BAD!MICHAEL JACKSON X READER michael leaves the grammys, dejected that he didn't win a single award after all his hard work. he's seething with rage, and the only thing that can make him feel better is you.
help i tried to write smut. this is my first smut triple in here and i think i got a lil carried away (idk i think i'm ovulating — was also listening to the weeknd whilst writing it oop) includes : dominating michael and submissive reader , rough and angry sex , spanking , emotionally hurt and vulnerable michael , self-blame. idk what else you put in smut descriptions. 18+ MDNI ( a ) ( s ) ( f ) ( 4.6k )
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From what you know, Michael doesn’t take losses well.
He often twists them into a fit of self doubt and deprecating thoughts. Blaming himself for his faults. His failures. That he's not good enough. That he didn't work hard enough. That he didn't perfect the moves of his choreography or the chorus of a song.
Oftentimes they're internalised, stuffed into a thick glass bottle that only you can see straight through. The only way to gain access is to smash through it with a large hammer, and even then sometimes it bounces off the surface like a bouncy ball, leaving you helpless in an attempt to enter the prism of his thoughts.
"Michael..." You're sitting in the back of a cab, the partition rolled up between you and the driver. Michael is beside you, still in his outfit from the Grammys, his legs angled away from you as he faces out the window with his chin resting on palm. His gaze is trained on the passing cars and buildings of New York, jaw clenched. "Talk to me..."
"There's nothin' to say," he simply responds, pushing himself closer to the window as though he couldn't bear to face you right now.
"You've always got something to say. Come on, lemme hear it." You're turning in your seat to face him full on, your hand reaching for his that rests lazily across his lap. He glances down when you interlace your fingers. "You can talk to me. You know that, right?"
Michael only hums as though he's uninterested, moving his hand away from your grasp and folding them both across his chest as he finally leans back to rest against the seat. A pair of sunglasses shield his eyes, much like the true emotions he hides from you right now. His bottom lip rolls into his mouth, biting down as though he's currently racking through his brain with thoughts you can't see. He's stiff. Rigid. And if you didn't know him any better, you would say that he's definitely mad.
But Michael isn't just mad, in fact, he's seething with rage. He stretches his hands that threaten to ball into fists with every passing moment, wanting to puncture the skin of his palms with his blunt nails to replace that pain with the ache in his chest. Control is limited and it takes him immense strength to not just turn around and yell at you, or better yet, crash his lips right against yours with fierce aggression to get you to shut up.
Sighing, you shift back into your seat and turn your head to look at the passing city lights as the night looms. But actually you're not watching them, you're staring at Michael's reflection in your window, how his attention has finally switched to you and his chest rises and falls with unsteady breaths.
You ignore him, just as he was ignoring you.
Minutes pass before you finally reach your hotel. Michael doesn't thank the driver like he normally does. Instead he gives a curt nod of recognition as you trail after him into the building. Also ignoring the concierge and hotel staff that never fail to greet him, he makes a beeline for the elevator without so much as waiting for you. "Michael, slow down!" But he doesn't respond as you slip in after him, the doors sliding shut as he presses a button to trap you in the confined space. Tension radiates from every pore in his body, nostrils flaring with every ragged breath as his eyes remain fixed ahead, away from you. "What's gotten into you?"
Again, he's only silent. At this point it's beginning to frustrate you. He won't talk or even look at you, as though you're the reason for his return without a single award after such a highly anticipated event. You're concerned for how he continuously buries his emotions beneath the ground and kicks over them with a layer of dirt, brushing it all off later like it was never a big deal in the first place. It's also just aggravating to see how your boyfriend won't listen to you, or even give a response to your words.
After the elevator reaches the top floor, he's the first to slip out and head straight down the corridor to your shared room. His loafers thud against the muffled carpet with his hurried steps before he unlocks the door, stepping inside for you to follow behind him just a moment later.
You click the door shut behind you and when you turn around, Michael is pacing the length of the small room. His hands thread into his curls, tugging softly before he switches to reaching over and ripping his sunglasses from his face. He tosses them somewhere onto the floor and they clatter against the hardwood as he rounds to the small two-seater in the corner, sitting down with his head buried in his hands.
You don’t move from your spot at the door. You've seen Michael angry before but it's always been about little things such as minor jealousy involving you or small frustrations over his busy schedule that he can easily amend. This is different. This is something completely out of his control and something that is not involving you in any way. Something that triggers the dedication and perfectionism within him because he thought he was doing good. He thought he was making history again. Breaking records, sealing more deals, gaining more awards.
Apparently it wasn't enough.
You're cautious to approach him when he's in such a vulnerable state, but when you do you take slow steps to stand at his side, hesitant to prod any further considering how he untangled your hands in the cab earlier. "Michael, baby... I'm really sorry about how this all turned out. Nobody saw this coming. It's not your fault." He answers you with a stretch of silence, and you take another step forward. "Tell me how I can make you feel better. Talk to me. What do you need—"
Your words catch in your throat when his head suddenly jerks up. "I don't know what I need. Okay? I don't know." His voice is sharp and loud, slicing directly through your gentle tone with a knife. His frustration has seeped to the top, overflowing with angry crimson bubbles. "All that... work. All those late nights, all that planning, all those blisters and aches and..." He rises to his feet, storming past you as he begins to pace again. "It still wasn't enough? Really? Y'know how much fucking time I spent on that album?"
You flinch when he curses considering how it's unusual to slip past his mouth even when he's in a fit of rage. He's staring at you as though he's waiting for an answer, his eyes dark and glossy with the onset of frustrated tears. You're taking a step forward in an attempt to comfort him. "Yes, Michael, I know—"
"No! You don't. Nobody does." His blunt voice causes you to swallow as he tears his gaze from yours and he steps away again. His tone is laced with anger but it's not directed at you, just frustration spilling out wherever it can. "I put my fucking heart and soul into my music. I spend hours and hours writing. Singing. Dancing. Rehearsing. But it's not enough. It's never enough. I have to do more." His footing stops at the window, the spread of New York city expanding far out of view.
"Michael, I hear you. Loud and clear. But it really isn't your fault. You're being too hard on yourself—"
"Don't," he snaps, his head flicking to you in a split second. Tears brim in his eyes. "Don't tell me I'm bein' too hard on myself. I'm not. I know my work and I know I haven't done enough. I can do better."
His words linger quietly. You're not quite sure how to respond to him. His anger is self-targeted and you don't think your involvement would help him change his mind. He's much too stubborn. "Michael, do you want me to give you some space? Should I leave?"
But then he's shaking his head, a hot stray tear spilling down his cheek as he faces the ground between you. "No, stay. Please." He wipes the tear away with the back of his hand, sniffling once. "I'm sorry. I'm just so... angry. I don't even know what to do with myself. I—" He cuts himself off, breathing hard. Then he closes the gap between you with a few long strides, his arms enveloping you in a bone-crushing hug. "I'm so sorry."
You manage to sneak your hands past the underside of his chest to return the embrace, but if anything the embrace is more so vicehold keeping you locked in place. His grip only tightens, his frustration slipping through into his actions yet he's still mindful not to hurt you. Head resting against your hair, heart thumping rapidly against his chest, he realises that even your soothing sway isn't enough to extinguish the fire within him.
