, watched the way you connected with the audience, watched the way you shaped every phrase with such effortless control, and despite himself, he found himself smiling.
A genuine smile, the kind he rarely showed in public unless he was truly impressed.
One of the people sitting near him noticed almost immediately.
Michael wasn't watching the performance like a fellow celebrity watching another celebrity. He was watching like a fan.
Then Prince joined in.
At first, Michael tried to remain neutral.
He really did.
Prince was talented. Michael knew that. He respected him as a musician and understood why audiences loved him.
But as soon as the two of you began harmonizing together, Michael's admiration for your part of the performance quickly became something much more complicated.
The two of you moved around each other effortlessly, trading lines back and forth with a chemistry that was impossible to ignore.
Prince played into the performance with his usual confidence, leaning into the dramatic energy of the song, and you responded naturally, smiling as the two of you sang together.
And Michael hated how much the audience loved it.
Not because you weren't incredibleāyou were.
That was the problem.
You were so incredible that he couldn't even convince himself he was annoyed at the performance itself. His frustration was entirely focused on one person standing beside you.
Prince.
Michael's expression slowly changed. The smile faded. His eyebrows drew together slightly. His fingers, which had been tapping along with the rhythm, stopped. He shifted in his seat.
Then shifted again.
At first, people around him thought he was simply enjoying the performance intensely, but anyone who knew Michael well could see the difference.
His eyes followed every single interaction between you and Prince. Every glance. Every smile. Every moment where the two of you stood closer than necessary.
When Prince stepped toward you during the final section of the song, Michael immediately straightened.
When you laughed at something Prince whispered during the performance, Michael's mouth pressed into a thin line.
And when the final chorus arrived, the entire audience erupted as the music built toward the ending.
The stage lights became brighter.
The crowd was already on their feet.
Then Prince took your hand.
Michael's eyes narrowed.
He watched as Prince spun you gracefully, catching you at exactly the right moment before lowering you into a dramatic dip.
You trusted him completely, your laughter blending with the cheers of the audience as the final note rang through the arena. It was a classic award-show endingāthe kind designed to make people scream.
And people did.
Everyone except Michael.
Michael sat frozen, his jaw tightened and his eyes remained locked on the stage.
Then, as Prince held you there for the final pose, he looked out into the audience.
And his eyes landed directly on Michael. For one brief moment, neither of them looked away.
Prince's expression was subtle, but Michael understood immediately.
It was a challenge.
A playful one.
A smug one.
The kind that only made Michael's jealousy worse.
His eyebrows lifted slightly, almost offended.
His lips parted.
Then, barely audible beneath the roaring applause, he muttered to himself, "He's dead."
The person sitting beside him turned sharply.
Michael immediately realized what he had done.
"No, no, I meanā"
He quickly composed himself, forcing his expression back into something polite as the cameras swept across the audience.
"Congratulations to them," he said, much louder.
The problem was...
Nobody believed him.
The people around him exchanged amused looks.
They had heard exactly what he said.
And judging by Michael's expression as he clapped his large hands loudly with a lot of forceāhe knew they knew.
āāāāāāā
When it was finally time for the award for Best Male Performer of the Year, the tension in the room had completely changed.
The earlier performances had set the stage, and now the audience waited as the presenter stepped forward with the envelope in hand. The nominees appeared one by one on the massive screens, each name receiving applause from the crowd.
Michael Jackson.
Prince.
Several other legendary performers.
The moment Michael's name appeared, the audience erupted.
He sat calmly, hands folded together, his face unreadable.
But those closest to him could see the tiny hint of confidence in his expression.
The presenter opened the envelope.
"And the winner is..."
The entire room became silent.
Michael leaned back slightly.
"...Michael Jackson!"
The crowd exploded. The applause was immediate and deafening.
Michael paused for a moment, allowing the reaction to wash over him. Then slowly, almost dramatically, he stood from his seat.
And there it was.
That smile.
The one that appeared whenever Michael knew he had something to prove.
He adjusted the front of his jacket, smoothed down his sleeve, and accepted congratulations from those around him before making his way toward the stage.
But as he walked past Prince, he couldn't resist.
He stopped.
Just for a second.
Prince looked up at him.
Michael smiled.
Not a rude smile.
Not openly.
But definitely smug.
The kind of smile that said remember earlier?
Prince's expression immediately hardened.
His jaw tightened.
He knew exactly what Michael was doing.
"You enjoy that too much," Prince muttered quietly.
Michael leaned slightly closer, pretending not to hear.
"What was that?"
Prince stared at him.
"Nothing."
Michael's smile widened.
"That's what I thought."
Then he continued toward the stage.
Prince watched him walk away with an expression of pure irritation.
The cameras didn't catch the quiet exchange.
But everyone close enough to see it were so shocked and knew that they would be sharing this story for years to come.
This was no longer about the award.
āāāāāāā
Michael reached the microphone holding the award.