He pulls back first, peering down at you with his hard dark eyes. "Tell me, how can I help you?" Your hand slithers up in the tight gap between you to rest on his cheek, thumb brushing the skin of his cheekbone and the further tears that have slipped past their barrier. "I'll do anything to make you feel better. Just tell me what you need."
His gaze draws over your face slowly, as though he's searching for something. Trailing from your eyes, to your nose and then to your lips, lingering there for seconds longer than normal. A breath of air passes them upon the weight of his stare. "Michael?"
And then his hands slide from their place on your back, one reaching up towards the back of your neck and the other heading down to your waist, wrapping around you firm and tight. Then he leans in, and his mouth crashes against yours in a bruising kiss. You're flush against him, following his lead as he further tilts his head for extended access. There's almost nothing gentle about it. It conveys every fiery emotion buried deep in his heart and every frustration from the night that slipped between his fingers. But it feels good. It feels wanted. Needed. Passionate.
Your arms wrap around his neck as he dips you down slightly. His kisses are fast, almost sloppy, and then he pulls you up, turning you both around and leading you backwards till you feel the cool glass against your spine all without breaking the kiss.
When you finally pull back for air, he stays close, murmuring against your lips, "look, I don't wanna argue. I don't wanna take anythin' out on you, I just..." His chest rises with a breath, his tongue darting out to leave a coat of sheen on his plump bottom lip before he rests his forehead against yours. You notice how his eyes are still glassy with resentment and leftover tears, but now there's something else burning in them. Something raw and hot and fierce. A feral, desperate hunger. Then his voice drops low, just above a whisper. "I need you. God, I need you."
His eyes flutter shut after his statement, body tightly pressed against yours and you’re afraid if he pushes any harder you might just break the glass of the window behind you. But how could you resist him when he’s being so vulnerable with you. “Have me,” you whisper back, holding him equally as tight. “I’m yours.”
Grabbing a hold of your hips, he quickly scoops you up before setting you down on the wall beside the bed. His large hand gently wraps around your throat, his thumb pushing your jaw so your cheek meets the cool wall. He leans over to hush in your ear, “tell me you want this, my love. Tell me you’re gonna let me have my way tonight. Tell me it’s okay for me to take control.”
You’re not exactly sure when the conversation escalated, but what you are sure of is the tingle that his soft yet dominating voice sends down your back and straight towards your core. His voice is dripping with arousal and longing. Your thighs squeeze together in growing need, your words simpering past with a soft gasp, “yes, baby. You can take control.”
“Good.” He relieves the pressure on your neck and your head turns back to face him before he crashes against your mouth together in another hot kiss. It moves with indiscernible urgency. His tongue swipes against yours, a hand drifting into your hair to tug gently, the other looping around your waist to set you flush against his growing bulge. When he breaks the kiss, your breaths are heavy, his lips wet and glossy when he murmurs against yours, “gonna fuck you so hard. Gonna make you scream so loud.” Another tingle sent down your spine. “And you’ll take it all, yeah? Cause you’re my sweet angel. My princess.”
Your eyes flutter shut upon hearing his words, your mouth parting with a breathy whimper. Michael’s been rough before, many times, but it’s never contained this amount of desperation. Something about his rawness has you yearning for more, but because he wants to take control, you don’t push any further. “Yes, Michael.”
And that’s all the confirmation he needs before he’s spinning you around to push your front up against the wall. He pins you with a hand wrapped around the back of your neck, his other trailing up the slit of your olive green slip dress. His fingers leave a touch of fire as they skim up your thigh, a finger curling around the waistband of your panties before he tugs them down. “Hm, bet you’re so wet already ‘n I’ve hardly touched ya. Am I right, angel?”
The combination of his filthy words and sweet pet names has you pushing back against him, arching in order to feel his thick bulge that presses against the seam of his trousers. “Yes.” You’re barely whispering, so tangled up in need. Your hands press up against the wall before you. “Mikey, fuck me. Please…”
“You looked so beautiful tonight.” His voice uses the same hushed tone as he lets your panties drop to the floor, barely giving you time to step out of them before his hand is slithering beneath the front of your dress to find your slit. A finger dips in between your folds to collect the wetness that has already pooled. "God, you're too generous." His free hand threads into your hair, pulling your head back. "All this for me?"
"All for you," you breathe out. He only hums as he swirls a finger around your clit with light pressure, circling it before edging down towards your entrance, the tip of his finger barely tipping past before he's trailing up again. "Baby, please."
He shushes your whining, removing both his hands from your body to hike up your dress. He pushes it over the curve of your ass, a breathy moan slipping past his lips at the sight of your plumpness. His fingers press into the soft skin to draw your cheeks apart and he leans over to gaze at your wetness that is practically dripping down and covering the inside of your thighs. Then he puffs cool air onto your slick heat, causing you to shiver. "Fuck—so beautiful. Tell me, who do you belong to?"
"You." The word passes quickly, desperate in an attempt to please him and stop his teasing. "I'm all yours, Michael."
He readjusts your dress to stay collected at your hips and then you hear the buckle of his belt behind you as he slides it off. The sound only has you further needy, back arching in chase of his hands or his cock to fill you up. He steps closer to you after freeing his length from the restriction of his trousers, pressing it up against the curve of your ass. His ankles nudge yours apart, your heels still on, before he dips the tip between your folds. One hand plants firmly against your hip beneath your bunched up dress, and the other guides his cock up and down, circling your clit before pressing his thick length up towards your entrance. "Look at you. My sweet angel, my beautiful princess. So needy. So filthy. Hm?"
Your whimpers melt into a moan when he finally pushes inside you. All the way. His thick, hard cock trapped between your slick walls. Throbbing at the pressure of your tightness, he guides himself out once slowly before burying back in, his gaze trained on the way your bodies meld into one. His free hand pushes your head against the hard wall, cold against your cheek. Then he does it again, although this time faster, gradually picking up speed each time he's thrusting in and out of you. Your mouth falls open at the speed but also at the hardness, the roughness of the pace, the way his whimpers melt in with yours to tangle together in your pleasure.
He pulls you back, arching your back further, your hands plant against the wall as both of his settle on your hips, fingers digging into your skin before he drives into you with a commanding force. The quick snap of your bodies together has you crying out with pleasure. He removes a hand from your hip to lift it up and smack it down against your cheek, hard. A moan filters past your lips at the resounding impact, his fingers reaching over to massage the soft skin before he does it again. And then once more. Your jaw drops open at the slight sting that has a familiar knot building up in your stomach. "Pretty, pretty girl. All mine,” you hear him grumble beneath grunts. A hand reaches over to swirl at your throbbing clit, the pressure continuing to build.
"Michael, I'm gonna..."
He retracts his hand immediately but his pace remains equally as brutal. "Already? Nuh-uh. Not until I say so. You're gonna hold it for me, yeah? Hold it for me whilst I fuck you hard against the wall. Aren't you, baby?"
You let out a quiet "yes" and finally turn to look at him over your shoulder with a pleading look. His curls are a mess, grazing his shoulders and sticking to his temples with sweat. His eyes meet yours, his bottom lip sucking between his teeth as his nostrils flare with a breath. The look on your face almost has him hurling towards his own orgasm.
Suddenly he pulls out, spinning you around to face him. The absence of his warmth inside you has you whining softly. "My beautiful girl's gonna have me cummin' too quick with that look." He chuckles darkly, lips hovering just above yours. "Lemme hold off a little longer. Get on the bed, clothes off."