He looked down at the trophy in his hands before looking back at the audience, his voice soft and slightly nervous as he began,
"Wow. Thank you. Thank you so much. Um, honestly, I don't know what to say. This is such a great honor because there are so many incredible artists here tonight, so many people who inspire me and continue to push music forward..." He paused as he smiled shyly.
"I want to thank God, my family, especially my fans, everyone who has supported me throughout my career. I wouldn't be standing here without the people who believed in me when I was just a kid who loved to sing and dance. This award means more than I can really explain."
He paused, taking a breath as the applause continued. For a moment, he looked exactly like the shy Michael everyone knewāthe humble artist who never wanted to appear too proud of himself. Then his eyes moved toward you in the audience. His expression softened.
"And I also want to say something about tonight's performances. There are moments when you watch someone perform and you remember why you love music in the first place. You remember why you started. And tonight, I had one of those moments watching (Name). She has one of the most incredible voices I've ever heard. The way she feels a song, the way she connects with people, the way she can take a simple melody and turn it into something that stays with you... that's a gift. That's something special."
The audience smiled, immediately understanding where his attention was. Michael's confidence grew as he continued, his shoulders relaxing, his famous playful side beginning to appear.
"And, uh, I also saw her duet tonight." He looked toward Prince who had an unreadable but obviously irritated expression briefly before smiling.
"Very interesting performance. Very entertaining. But I think everyone here knows when someone has a voice that can carry a song, they don't need much help."
Laughter immediately spread through the room. Michael smiled wider. "Sometimes one person just has that magic. And (Name), you definitely have that magic." He lifted the award slightly.
"So next time you want to do a duet, I think you should choose someone who can keep up with you a little better."
The audience erupted in gasps and shock. Michael laughed, now completely comfortable, the shy nerves gone.
"Maybe someone with a little more experience. Maybe someone who knows how to let that incredible voice shine."
He looked directly at you, blowing a kiss between his two fingers before adding with a playful wink, "I'm just saying, I'm available."
The entire theater exploded into laughter and applause.
Michael stepped back from the microphone, smiling proudly as you sat there completely stunned, your cheeks warm and your expression caught somewhere between disbelief and amusement.
You put your hand over your mouth in absolute shock. āWhat the hell just happenedā¦?ā
.
.
.
Note: This came to me in a dreamā¦I channeled it before Prince could šš¤£ No shade to Prince at all hahaha š Soo much love to you all! š«¶š½ā¤ļø
summary: just michael being a total baby and craving back scratches
here's a little sweet fic for yall <3
the house is quiet, save for the soft, crackling hum of the television screen casting flickering blue light across the living room of hayvenhurst. itās a saturday night, and for the first time in what feels like months, the house is empty. no hustle of family members, no housekeepers rushing about, no phones ringing. just you and michael.
heās sprawled out across the velvet sofa, his long legs dangling off the edge while his head remains firmly anchored in your lap. the atmosphere is thick with a cozy, domestic lethargy. youāve been running your fingers through his hair for a while, but heās been restless, shifting his weight constantly, sighing with a dramatic, exaggerated flair that makes you chuckle.
"something wrong, baby?" you tease, brushing a stray lock of hair away from his forehead.
he lets out a deep, rumbling "hmm," the sound vibrating against your thighs. he doesn't open his eyes, he just tilts his chin up, his expression one of pure, unadulterated neediness. "itās my back, angel," he murmurs, his voice a velvety, sleepy croak.
āeverything feels so tight. youāve been ignoring my back for ten whole minutes.ā
you laugh softly, shifting your hand from his hair down to his shoulders, kneading the tension out of his muscles. "there, better?"
"yeah..." he lets out a contented, elongated sound, his body instantly going limp under your touch. he presses his face deeper into your lap, nuzzling against you like a kitten. "that's nice... but keep going lower.ā
āright between my shoulder blades. yeah, right there."
you canāt help but burst into a soft laugh, your shoulders shaking slightly as you look down at him. the way heās so demanding yet so sweet is honestly too much to handle.
"you are such a bossy baby," you tease, a playful glint in your eyes as you lightly run your nails down his spine. "first youāre silent, and now youāre giving me specific coordinates."
he lets out a low, muffled giggle against your stomach, his hand tightening around your waist. "iām not being bossy," he mumbles, his voice thick with that sleepy, spoiled tone he only ever uses with you. "iām just... guiding you to the best part."
you lean over, pressing your forehead against his hair, and whisper right into his ear, "oh, so you're a professional guide now, mr. jackson?"
he lets out a soft, breathy chuckle, his shoulders rising and falling with the sound. "only for you," he mumbles, his voice barely a murmur.
you canāt help yourself. heās just too precious when heās this relaxed. you start by pressing a lingering, tender kiss right to his temple, then another just above his eyebrow. he sighs, his eyes closing tighter, his entire face softening as he practically leans into the affection, his body humming with contentment.
you trail your kisses down his cheek, pressing soft, butterfly-light pecks along his jawline. he shivers under your touch, a small, involuntary movement that makes your heart swell. "mmhh, mama..." he whispers, his voice thick with a sleepy, lovesick daze.
"oh michael," you tease, pressing one last, firm kiss to the corner of his mouth, which makes him smile against your skin.
he lets out another "hmm," a soft, breathy sound of approval. heās completely melted, his arms wrapped loosely around your waist, pulling you closer so that there isn't a single inch of space between you.
"youāre such a baby.." you whisper, watching the way his eyelashes flutter every time you apply a little more pressure.
"i'm just spoiled," he replies, his voice low and drowsy. "by you. nobody else knows how to rub my back like this. itās like... itās like you know exactly where the knots are."
he shifts again, wriggling deeper into your lap, his back arching just enough to invite more pressure. heās shivering slightly under your touch, a soft, involuntary reaction to the friction. "mmhh, mama, you have the magic touch. i could stay like this for a hundred years and never get bored."
he sighs again, a long, shaky sound that seems to empty his lungs of all the stress from the week. heās so relaxed that his hand, which was gripping your shirt, begins to loosen. heās completely succumbed to the comfort of the night, his eyes squeezed shut, a small, blissful smile playing on his lips. he looks so peaceful, so far away from the stage and the flashing bulbs, just a man in love in his own home.
after a few more minutes of rhythmic stroking, he goes quiet, but heās clearly not satisfied with the barrier of his shirt anymore. he reaches behind him, his fingers finding your wrist and guiding your hand down toward the hem of his clothing, his thumb stroking your skin urgently.
"under," he murmurs, his voice breathless and sweet, eyes flickering open just to lock onto yours with that familiar, boyish vulnerability. "please, ma? itās not enough... i need to feel your skin.ā
your hand is already tucked inside his shirt, your warm palm resting against the smooth, sensitive skin of his lower back. as you slowly guide your hand downward, moving from his shoulder blades toward his waist and the curve of his lower backāthose spots that always seem to be his absolute undoingāhe lets out a sharp, surprised gasp that quickly dissolves into a series of breathless giggles.
"yes... god, that's it," he mumbles, his voice thick with a mixture of ticklish delight and pure comfort.
he is absolutely vibrating with the sensation. as you trace circles right above his hips, his entire body jerks against you, and he buries his face even deeper into your stomach, nuzzling into the soft fabric of your clothes. heās like a happy, lovesick kitten, rubbing his cheek and nose back and forth against you, making soft, needy sounds that make your heart melt.
"mmhh... ah, youāre trying to kill me, aren't you?" he lets out a long, shaky sigh, his breath hot against your stomach. "that feels... oh, it feels so good."
you canāt help the playful smirk that spreads across your face, seeing the most famous man on earth completely undone by something as simple as your touch. you press your fingertips into his lower back, just enough to make him arch his spine and shudder.
"you're a sensitive baby, michael," you whisper, trailing your nails lightly over his skin, teasing him. "are you enjoying that? or should i stop?"
he lets out a low, desperate-sounding moan, his grip on your waist tightening instantly as he shakes his head against your stomach. "no! don't you dare stop. iāll never forgive you if you stop," he laughs, a bubbly, musical sound that is pure innocence. "youāre so mean, teasing me like this... you know exactly what youāre doing to me, don't you?"
he starts nuzzling harder into you, his nose and lips grazing your skin as he wiggles his hips, trying to get more of your hand against his back. heās completely uninhibited, all his defenses down, just soaking in the attention like a sponge.
"youāre just so soft," he hums, his voice muffled and sleepy as he presses a soft, lingering kiss to your stomach through your clothes. "i could stay here forever. just you, me, and your hands on my back..ā
contains: childhood friends to lovers, 1k words, yearning, obsession, mentions of jealousy and possessiveness.
writerās note: my obsession with michael is stronger than ever and i couldnāt help trying to write something. i kept thinking about a āchildhood sweetheartsā trope and this is the result.
long before the world knew his name, michael knew the specific creak of your back porch steps. even as a child, your presence felt like a soft exhale in the middle of a scream. while the jackson house was a whirlwind of rehearsals, rhythmic thumping, and josephās booming voice, your porch was a place of stillness.
you were the girl with the gentle eyes who didn't ask anything of him. heād slip out of his house, sometimes with a bruised ego, sometimes just exhausted from rehearsals, and find you sitting on your back steps.
you were always quiet, possessing that graceful stillness. you didn't demand he perform or dance, youād simply move over to make room, offering him a piece of gum or a cool glass of water.