You comply immediately, kicking off your heels and stepping out of your dress. Michael kicks off his loafers, stepping out of his trousers. He unbuttons his shirt and watches as you crawl onto the bed, peering down at his thick, swollen cock that leaks with your arousal with such patience.
Such a good girl. All for him.
"On your stomach."
You turn around, arms stretched above your head against the pillows whilst your knees bend, hips rising into the air. He groans behind you at the sight of you quietly presenting yourself to him. The bed dips down behind you with the weight of his body, his warmth approaching you from behind. His hand comes down to strike your ass once more, and then again, causing you to gasp. Then he quickly aligns his tip with your entrance before pushing back in. You moan at the feeling of him reentering your walls, his pace picking up exactly where it left off.
"Always so tight," he breathes out between snaps of his hips. "Always so good to me. Always listenin’. Such a good, good girl. Lettin' me use you. Lettin' me have my way. Tell me, whose pussy is this?"
"Fuck—yours," you moan between his deep strokes. "It's all yours, Michael."
Groaning at your words, his grip on your hips tighten hard enough to leave marks. "God, I needed this. Tell me you love it. Tell me you love it when I have my way with you, my precious baby."
"I love it." His filthy words mingled with sweet praises make it difficult for you to hold off your peak. "I love it. So much. Love being yours, Michael."
His response is a tangle of his hand into your hair, drawing your head up from its position muffled against the sheets. He leans down, his chest lowering to collide with your sweat slicked back, his other hand wrapping around your stomach to hold you in place. The new angle has him even deeper inside of you. The tip of his cock is pushing against a familiar spot that would have you writhing if it were for his tight grip on you. "Good girl. Taking it just right." His breath tickles your ear, warm and soothing despite his unforgiving speed. "Just hold on a little longer for me, yeah? I know you're close."
You're unable to respond as he continues pounding into you at. The knot begins to form slowly and it takes all strength from you not to lean into the feeling of pleasure and climax on the spot. Your whimpers and moans gradually increase in frequency. "Michael, please. I can't—"
"Yes you can." He continues his deep strokes, tears brimming in the corners of your eyes as he begins to feel the onset of his own climax approaching. He lets out a wrecked moan then reaches around your body, fingers instantly finding your clit when he begins to rub quick, tight circles. "That’s it. Cum for me, pretty girl. Give it to me."
You let go. The pressure builds and builds till the coil in your belly snaps. Your orgasm comes in waves, rendering a loud cry from your lips along with his name spilling from your lips like a helpless prayer. Your walls clench around him, a grunt slipping past his lips. "Oh—fuck, Michael."
"You gonna take me?" He hushes into your ear as he rides out your high with his continued quickening pace. "Gonna take every single last drop of me, yeah princess?"
"Yes, please—I want it all." Your eyes flutter shut as he pushes your head into the sheets again, breathing heavy and hard. A moment later he lets out a loud groan, your name falling from his lips along with a string of praises as his thick, hot seed shoots and paints the inside of your walls. His cries are mixed with your own as his pace slows, his length twitching inside of you and his breathing ragged as he bathes in the glow of his climax.
He stills, catching his breath, eyes trailing over the expanse of your figure below him before he slides out with a hiss from the two of you. Immediately, he flips you over and collects you into his arms with a hug. You feel like jelly under his touch, your body heavy with the weight of both your climaxes and aftermath of his unforgiving pace. Yet it still felt good. It felt hot. And maybe, the most aggressive yet best sex you’ve had together.
"I'm sorry."
You're trying to even out your breathing when you pull back to take a look at him. His eyes, previously dark with a combination of frustration, need and hunger now only hold guilt with a hint of concern. "What do you mean?"
"I was so rough—I, I didn't mean to do that." His usual tone of voice is laced with a little sadness, his fingers threading through your hair to keep you close. "Did I hurt you?" His eyes trail down your body, past your exposed breasts and to your hips to see angry red marks, left on his own accord. "I did..."
"No, Michael. You didn’t just me, it's okay." You tuck a stray curl behind his ear, planting a kiss to his forehead as he continues to stare at your hips, his thumb soothing over the marks.
"It's not okay." He moves to set you down against the sheets, planting himself on his forearms to hover just about you. "I was too rough. I used you. God—I was so mad and upset and I just, I didn't even realise what I was doing and—"
"You didn't use me, sweetheart." You drag both your hands up the length of his arms and onto his shoulders before cupping both his cheeks. "I just gave you what you wanted. You've been rough before. This is no different."
"This is different." He shifts to move over the rest of your body, settling back so that his face lines with your stomach. His hands gently rest at the dip of your waist, his lips grazing over the faint marks littering your hips. "I've been rough before, I know. But that's just playin'. I'd never actually hurt you. But this time, I..." His eyes catch yours, gleaming with worry. "I took my anger out on you. I used you."
"Michael, no—come here." You tug on his arms to drag him back up, softness in your expression. "It was none of that, okay? Yes, you were mad. But I let it happen. I wanted to be there for you. Especially because you wouldn't talk to me."
His gaze falters from yours before he sighs, pulling away his weight to lay beside you. He pulls you in close, sliding an arm beneath your head and another around your waist. "I'm sorry for actin' like that before. I was just so angry... I was so in my own head. I didn't even know what t'think of it all."
You listen along, smoothing a hand up his arm. "That's completely understandable. What were you thinking?"
He pauses, taking in a deep breath. "I just... what if I never reach Thriller success again, y'know? What if it was a one off that, no matter how hard I work, I'll never reach that level again." He looks down at you, eyes searching yours as though you held all the answers. "What if that was it and my career is over?"
"Mikey..." You shake your head in the minimal space, your hand reaching up to feather through his curls. "If you're talking about winning a grammy, then you've already done that. You've won loads. You can't just let those awards define your worth." He listens intently as you continue. "You're incredible, Michael. Genuinely. I know how hard you work and you deserve the absolute world. I know you pour your heart and soul into your music. Everyone does. And you've got your entire career ahead of you. So many more opportunities and songs to be written." You plant a gentle kiss on his cheek. "It's okay to be mad. It's okay to be angry or sad. But just know that it's not the end. Okay?"
"Yeah." He releases a slow breath of air that tickles your temple, absorbing your words like a sponge for a few moments. "You're right, angel. You always are. I love you."
Then he draws you in for a kiss to your lips. It’s different from before, now sweet, breathy and soft. You pull back first to speak. "I love you too." A smile grazes his lips, and you're mirroring it, before yours slowly morphs into a cheeky smirk. "By the way, that was possibly the hottest sex we've ever had."
He bursts into a surprised laugh, one that rumbles in his chest and bubbles out between his perfect white teeth. "Yeah? You liked that?" He licks his bottom lip, biting it gently between his teeth before speaking again. "Maybe I should be mad more often."
Your eyes flick between his devilish stare and heart shaped mouth, leaning in again. "Hm, maybe you should."
so didn’t realise but when you change your username apparently you need to redo every single one of your links! fuck me. account going under #construction
"Guys, five letters. Recurring path around something."
Emory sits perched on one of your kitchen barstools, a leg tucked beneath her and the other propped against the wooden frame as she leans over the daily newspaper spread across the countertop. The last of the evening light spills in through the nearby windows, washing the pages with a soft amber glow, along with her half-finished mug of herbal tea and the abundance of pens she's gathered despite only needing one. Her pencil taps idly against the crossword, rhythmic beats filling the silence between an awaited answer.
"Curve?" Violet suggests from the couch, where she's sprawled lazily across one of your two-seaters with her legs stretched along the cushions. Cleo lies in a contented ball just by her feet.
"No."
"I was thinking of the shape." Her thumb pauses above a button on the television remote, where she had been flicking through the channels with the casual indifference of someone who is avoiding boredom rather than actually finding something to watch. "What about space?"
A groan filters in from the kitchen. "Obviously not."
"What?" Violet shoots a glance back at Emory, visibly shocked in almost a dramatic way. "That's literally where orbits happen."
"It's orbit." You finally peer over your shoulder, tearing your attention away from the magazine resting against your folded legs. "Five letters. Recurring path around something."
Emory studies the clue for another second, taking into account your suggestion, before penciling it into the empty boxes. The moment each letter fits perfectly into place, her tongue clicks with satisfaction. "She got it!"
"Thank God," Violet snorts, voice laced with sarcasm as she shifts back onto the cushions to face the television again. Cleo stirs with the movement. "She would've never gotten that if you didn't come back from New York."
Your eyebrows raise with amusement at Violet's snug comment. "And neither would've you, apparently."
She pauses for a moment before shrugging, a small smile playing on her lips. "Fair play, Queen of Crosswords."
It's been almost a month since you've returned from New York and as anticipated, Los Angeles's unforgiving current has swept you from beneath your feet. Your schedule is relentless, the tide drawing you into different meetings and fittings almost every day. A few days ago, your agent called with news that had you pacing the length of your bedroom before dissolving into ecstatic laughter the moment the words left her mouth — you had gotten a role from the audition back in November.
It's been a while since you've played such a serious role. If anything you'd argue that the process is more tedious than modelling, yet also more rewarding. Hours of script reading and table meetings, costume fittings and screen tests end up compensating for red carpets, promotional interviews, and the chance of working alongside some of the biggest names in Hollywood that you've only dreamed of working with since you were a young girl.
Through your years of modelling, you've become familiar with a large stereotype attached to models whereby their beauty is nonequivalent to talent, which renders it difficult to even step foot through the door of filmmaking. People rarely take models seriously once the cameras stop flashing, calling them pretty faces. You're fortunate enough to have dabbled in acting through small cameos in your childhood, but even then doubts continue to creep into the depths of your mind about your plausibility. But one day you hope to reverse that image, promising now that you'll put in whatever work is required to succeed and extinguish such preconceptions.
Upon receiving the news, the first thing you did was call up your father and deliver it with excitement that had burst through the seams of your normally composed demeanour around him. He sounded pleased, yet not utterly surprised. You'd like to think he didn't have any involvement with you getting the role — that it was your own pure talent and hard work that had you obtaining it. However, somewhere in your head you know how he pushes for you to pursue acting more often; to follow in his footsteps and create a name bigger than who you are now. It's just difficult to judge.
Then your fingers hesitated upon dialing another number, a conscious awareness lingering that he might be busy with his jam-packed schedule to answer your call.
You'd just tell him another time.
It's been almost a month since you saw Michael. The last time was at the airport upon your return from New York, where you found yourself clinging onto each other like inseparable koala bears for what felt like forever. Tears brimmed in your eyes as you hugged him tight, before you laughed and blinked them away at some stupid thing he said. And since then you haven't seen him — which was expected. He's been wrapped up in practicing and filming for his new music videos, along with the weight of his Motown performance pushing down on his shoulders. He had offered numerous times for you to come down to the set, and you considered it before brushing off the idea — he needs to be surrounded by the support of his family and work team to strive, not you.
You received his letter a couple of days after you arrived home, and then another one shortly after he finished filming his new music video for Billie Jean. You wrote him one back as soon as you finished reading it, expressing your pride and wishing him the best of luck for his next one.
Everything felt slightly different. A second cup of tea stopped showing up next to yours. Breakfasts weren't two bowls of Lucky Charms but just one. Bedtime followed your previous routine of a shower, the quiet hum of the record player drifting across the room as you flipped through your planner and ticked off your commitments for the day, all without the company of a boyish cackle and smooth drawl. It took you longer to adjust to the absence, though soon it had just melted into your previous rhythm of life and you had settled into the wave just as naturally as it had come.
You often wonder what he's doing or working on. Phone calls have become limited, stretching into days and once almost a week before you finally heard from him. He’d tell you about his long nights that drift into mornings and apologised for his lack of communication. Often he'd be the one to call you whenever he had a gap in his schedule, and when you'd arrive home at night without the mellowed ring of the telephone, you would give him his space. It was completely understandable, and you wouldn't be the one to disrupt his routine knowing from New York how easily he'll bend the world around him to see you. He has full control over his life, but at the same time he doesn't.
Self control is his greatest asset when he puts it to use.
However, somewhere along this stretch of distance, with the absence of shared snacks and laughter, late nights and diner trips, popcorn and M&Ms, you do miss him.
"Jules." Violet gently cuts through your train of thoughts. You blink yourself back to reality, the pages of your magazine gently unblurring. "I wanna watch something that'll actually make me laugh. What movies do you have?"
Breathing out, you push the magazine from your lap and gather yourself to your feet, making your way over to the neat row of VHS tapes tucked beneath the television. Their colourful spines portray each different movie title you own, and as you settle on the carpet just in front of them, your finger trails down the stack, humming in thought. "Okay, let's see..." Your stop once you reach the first comedy. "The Jerk?"
Looking over your shoulder at Violet, she makes a face and immediately shakes her head. "Ew, no."
Rolling your eyes, you turn back around, finger stopping at the next comedy. "Smokey and the Bandit?"
She speaks before you even have time to gauge her reaction. "Juliette, you know I hate that one."
"God, Violet," you mutter, shaking your head at her persnickety nature. Though you should be used to it by now. "Why watch a comedy when you don't even like half of them?"
"Wait, what about Airplane!?" Emory's calling out from the kitchen, her attention now abandoned from the half-completed crossword sitting in front of her for your movie selection. "That's a really good one—"
"No, I've watched that way too many times." You quickly dismiss her suggestion, but it's true. When the movie first came out, you and Michael watched it almost every week for the first three months, so much that you're certain you could recall the entire script word-for-word. And it's not something you inherently value. "What about 9-5?"
"Yes!" Emory throws her hands up in ecstatic agreement, sliding from the barstool to head towards your pantry before anybody even has a chance to interject. "I'll grab the popcorn!"
Violet groans, her head rolling back before she decides to shift to have her arms crossed over her chest, clearly not pleased with the choice once again. "9-5 it is."
"Lighten up, Violet." You're chuckling softly at her reaction as you pull the tape from its place tucked between the many others, sliding it out of its cover and pushing a few buttons on your VHS player. "It's a good movie, you know."
Violet lazily pushes on a few buttons on the television remote after you place the tap. "Yeah, I'd rather not think of myself as a elderly woman."
"Eldery?" The channel switches to a short buzz of static before flashing some familiar opening advertisements, the change in volume immediately settling the atmosphere in the room. "Violet Newstead is clearly middle aged."