"is it loud over there today?" youād ask softly, your voice a melodic contrast to the harshness of his world.
michael would just nod, his large, expressive eyes searching your face for any sign of judgment. "theyāre just... practicing the same turn, over and over. i think my feet forgot how to walk normal," heād whisper with a shy, tired smile. youād nudge your shoulder against his and allow him sit in the safety of each otherās company until the sun dipped low.
for a few minutes, he wasn't a prodigy. he was just the boy next door who liked the way you smelled like lavender soap and sunshine.
those moments became his blueprint for peace. he learned early on that love wasn't just an applause, it was the way you looked at him and cared about him when he wasn't performing.
as the jackson 5 took off, the distance between your front doors grew into a breach of fame, but michaelās silent obsession began to root itself in that distance. you become the anchor he tries to hold onto through letters and late-night calls.
he develops a habit of memorizing you, not in a creepy way but more in a devotional way. the rhythm of your voice, the way you tilt your head when you listen, the quiet hum you make when youāre thinking. he carries those details with him everywhere, especially on the bad days.
when things get too harsh, too loud or too demanding, he closes his eyes and imagines your porch, your voice, the soft way you say his name. āmichaelā¦ā like itās something delicate, like it matters. he compares every woman he meets to the graceful, soft-spoken girl who used to hold his hand in the tall grass. but they were all too loud, too eager, too demanding.
he started keeping a small candid photo of you tucked into his jacket pocket, a reminder of the only person who knew the boy before the myth. heād stare at it until the edges frayed, wondering if you were waiting for him or if he was chasing a ghost.
he becomes protective (possessive, even) of your memory. he hates the idea of you changing or, worse, finding someone else who might provide what he did for you.
he became a king, but in his mind, he was still that boy looking through your window. he started calling you from payphones in london, tokyo, and paris, his voice dropping into that breathless, shy register he only used with you.
"do you still have that old swing?" he asks, his voice trembling with a mix of exhaustion and desperate longing. "i keep dreaming about it. i dream that iām sitting there and youāre brushing the dust off my vest. everything is so shiny here, y/n. itās too bright. i just want to sit in the dark with you for a little while. promise me you won't let anyone else sit on those steps. that's our spot, okay? only ours."
by the mid-80s, michael is at the most successful and burdened moment of his life. youāve remained in his inner circle, a quiet fixture in the studio. the only person who can walk into a room and instantly lower his heart rate. his crush has evolved into a quiet, simmering obsession. he tracks your movements not out of malice, but out of a deep-seated fear that if you leave his sight, the "magic" that keeps him sane will vanish.
he treats you with a reverence that borders on worship. if youāre in the room, his eyes never truly leave you. heāll be in the middle of a high-stakes meeting, and the moment you walk in with that gentle, grounded aura, his entire posture softens. heāll find excuses to touch you, straightening your collar, lingering as he brushes a stray hair from your face, his fingers trembling slightly.
he starts to get protective, borderline possessive, though he hides it behind his gentle demeanor. if you mention another name or a man you met, the air in the room shifts. he doesn't yell; he grows unnervingly quiet, his large, expressive eyes tracking your every movement as if heās trying to memorize the way your lips move. he begins to realize that the thought of anyone else touching your hand, the hand that used to hold his when he was scared of the dark in gary, is physically nauseating to him.
michael sees you as a piece of his lost childhood that he successfully "saved." he becomes intensely focused on keeping you "unspoiled" by the industry. his obsession manifests in the way he catalogs your likes and dislikes. he remembers a candy you liked when you were seven and has it imported by the crate. he notices if youāre sad before you even realize it yourself.
the confession happens during a private moment at neverland, far away from the cameras. the "safe haven" isn't enough anymore; he wants to own the haven. heās tired of being the boy next door, he wants to be the man in your life.
heās pacing the library, the firelight dancing off the curls at his temples. youāre sitting in an armchair, watching him with that same gentle composure that has always been his anchor.
"you're doing it again," you say softly in a worried tone. "you're overthinking. come sit down, michael."
he stops abruptly, turning to you. his voice is a whisper, thick with years of unspoken words. "i canāt just sit down anymore, y/n. don't you see? i go out there and i give them everything. i give my blood, my sweat, my childhood... and then i come to you to get my soul back. but iām tired of leaving it here and picking it up later. i want it to stay with you. i want me to stay with you."
he moves toward you, his movements fluid but desperate, kneeling at your feet and resting his forehead against your knees. āiāve been obsessed with the way you say my name since i was six years old. please... tell me you feel the weight of it, too."
once he declares his feelings, there is no going back. michaelās love is all-consuming. he wants you in the front row of every show, in the studio for every take, and in the room every time he wakes up. itās a suffocatingly sweet kind of love; he wants to build a wall around the two of you where the world canāt hurt him and where youāll never have a reason to look at anyone else.
you are his living sanctuary, and he is a man who has spent his whole life trying to find a home he can finally lock the door to.
Since pure vanilla obviously loves white lily, I feel like he would (unknowingly maybe) start neglecting y/n if he were with them. So, what about PV with a reader that would leave him in a heartbeat if timekeeper (definitely not picking her just because she's my favorite) or shadow milk showed romantic interest in them?