She snorts and Cleo unravels from her little ball, stretching only to relax once again and facing the television as though she's getting ready to watch alongside you. "She's a widowed mother of four children and she's been with the company for twelve years. That just screams old to me."
You shrug, pulling yourself to your feet and gathering a blanket on your way back to the couch. "Doesn't mean it's a bad thing."
"What, would you want to be in that position?"
You begin to actually consider her question, then shake your head once your realise what you're doing. "Doesn't matter. The point is that it’s a good movie. They all strive to change inequality, and it's funny."
But before Violet has a chance to respond, her mouth agape with another comment resting on the tip of her tongue, Emory's poking her head out of the pantry. "Guys, did you know..." She trails off, her arms filled with different bags of popcorn and snacks after raiding your pantry and heading to the counter. "Popcorn is a really healthy snack? Apparently it's less calories, and it gets you full quicker."
"Who told you that?" Violet quickly questions. "Your Mom? Cause you eat too much of it?"
You eyes roll at her comment. You'd put her extreme sourness down to the fact that you and Emory have settled on a movie she doesn't want to watch. Which is more often than not.
"What? I barely eat popcorn." Emory sets the bags down, her face drawn together in confusion. "If anything, Juliette's having it every weekend with Michael. That's why she's got—"
"Hey!" You're fast to yell out in defence, head shooting back in her direction. "I am not. I don't even see him every weekend."
Whilst you're turned around, a smirk crawls onto Violet's face. One that you don't see until she begins speaking. "Sure. When was that last time you saw each other, hm?" Her eyes narrow, before she juts her head in fierce questioning. "Yesterday?"
"What? No—" you cut yourself off before finishing the rest of your sentence, realising how the conversation has suddenly switched to teasing you from the casual mention of Emory's popcorn fact. You're not even sure when it happened, but it's certainly not the first time they've dragged Michael into a conversation with the slightest link. It's borderline ridiclousm and you shake your head. "Right, you guys always make this out to be much bigger than it is. I haven't even seen him since New York."
"And do you miss him?" Emory tilts her head in sympathy, a soft pout on her face. "Cause I would if I were you."
You hesitate for a moment before answering, mainly because your friends will try and twist anything you say into something more or something that it's not. "Well, yeah. A little, but—"
"Ha! There it is!" Violet's already cutting you off, and a puff of air escapes from your mouth, wondering why you even attempted to be a little honest with them. "Of course you miss him, Jules. He's your soulmate."
"Okay, you're being dramatic." You push yourself back into the cushions, turning your attention to the television where the opening credits of the movie are playing, signalling an end to the topic. "I don't miss him that much."
Then right on cue, before anybody else has a chance to respond to your comment, the shrill of the telephone cuts through it all. You begin to gather yourself to head over. "Oh, that's probably my dad—"
"I'll get it!" Emory's already swooping over to where your telephone rests against the wall in the kitchen, pulling it up to her ear before you have a chance. "Hello-o Juliette Sweeney's residence, Emory Williams speaking. How can I help?"
Both you and Violet chuckle softly at Emory's unnecessary introduction until her jaw drops, amusement twisting into her expression. "Oh, Michael."
At the mere mention of his name you're pulling yourself to your feet rapidly. Violet only laughs harder as you make a beeline to the kitchen with the intention of grabbing the phone straight from her hands. "Okay, give me that—"
She stops you on the spot with a finger held in place. "Yeah, she's here." Then she covers the transmitter with her hand, gently lowering it from her face. "Please can I talk to him? Just for a minute. I won't say anything stupid. Promise."
You're half in the mind not to trust her, but with the way she looks over with pleading puppy eyes, and when your friends are already teasing you about your eagerness towards Michael, there isn't exactly a way to say no. "Okay, fine."
A toothy grin spreads on Emory's face before she spins around, facing away from you. She begins speaking before you even have a chance to protest again. "What are you doing?"
There's a pause as she listens to his answer. Words he's saying, but ones that you can't hear.
"Oh, you just came back from set. How's that going?"
Another pause. You find your fingers beginning to pull at the sleeves of your cardigan.
"Yeah, you work so hard. I mean... Juliette just goes on and on about how exceptional you are." She throws a glance over her shoulder at you, your mouth opening to dismiss her comment before she turns back around. "Oh, we're just about to watch 9-5. Do you like that movie?"
At this point, your foot begins to tap with impatience. It's bothering you a little for Michael to be speaking to one of your friends, but he's done it many times before on set visits or different events. You'd boil it down to the distnace between you that has you clinging onto him with any chance that you're given. Which is completely understandable.
"Yeah, it's—oh, you wanna speak to Juliette?"
You can feel your face lighting up with Michael's mention of you, and when Emory finally turns back around, she's handing the phone to you but not without whisper of “he's all yours."
As she gathers the popcorn bags from the countertop, giving you with a small smile, you bring the phone to your ear. "Michael?"
"Hey, Julie."
Michael's gentle and melodic voice has a sigh slipping past your lips without it even intending to. Somehow it just settles the doubts and worries in your mind, like a sweet lullaby. Again, probably because you haven't heard from him in a few days.
"Hey... you're back from set?"
"Yeah," he breathes out on the other end, and you can hear him shifting slightly wherever he's positioned. "Just wanted to talk to you, but I can see you've got company. I can call back another time."
You glance over your shoulder into the living room, noticing how your friends have already settled into watching the movie without you. "No, it's okay. I can spare a few minutes."
"Good." He chuckles softly on the other end. "How have you been?"
"Yeah, alright." Cleo pads over into the kitchen, stretching before jumping onto the counter beside you. It's almost as though she knew Michael was on the other end of the phone. "I got the role I auditioned for back in November. Remember? The one about—"
"Oh, yeah!" Michael's gently cutting you off with his own excitement filtering through his speech. "That's wonderful! I'm so happy for you."
You laugh before responding. "Thank you."
"You're welcome. When does filming start?"
Your free hand drifts towards Cleo's fur, soft beneath your fingers. "Hm, I think late April or early May. But I've got so much to do in between." Cleo nudges against your hand and you begin stroking her head. "There's costume fittings and table scripts and set visits... I need to remember all my lines."
"Oh, yeah. I forgot there was so much work going into that stuff..." Michael shifts again. You presume he's on his bed with the muffled sound of pillows adjusting behind him. "I would've helped you rehearse if I wasn't so busy, like last time."
"What, when you got more into your character than I got into mine?" You chuckle softly at the memory. Back when you got your first role in acting as a teenager, he came round to your house every day to help with rehearsing. It only ended with him claiming he could make a better counterpart than whoever you were originally filming with. "I don't think you'd be much help, sorry."
"No. It would be different this time. That was because..." He pauses, searching for the right words. "I can't remember. I think I might've been jealous."
"Jealous?" The word comes out slightly louder than you expected. Emory and Violet's heads turn at the sound of your voice. "Were you jealous of me?"
"No... I was jealous of whoever you were acting with." What you don't notice is that he doesn't think, but he knows. He knows that's the reason he got so worked up in the role, why he praised his own acting skills and claimed to be a better counterpart. "I just... imagine doin’ an acting role with your best friend. How fun would that be?"
"That was a romantic scene, Michael. We have no chemistry between us, so it never would have worked."
"Yeah, but it's the thought that counts. Right?"
"Sure, whatever you say." You dismiss his self-acclaimed point about being better for the role, simply dwindling it down to two teenagers with loud emotions. "Oh, actually. I had something else to say."
"Yeah?"
"I've got a charity fashion show in late spring too, for the new season. It's here, in LA. I think you'll get an invite anyway, but I wanted to give you a personal one."
"Oh, cool. Is it a runway?"
"Yeah, I'll be on stage."
"I'll be there."
"Good." You notice how he doesn't even hesitate in his response. The way he'll show up to support you through your career is simply unmatched. His dedication to his best friend. "Actually, you better. I know how busy you are and whatever, but I'm taking precious time from my schedule to see you next month at Motown."
"Yeah, with you begin a big film star and all." You laugh at his words as Cleo settles into a comfortable circle beside you, peering up with big blue eyes. "I appreciate you comin' to see me. It means a lot."
"Of course, Michael. I can't wait for it."
It's silly now for you to think you ever hesitated to go and see him on stage. Even after your last experience at the Triumph Tour, you wouldn't want to miss a performance he's exerted so much time and energy into.
"Yeah, me too."
Just then, Violet cuts straight through your phone call. "What are you guys talking about for so long? You're gonna miss the entire movie!"
The bubble that had formed around you during the conversation has been popped with a thin needle, flooding in the environment around you reminding you of the fact that you have guests. "Oh, I should probably go. But, I'll speak to you again soon. Okay?"
"Okay."
And it's just after that when you end the call with a final goodbye, leaving Michael staring at the ceiling of his bedroom with the machine still in his hand. He really wanted to speak to you for longer. Hearing your voice after days simply sounds like music to his ears. Calming and soothing. Grounding him.
Shifting on his bed, he props the telephone back into his nightstand before rolling over again.
okay so somehow flowers fascination blew up. idek how but thank you guys sm for all the support. and to all my new followers, hey ;)
new chapter of limelight is a little delayed but i’ll try my best to have it out by tmrw. and i also have a smut one shot of bad!michael waiting in my drafts (it’s kinda dirty) so stay tuned.
okay chapter 9 for limelight is written and edited but needs another final read. unfortunately it won't be up today since it's my bedtime, so will try my best tmrw. apologies :/
okay so somehow flowers fascination blew up. idek how but thank you guys sm for all the support. and to all my new followers, hey ;)
new chapter of limelight is a little delayed but i’ll try my best to have it out by tmrw. and i also have a smut one shot of bad!michael waiting in my drafts (it’s kinda dirty) so stay tuned.
THRILLER!MICHAEL JACKSON X READER working on the set of michael's new short film for thriller, he quickly becomes infatuated with your presence. he craves you. then he begins leaving you flowers, until one day, you catch him.
this is potentially cheesy but sorry i think it’s cute. p.s thriller apparently took four days to film, let’s just pretend it took twelve days. ( f ) ( 3.9k )
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Michael’s fascination for women runs deep.
He loves them. But oddly enough he’s never been in a relationship. And he’s never found a woman who’s swept him completely off his feet before.
Until he met you.
It was the day that you arrived onto the set for his new short film for Thriller, a light spring in your step and a smile bright enough to rival the studio lights, that a switch flipped in his chest.
You introduced yourself with such candour, expressing your eagerness to work alongside the world's biggest growing artists and equally renowned production team without seeming too overbearing. It didn't take him long to learn that you were both a set and costume designer, and a remarkable one, because every suggestion and alteration was credited to you.
You work hard. Your focus and determination reminds him of his own, yet you always leave time for people. For conversation between sets with crew members. For laughter to slip past whenever someone cracks a joke. For a smile to light up your face whenever someone praises your ideas. It's simply something he noticed right away, from the second you walked into the room. The quiet confidence in your shoulders, sweeping you across the room with effortless grace and the dedication to create something beautiful and meaningworthy.
He would catch himself staring at you more often than he should. During scenes. During breaks. During fittings. During moments when he should be paying attention to recalling his dialogue only to have it replaced with the image of you.
He picked up on the way you would readjust your hair when it would slip out of its hold or how you'd thank an assistant for a cup of coffee during scenes late outside beneath the chill of the winter air. The way you would scribble down sketches with a notepad and a pencil that tucked between your teeth every few moments, or when you would hold up a piece of fabric beneath studio lights with a squint of your eyes to judge its credibility.
Every movement held such simple warmth and elegance and for that reason he found himself drawn to you in a way he never imagined before.
Now three days have passed since Michael first met you and if he weren't any more dramatic than he already is, he'd argue that you had completely taken control over his mind. You're like a stubborn thought lingering in the back of his head. From the moment the sun stretches into the sky until it would kiss it goodbye, when he's finally settled into bed yet tossing and turning, imagining his arms wrapped around your gooey malleable body as he puckers his lips against the sweet skin of your neck.
And then today, seeing how you've shown up in a pair of sleek black trousers that cinch perfectly at the waist, and a loose navy cardigan that slips from one shoulder to reveal a bare patch of soft skin, he's decided that enough is enough.
He had to make a move.
But the thing about Michael is that he's shy. Talking to women and occasionally flirting with them was one thing. He could do that. But there's something about you that is quietly intimidating in a way that he can't quite place.
He would have to narrow it down to your casual indifference. Your concentration on stitching a loose button back onto his jacket, your tendency to keep conversations practical with him whenever he'd try to drift into anything personal, your attention on the task at hand whenever he lingers by, sparing a glance in your direction to see if you had noticed him there.
Whatever it was, he assured himself he’d move past it.
Because Michael likes pretty things. He likes simplicity, gentleness and laughter.
And that's why he likes you.
“Bill, could you, uh… run to the store for me?”
His bodyguard glances down at him, puzzled as to why Michael has run from the makeup department with half-jelled hair and uneven breaths only to pull him into a quiet corner. Bill's first instance is to believe that he's feeling unwell, leaning over with a touch of concern in his eyes. "Of course, kid. What do you need?"
Michael pauses for a moment, sparing a cautious glance over his shoulder as thought anybody could be lingering close by. "Um, flowers." Bill straightens, his worry melting back into confusion. "White ones, preferably. Pretty ones."
Bill doesn't question it, and Michael doesn't feel the need to expand any further as he rushes back towards the makeup department.
A while passes when his bodyguard finally returns and now it's also a while after Michael had initially planned to present the bouquet of white lilies to you. The day has now wrapped up and he's stripped of the red jersey jacket he once wore, replaced with a pair of slacks and a blue sweater, fingertips brushing over the petals of the delicate flowers as he contemplates his delivery. He's watched you all day on set, a nervous tick in his jaw as the weight of his confession loomed over his head like a dark cloud, threatening to drench him with rain every time his nerves almost slipped through. Thankfully, the tension left his performances unscathed. However he knows if he doesn't act now then that same tension will send him spiraling through the night.
So he decides to leave them hanging out the pocket of your woolen peacoat.
He's already vanished from the scene and sprinted to the car to head home when you arrive ten minutes later. You're gathering your bag and belongings with a stifled yawn until you stop at your coat, finding a fresh bouquet of white lilies waiting for you. Plucking them from the pocket, you carefully inspect them in your hands, expecting a note, a tag or any sort of indication to reveal who they're from and why they're here. Your short search ends without much luck, and you glance back over your shoulder in case the culprit may still be lingering close by, only to be met with the small stretch of the cloakroom and the dim overhanging lights.