Things had been tense for a while in your relationship with Pure Vanilla...but the tension only grew once White Lily returned. It was hard to not see the way he looked at her, gaze full of longing and love...
You knew he cared about you, but it was clear that he loved her more. Even if he didn't say anything aloud...not even to you.
He didn't mean to neglect you, and you knew it...but there was so much on his mind that he barely seemed to be able to pay mind to you. Still, you waited...wanting to see if there was perhaps a way to fix your relationship.
That was, until...you met a Cookie who looked at you with the same fierce love he directed at White Lily.
Shadow Milk
Shadow Milk had been planning for a while to drive a wedge in your relationship with Pure Vanilla...he deserves to have his heart broken, after all!
Seeing the tension created by White Lily's awakening makes for some delicious drama, too...he can't help but laugh at how Pure Vanilla is ruining his own relationships, slowly poisoning it without him even having to lift a finger!
But...the thought of you being overlooked, replaced by some other Cookie who is just deemed to be "better" in the eyes of the one you care about, gives him...an uncomfortable feeling. Like he feels...sorry for you...
He's not going to unpack any of that, nope! But he does take more of an interest in you...
As you travel to the Spire, you feel like...there's always something watching you...but there's nothing there whenever you turn to look. You try not to think about that, or about how happy White Lily and Pure Vanilla seem to be traveling together...
It's hard not to feel a little bit relieved when White Lily separates from the group. Even then, though, you can tell Pure Vanilla is still thinking about her...you try not to feel upset. Not when there are more important things to focus on.
And then, to your surprise...Pure Vanilla wakes you gently the next morning, smiling softly at you. He holds your hand as you all travel to the top of the Spire, he seems to keep stealing glances at you every so often...for the first time in a while, you really feel seen by him.
...it's quite a shock to everyone, and especially to you, that it wasn't actually Pure Vanilla...but Shadow Milk in disguise! You can't help but feel heartbroken, having your hopes briefly rise only for it to all be a lie...
Except that...even as Shadow Milk plays his games with everyone, he continues to treat you in that same kind, warm manner. Maybe it's just to get at Pure Vanilla, but...even when you're alone and there's no one else around, he still acts like that.
To have the spotlight finally focused on you...it feels wonderful. But you can't just...betray your partner like this...especially not with him of all Cookies, can you...?
"Does he deserve your loyalty, though?" Shadow Milk points out if you voice any of these worries. "Think about it: wouldn't he betray you for that half-baked Guardian if he had the chance?" He gives a fanged grin. "...hasn't he already done it?"
It...gives you something to think about. Enough that even if you don't reciprocate his flirting, or the small affectionate gestures...you don't stop him, either.
In the end, after everything in the Spire...you come to your decision. You calmly approach Pure Vanilla in his new, awakened form...and break things off with him, as gently as you can.
He's very obviously shocked, heartbroken...but he tries not to show it. He gives you a soft smile...telling you he understands. (In the back of your mind, a now-familiar voice whispers that he seems relieved, doesn't he??)
In the night, you vanish without a trace...at least, that's what it seems like to the others. In truth, Shadow Milk appeared and offered his hand to you...and you left without looking back.
Once your friends encounter you again, they'll shout accusations at him about "brainwashing" and "kidnapping"...but you and he both know that what you have...isn't actually a lie.
He'll regularly hold you close, pressing kisses against your neck...saying that Pure Vanilla was obviously a fool to not see how much of a star you are, and promising that he'll never let you go.
Timekeeper
"Well! Aren't you an interesting puzzle?" is how she first greets you. Seeming to appear from out of nowhere, hovering above you on a giant pair of scissors...tilting her head as she scans you up and down.
You're a little taken aback at first...is she referring to you? Her grin only seems to widen, and she inches closer to you. "Who else? I've seen a lot of interesting timelines...believe it or not, you're in the thick of a lot of them! Now..." Her eyes gleam as she inches ever closer. "I want to know everything. Tell me about you!"
With interest like that, it's hard to not divulge...and in return, she tells you about alternate versions of yourself that she's seen, as well as the various oddities that pop up throughout time and space.
She makes a few more infrequent visits, here and there. It isn't long before she offers a crazy proposition to you: to leave Pure Vanilla and run away with her instead!
You feel perhaps a small twinge of hesitance...but when you think about the way Pure Vanilla looks at White Lily, how he looks at you, and finally how Timekeeper looks at you with such warmth and fascination...you feel your reservations melting away.
Pure Vanilla tries to take the breakup as graciously as he can...and largely succeeds. Perhaps due to the rift that had already been growing between you both.
Hearing that you're leaving the timeline with another Cookie is...a bit more of a shock! He struggles to process this, stammers that you know you can return here any time...(He hopes, at least. He's not fully sure how...these timelines work...)
Timekeeper is elated that you've agreed to her offer, and quickly sweeps you into a tight hug, spinning you around a few times before placing you right in front of her on her scissors!