You're unsure whether they're actually meant for you, or left in your coat pocket accidentally. Regardless, you take them home with you.
The next day you return with the same questions in mind, asking around some of the directors and fellow producers, however again it only renders you nowhere. You decide to shrug it off, simply considering it as a one-off and head back to your work station. This time you find a second bouquet of flowers, a set of white roses, resting happily beside your open sketchbook.
From there you know that it couldn’t be a coincidence.
The routine followed as usual the next couple of days. You find a bouquet of pink roses splayed across your usual seat on set, and then a set of purple orchids the following day sitting upright in your bag. Everyone around you quickly became aware of this 'secret admirer' of yours lurking around the set, yet it seemed like there was an unspoken rule where nobody could reveal the culprit. As much as you liked going home with a new set of flowers everyday, it would be nicer to know who the person was.
The only clue was from John Landis, who began teasing your quiet frustration and hinting that there was only one romantic on the team. But you still had no clue who it could be.
Then finally, on the fifth day, you caught him.
“Michael?”
Michael freezes on the spot. One hand is already half-hidden in your bag, making space for the other which clutches a bouquet of red roses.
The two of you stay silent for a moment and you can almost hear his shaky breaths from where you're standing after being caught red-handed. Slowly, he turns to face you, swallowing a lump in his throat. "I was... uh, puttin' them somewhere safe."
"In my bag?"
"Yeah?" He shrugs, however it just sounds like he's unsure of his own words. Then his gaze drops to the floor between you. "Um, you weren't supposed to see me doin' that."
You ignore his comment, taking a step forward. “You’ve been leaving me flowers?”
His gaze flicks up, finding your own saturated with puzzlement and a hint of admiration peeking through. He retracts his free hand, reaching up to rub at the back of his neck. "People... throw flowers on stage when they admire someone."
You follow along with his words, taking another step towards him.
“I just wanted to show that I admired you.”
The bouquet in his hand, filled with red roses and dotted with baby's breath is evidently the most full set of flowers he's given you this far. And they're red, not white or pink or purple, signifying his growing courage over the last few days and his emotions — a hot, fierce yet passionate longing for you. A fire burning raw in his heart, with you the only source of water to quench it.
If anything, Michael was the person you suspected the least out of everyone else on set. He's fairly quiet, dedicated to his work and adamant on bringing the images in his mind to real life. You've noticed him just as he's noticed you — how he adjusts his outfit right after you've finished sewing a button, how his conversations seem to drift personal everytime the two of you talk, how he spares a glance in your direction whenever he lingers close, watching you from the corner of his eye. Yet, you had simply brushed them off as part of his calm temperament. You thought he was observant and mildly cautious, a trait that would understandably follow his level of tremendous growing fame.
But now it’s clear it wasn’t any of that.
"I can take them back, if you don't like them." You realise his arm has been stretched into the gap between you, holding up the flowers for you to take, but now they're beginning to droop towards the ground as the seconds slip by and you still haven't accepted them. "Actually, I think the florist is shut."
His arm lowers further, the corners of his mouth twitching with precluded dejection until you glide forward, gathering the bouquet from his hands. "No, I love them" You peer down at the elegant roses, bringing them to your nose to capture their scent. A powdery sweetness blended with a crisp, fruity undertone. Michael's lips begin to tug into a smile at the sight. "I love roses, you know. They're my favourite."
"Really?" This time he's taking a step closer to you, and you take the time to breathe in his elegantly carved features. Warm brown skin kissed beneath the dim cloakroom lights, soft pouty lips that leave a trail of sheen along the bottom whenever he tucks them between his teeth, and dark eyes that seem to hold entire conversations without a spoken word, searching yours with quiet serenity instead of confidence. "I'm glad."
Silence stretches between you yet it's comfortable as you bask in the glow of his confession. A weight has been lifted from his shoulders, and he realises maybe it was perfect for you to stumble across his secret routine rather than leaving them anonymously by your belongings everyday.
You're already only inches away, the bouquet bridging the gap between your bodies like a bridge for the shared admiration between you, when you lean up. You're slowly inching towards his face before you tilt your head, sponging a soft kiss to his cheek. Your familiar scent tangles into the crevices of his brain and the pressure of your lips stays long after you've retreated, a ghost of what was once there. "I'll see you tomorrow, Michael."
The next day, Michael finds you working away on one of your sketches in a corner. He's noticed that when you're alone it's normally because you need to concentrate, but regardless he approaches you, hands tucked behind his back where he holds another set of roses. You lift your head to find him peering down at you, a boyish inquisitiveness paired with a soft smile. "What're you workin' on?"
"It's just some of the zombie costumes during your dance sequence." You pull the sketchbook up into his view, displaying various bodies drawn with tattered clothing and raggedy shoes. "We just need them to have some form in their fittings. Otherwise they'll just look like a mess."
Michael nods in agreement with your words as you place the sketchbook back onto your knee. "Yeah, looks good."
You look up at him, catching his hands hidden behind his back and a smile that he tries to hide behind a nibble of his bottom lip. You narrow your eyes in suspicion. "What are you doing?"
"Nothing." And then he can't hold back his excitement anymore, his lips peeling into a grin. His hands wrapped around the bouquet twitch once before he peels them from his back, presenting to you a fresh set of pink roses and baby breath. Your jaw drops at the sight. For some reason, after his confession you had expected the flowers to stop, but it seems like he planned the opposite.
"Aw, Michael!" You take them from his grasp, brushing their petals with the tips of your fingers and bringing them to your nose for a sniff. "They're beautiful! Thank you."
The day after, you're adjusting the cuffs on his red leather jacket before he heads on set, laughing at a story he spills about once tripping up on stage when a fan tried to pull him off, when he pauses abruptly. He leaves the room only to return with a combination of red and white roses, handing them over with a boyish grin and a kiss pressed to your temple.
On the eleventh day of filming, you find him resting on a chair with a carton of orange juice. Makeup artists dab at his skin whilst he sucks the juice through a straw, his face lighting up as soon as he spots you approaching him. You begin chatting about your respective workloads and progress, and then he offers you a sip of his orange juice to which you playfully roll your eyes at, but then accept. You don't miss the way his eyes don't even falter from you for a second.
Somewhere along the line, receiving flowers had become your favourite part of the day. However today there was no sight of them. You half-expected Michael to jump out at any given moment with another fresh set, but he never does. Then you check your work desk, your bag, the pocket of your coat — all the places he would've placed them in secret before his confession.
You don't find any.
And then it hits you that maybe he's forgotten. Or maybe he's been too busy and it's inherently selfish of you to think that he should be taking time out of his already busy schedule to simply buy you flowers. Or maybe he changed his mind about you, which would be the worst outcome considering your feelings had only begun to grow.
It's the end of the day and you're packing up your belongings at your work station, only to hear a hurried shuffle of feet before they stop behind you. You glance over your shoulder once but then turn completely when you find Michael standing behind you, his shoulders rising and falling with heavy breaths, and when you look down you find a slightly crumpled set of white and purple lilies in his hand.
"I'm sorry." He swallows and raises them towards you, a slightly bashful yet exhausted expression written on his face. "I couldn't find the ones I wanted."
You take them anyway because the gesture in itself is enough to win you over.