You're whisked off to the TBD, introduced to everyone there...Timekeeper is proud to tell everyone that you're her partner! So she expects them all to treat you very well!
Everyone is perhaps a little shocked at the sudden declaration, but of course they listen to her...it's not long before you're well-accepted by the group.
You hear rumors that Timekeeper is a hard one to track down, always seeming to appear and disappear on whims...but for you? You find that the second you start to miss her, she'll suddenly appear...either bringing you a gift, or offering to bring you on some kind of adventure!
It makes you feel special. Whenever you thank her for that, she grins widely...and also blushes, fiddling with her scissors. "Well! You are, you know! Doesn't that mean you deserve to feel that way?"
Warning for implied past non-consensual and current acts towards the mc.
It was late, you were put in charge to close the shop alone for the night, which was nothing new. However you regretted taking longer with cleaning as you realized the time passed, and you missed your chance to watch Pierrot's final show.
"I hope he'll understand why I didn't go...I feel terrible..." You sighed as you walked alone down the street in the dark towards your home.
Then you halted as you started to smell something near by...
It smelled sweet...strong...Like a freshly baked cake. You looked to your left and noticed you were standing before a alleyway. That looked more darker than usual...Or perhaps it always looked like this at this hour. You never noticed until now.
You knew you should of continued walking, but something was drawing you into that alley like a call. Then you slowly stepped inside and started to find yourself moving forward. As the darkness slowly started to consume your body, but it felt right oddly enough.
Then you stopped and your heart skipped a beat as you noticed something was in the dark before you. Standing here, silent and unmoving. Then their eyes opened and they glowed bright yellow.
"W-who's there?" Your voice trembled and you tried to move back but you were frozen in fear.
The figure then finally started to move, stepping towards you, their breathing loud and heavy. And with their steps, came the sounds of bells jingling.
"S-stand back! I--I'll--" You stopped talking as the figure was now inches from you, then leaned in close to your face, breathing more heavier.
"Why didn't you come to see me, my dear?" The figure spoke, their voice sounded both hurt and angry.
That's when you recognized it and realized who it was. "P-Pierrot?"
"I hoped you would come...I planned it all just for you...It was my greatest show...Yet you didn't arrive." He paused for a moment, then spoke more, his fanged grin showing brightly to you. "I thought maybe you went to see Harlequin. I feared you chose him instead...So I visited him...I made sure he paid for taking you away. But then I realized you weren't with him...He tried to say before but...I might of gotten a little ahead of myself in my emotional state..."
You stepped back finally, eyes widened in fear. "P-Pierrot...What did you do to Harlequin?"
Pierrot smiled more, as if nothing was wrong. "He'll live. Just needs time to recover is all."
"Pierrot...I'm sorry. I swear I wanted to go but my work was--"
"Work?" He leaned in, eyes wide as he peered at you. "You mean you didn't see me because of work? You mean the fault is your boss? I knew he was a bad man...I should of handled him before when I had the chance."
"What?! NO! Pierrot please listen! It's not his fault! It's no ones fault! I am to blame! I wasn't fast enough with cleaning. I got too careless with the time. I'm sorry!" Your eyes started to build up with tears as you felt guilty for what happened. For what happened to Harlequin for your own actions.
"My dear..." Pierrot gently cupped your face in his hands, looking at you with sympathetic gaze as your tears fell. "Do not cry...You're not to blame. You're never to blame. I know you'll never do anything wrong or to harm me. I know you so well...Both outside...and inside~."
"W-what--" You were cut off as Pierrot leaned in and kissed you, not wasting his time pushing his tongue into your mouth, as he deepened the kiss.
Your eyes widened in shock, you tried to push him off but he wouldn't move. Then you started to find yourself weakening from the kiss, starting to like it.
You tried to resist it though, tried to hate it. Yet you found yourself melting in it, sinking more into the pleasure forced from it. You accidentally let out a moan, and Pierrot responded with excitement from it as he pulled back.
You started to breathe, to catch your breath. Your mind was racing, trying to process what just happened.
While Pierrot only grinned with love struck eyes as he stared at you. "I knew you'd remember me, my dear~."
"I--" You paused, recognizing that taste in your mouth...You knew it...You tasted it before...Wait...It was that-- "Pierrot you...What did you do to me?" You looked at him with horror, confusion and fear.
"I showed you my love again, my dear~. I knew the moment I saw you, I had to have you~. And that night, the way you responded to it...To me~..." He grinned with a mad look in his eyes as he recalled the memory of that night. "I couldn't help myself...I knew you wanted it too...I could sense it~..."
You finally felt the strength to move more as you stepped back. You stared at him with fear as you were about to run.
"My dear? Please don't try to run again...You know I might not be able to control myself if you do~."
You didn't listen as you turned and started to race out of the alleyway. You moved in a panic but before you could even make it halfway out, you were instantly caught and pinned down to the ground.
Pierrot looked down at you, his eyes glowing bright as he grinned widely, his breathing more sporadic as he chuckled. "I can't let you get away, my dearest~. I won't let you get away again~."
You tried to move, push and kick him off, but he kept you locked beneath him, he was over powering you.
Then he started to lean in closer, as he forcefully intertwined his fingers with yours. "I promise...I'll take good care of you, my love~."
god your yandere smc lives rent free in my head i wanna punch him, kick him in the shin and then give him a lil kiss
also if you're feeling up for it and your requests are open, would you mind writing some headcanons about yandere smc w/ a reader who is defiant but not really in the "kicking, yelling, screaming" way but in the "i will do my best to make your life miserable and inconvenience you as much as possible " (think refusing to talk or engage, entertaining herself in isolation, snarky backtalk; very much "cat making eye contact with you while pushing a glass off the table" energy, defiant yet still subdued)
bonus points if the reader is usually an affectionate person and continues to be like that w/ candy apple (hugs her/pats her head, speaks nicely and sweetly to her, treats her like a lil sis/daughter)
thank you so much for your time!! your writing is amazing!!
a/n: i'm flattered! and please do feel free to do so, anon... he more than deserves it with how he's been treating the reader in my fics.
ā yandere! shadow milk cookie x defiant! reader hcs
ą»ź°Õ Üø. .ÜøÕź±į ŪŖ × CONTENT WARNING: manipulation, physical abuse, heavy possessive and obssessive behavior, unhealthy relationship, implied forced established relationship, mentioned and implied mindbreak, stalking, potential ooc.
š¦ā oh, he would adore your defiance! shadow milk cookie loves games, and he would view your defiance as such and daresay, it certainly has became his favorite game, even taking over the throne of his most beloved hobby of breaking cookies apart and observing them falling down the never-ending rabbit hole from illusions.
š¦ your distant attitude towards him wouldn't faze him whatsoever either, and if anything, his lovesickness would delude himself into thinking it was a natural reaction of yours from being in love; oh, you're not listening? oh, that is no biggie for him! he'll simply blabber your ears off, isolating yourself? has his dear forgotten? he is an omniscient presence within earthbread and his kingdom, there is no way to flee from him, he'll just trail along behind you! being a petulant thing against him? oh, that's adorable! surely, you jest! breaking one his precious gifts he spent his time on solely for you? oh, silly little you! how clumsy you are! being such a nice lover, he'll put it back together! you didn't mean to break that, don't you? you didn't, right? he'd break your arms. regardless of how you much you pay no heed to his presence, he is an everlasting existence and will forever be right beside you! there is no escaping him and his sight, it is just as fate concluded, after all!
š¦ candy apple cookieāalthough, you treat her nicelyādoesn't mean you're still exempted from her trickery: for her undying loyalty to shadow milk cookie overshadows anything to her; she'd allow you to braid her hair, all the while inquiring you why you loathe shadow milk cookie when he's just protecting you from the cookies outside, in love even! in that sickenly sweet tone of hers dripping with deceit. she'd even ask you to come with her for something she proclaimed was in dire need of help for only to lead you to back to shadow milk cookie with a cheerful face, giddily probbing shadow milk cookie if she did good.
š¦ to shadow milk cookie, your defiance is none but a mere game to him, however, the moment you went against him and betrayed him by helping pure vanilla cookie within his spire? oh, that is when he actually takes your advances seriously. why are /you/ helping that pesky little thief? can't you comprehend that he's punishing him for taking what was his? don't tell him that you fell for that querulous cookie's lies? yes, surely, pure vanilla cookie did something to you that turned you against him, truly! what a fiend, stealing his soul jam and then you? oh, he is gonna crumble him into pieces! he vows on the witches the moment he's done with him he would be beyond recognization. you, on the other hand, unmistakably needed some tweakingāyes, he'd need to find a way for you to not do that again, surely, his sweet dear wouldn't mind being confined, would they?
a/n: extremely short compared to my other works but i do hope its fine.
Hi!!! Sorry if requests arenāt open, but can you do another yandere Pure Vanilla cookie story?? I donāt really have any requests about what itās about but I REALLY liked the first one :3
ššššš. a feeling of love or passion for someone
šš ą£ŖĖ Ö“š yandere pure vanilla cookie short one-shot
warnings: obsessive and possessive behavior, emotional manipulation, descriptions of injury, potentially ooc
A/N: I'm so glad you liked the first one! Pure Vanilla Cookie has always been my favorite, so I had to do him justice, of course. Since this doesn't suggest anything specific, I'll go ahead and present yandere Pure Vanilla Cookie when his beloved gets hurt. Enjoy!
The Vanilla Kingdomās radiance seemed dimmer tonight, as if the stars themselves had hidden behind a veil of sorrow. Pure Vanilla Cookie moved swiftly through the castle halls, his golden staff glowing faintly in the dark. Every step echoed with purpose, every fiber of his being consumed by a single thought: You had been hurt.
The words spoken to him earlier replayed in his mind like a haunting melody. "Thereās been an incident," the servant had said, her voice trembling. "Itās Y/Nā¦" The rest of her explanation blurred into a haze as panic gripped him. Without another word, he had abandoned his duties, his heart racing as he made his way to the medical wing.
Now, as he pushed open the door, his eyes fell upon you, sitting on the edge of a bed. The sight of you, so fragile and small, sent a pang of anguish through his chest. Bandages wrapped around your arm, and faint bruises marred your delicate skin. He didnāt need to ask how much it hurtāthe mere sight of it was enough to break him.
"Y/N," he whispered, his voice trembling as he approached. His knees hit the ground before you, his hands hovering near yours as though afraid to touch you and cause more pain. "What happened? Who did this to you?"
You looked up, startled by the intensity in his voice. "Itās not as bad as it looks," you said softly, offering him a weak smile. "I wasnāt paying attention and tripped in the garden. Itās nothing serious, I promise."
But your words did nothing to ease the storm in his heart. His eyes roved over your injuries, his expression darkening with every scrape and bruise he discovered. His fingers ghosted over the bandages, careful not to disturb them.
"Nothing serious?" he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper. There was a dangerous edge to it, like the calm before a thunderstorm. "Youāre hurt, Y/N. That is very serious to me."
You tried to pull your hand away, but his grip tightened ever so slightlyānot enough to hurt, but enough to hold you in place. "It was just an accident," you insisted. "No oneās to blameā"
"Someone is always to blame," he interrupted, his voice firm. He stood abruptly, pacing the room as his mind raced. "Where were the guards? The healers? Why wasnāt someone there to stop this from happening?"
"Itās not their fault!" you said, louder this time. The sharpness in your tone made him pause, his eyes snapping back to you. "I donāt want anyone getting in trouble over this. Itās my fault for not being careful."
His expression softened, but it wasnāt the comforting kind you were used to. There was something unsettling in the way he looked at you, his gaze filled with an unease that was enough to disturb you.
"My beloved," he said, his voice dripping with sweetness that felt almost suffocating. He stepped closer, cupping your face in his hands. "You are not at fault. You could never be at fault. This world is cruel, and itās my duty to shield you from its dangers."
"Pure Vanillaā¦" you began, but he silenced you with a gentle press of his forehead against yours.
"I failed you today," he whispered, his voice thick with guilt. "But I swear, it wonāt happen again. Iāll make sure youāre safe. Always."
You wanted to argue, to tell him he was overreacting, but something in his tone made you hesitate. There was an intensity in his words, a promise that felt more like a warning.
He pulled away, his serene smile returning as he gently guided you to lie back on the bed. "Rest now," he said softly. "You need to heal. Iāll take care of everything."
Before you could protest, he turned and left the room, the door clicking shut behind him.
-
Pure Vanilla Cookie sat in his chambers, his golden staff resting against his chair. The light from the moon filtered through the windows, casting long shadows across the room. But he paid them no mind. His focus was entirely on the parchment in front of himāa list of names.
The guards who had been stationed in the garden. The healers who were supposed to be nearby. Even the castle staff who might have passed by. He wrote down every name he could think of, his handwriting sharp and precise.
Someone had failed you.
He couldnāt forgive that. He wouldnāt.
"Your safety is my priority," he murmured to himself, dipping his quill into the inkpot once more. "If they cannot protect you, they have no place here."
There was no malice in his tone, only a chilling calmness that made his words all the more unsettling. To him, this wasnāt cruelty. It was necessary.
He would speak to each of them personally. He would ensure they understood the consequences of their negligence. And if they couldnāt meet his expectations?
He would remove them.
-
You woke to the sound of birds chirping outside your window. The pain in your arm had dulled to a faint ache, and for a moment, you allowed yourself to relax.
But as you sat up, you noticed something strange. A folded piece of parchment rested on the bedside table, the seal of the Vanilla Kingdom pressed into the wax.
Curious, you opened it, your eyes scanning the elegant handwriting inside.
My dearest Y/N,
I hope you slept well. Please, donāt worry about anything. Everything is under control. Iāve spoken to those responsible, and Iāve ensured this will never happen again.
Your safety means more to me than anything in this world. Rest assured, I will always protect youāno matter what it takes.
With all my love,
Pure Vanilla Cookie
Your hands trembled as you read the note, an uneasy feeling settling in your chest. The words were sweet, but there was an undertone to them that you couldnāt ignore.
You glanced at the door, half-expecting him to walk in with that serene smile of his. But the room remained silent, save for the sound of your racing heartbeat.
No matter what it takes.
The words echoed in your mind, and you couldnāt shake the feeling that Pure Vanilla Cookieās love for you was far more dangerous than you had ever realized.
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