Then the final day of filming arrives. The set is buzzing with electricity at the thought of finally wrapping up an exciting yet grueling creative project. One with high expectations that took hours of preparation, cuts and fixing sequences, readjusting set and costume, to produce a result that pleased all faces in the room. In the end, it was worth it.
And at the heart of it all is Michael.
His red flaring ambition, partnered with immense dedication to create a short film that no artist has ever attempted before, was evidently the driving force. It's what got everyone through the long days and nights, what kept the good spirits in the air when plans fell through, and what kept you looking forward to arriving on set these past few days. Just to see him, spend time with him, and laugh together.
The director John Landis and a few others sweep Michael from his feet, a surprised yelp falling past his lips that melt into boyish cackles when they begin throwing him into the air like a ragdoll. You're standing with a few others at the side beneath the dark winter sky, chattering away as you discuss upcoming projects or the relief of finally being able to fix your circadian rhythm after working till early mornings, but you can't help but glance over at the interaction with amusement.
You wonder what Michael has planned for you next.
Later when the celebrations have finally died down, he saunters over to you as he attempts to catch his breath, displaying a grin brighter than the stars that gleam above. He steps forward and slides his hands around your waist to pull you flush against him in one smooth motion, your arms slithering around his neck to pull him in tighter. Your head rests against the crook of his neck whilst he does the same, puckering a few kisses to the skin beneath your ear. He's warm and cosy and smells faintly of perfume. Red apples dusted with cinnamon or a piece of burnt toast with a coat of marmalade.
Pulling back, his eyes pour into you with a sense of relief. Relief to the fact that you can spend time with each other, outside filming sets and long and exhausting days. He's hypnotised by your presence so much that he finds his gaze flicking to your pouty lips, a swipe of lipgloss making them appear shiny beneath the moonlight. He leans in a fraction, just for a taste, eyes fluttering shut briefly, only to open again with a sudden realisation. "Wait here."
And then his warmth is pulling away within a split second for him to jog past the last remaining crew members as they look over at you, smiling at your newfound romance. He disappears from your sight for roughly half a minute before returning, sweeping you off your feet with yet another bouquet of flowers. Roses, and much more than ever before, in white and pinks and red, strategically tangled with baby breaths and the stems tied off with a silky red ribbon.
Arguably the most beautiful bouquet of them all.
"Michael, you really didn't have to."
"I wanted to. I really like you. You should know that by now." He chuckles lightly at your playful head shake, watching as you take the flowers from his grasp anyway with a murmur of gratitude. "You work hard, and you're good at your job. And..." He trails off when your eyes lift from the bouquet and meet, a bright smile captured on your face. "I don't really do this often, or at all. But I've never felt so drawn to someone before." He takes a step closer to you. "You're like a magnet or somethin'."
You laugh at his words and it's difficult to ignore the twitch in his hands as he nears you. Wanting to touch you, hold you, kiss you, all without a care of who could be watching. Because now the work is over and time is on your side.
He pauses when you take a step back, a teasing quirk in your brow as you speak. "I have something for you too."
Trailing close behind, you head into the studio, exchanging small smiles and nods of acknowledgement with the last of the lingering staff before you lead him into the cloakroom. You're shuffling through your bag before pulling out a sheet of paper and handing it over.
On the paper is him, a sketched portrait of him looking off to the side. Every detail is carved with careful precision — the shadow beneath his cheekbone, the length of his nose and arch of his brows, the curls that tuck behind his ear and the few that gather on his forehead. Then to the side of the page is a simple white lily, the stem cut short to fit the small gap and pressed into the paper.
"This is... wonderful." His thumb brushes over the pressed petals of the flower. "You kept one."
“I kept all of them.”
And you're right because back at your apartment, a trail of vases line your windowsills and countertops. White lilies, purple orchids, pink and white and red roses fill up your small living space to remind you of the man who makes you smile every time he hands them to you when you cross paths.
Michael gathers the bouquet from you and sets the items down beside him, coming in close to collect you between his hands. An arm loops around your waist whilst his palm slides into the side of your hair, his thumb brushing against the soft skin of your cheekbone. Your hands slide up his lean shoulders before wrapping around his neck, noticing how his lips part with a breathy exhale when you lean into his gentle touch. His fingers press against the nape of your neck, guiding you up as your eyelashes flutter, closing and sealing your lips into a kiss.
His lips are soft and pliable against your own. He pulls back but stays close, resting his forehead on yours before drawing you back in again. Then his mouth parts, a gentle slip of his tongue slipping past your lips and colliding with your own. His grip tightens, tilting his head to further explore your mouth and humming gently when your fingers trail up the back of his neck, tangling into his soft hair.
You pull back, mirroring his lazy grin before he leans down to peck your lips once more. His forehead rests against yours once again, eyes trained on the shape of your mouth. "You like milkshakes?"
Giggling, you return his action with your lips puckering against his. "I love them."
"Okay, good." He breathes out, fingers tracing along the side of your waist. "There's a twenty-four hour diner not far from here. I wanna take you there. You got a ride? I can get Bill to drive us." Then it dawns upon him that it's incredibly late and by now the sun may be making its first appearances. You're probably tired. "Or I can take you some other time..."
You flick your gaze to his lips once more, leaning in to press your tongues together in another heartfelt sweep before you part. His heart skips a beat when you only smile. "I'd love to go."
⟡ a little later than normal, soz been catching rays in spain and celebrating the win. i love spain and being tan. enjoy tho!! this is very fluffy. ( 4k )
The first thing Michael registers as his eyes flutter open is the flicker of grey and blue light spilling across his vision, dancing across the television screen like little dots of snow.
The second thing he registers is the low hiss of the VHS tape as it cuts through the silence of the room. A faint and steady hum that lingers in the air like the ghost of the movie that played before.
The third thing he registers is the weight pressing into his shoulder, grounding yet light at the same time. Shifting gently with each steady breath before settling still again.
Glancing down, he finds you drifted off beside him. Your hair fans around your face and shoulders, body half-disappearing beneath a pink velvety blanket and legs tucked in close as though the couch had become a makeshift bed and Michael your pillow. Your chest rises slowly before falling again, a soft snore slipping past your parted lips.
The waiter at Moonlight Diner apologised numerous times for the hassle and insisted on replacing the food and milkshakes. According to him, Michael's moonwalk had caught him so completely off guard that it sent an entire tray of dishes crashing to the floor. Neither of you seemed to mind the extended wait, content with simply singing and dancing along with the older hits that filtered through crackling speakers. Then upon leaving, Michael quietly tucked a generous wad of cash in place of the bill, which the waiter had refused to hand over. He scribbled down a note addressing the broken jukebox despite knowing it was far more than the old jukebox was worth, then when you settled into the cab back to your apartment, it was clear that neither of you were ready to head to bed. That's when you proposed the idea of grabbing another handful of snacks and settling down with a movie.
And that's where you are now.
Abandoned snacks and mugs scatter across the coffee table. Half-torn bags of M&Ms and Reese's piled together along with stray popcorn kernels, their buttery scent still faintly lingering in the room as though neither of you had bothered to clean up during handfuls. An empty bowl sits forgotten near the edge nearby your curated selection of designer magazines, now simply collecting dust as the last of the crumbs remain. An empty VHS case lies next to the television remote discarded exactly where it had been left earlier.
Everything around him suggests that even after, the night never ended but just faded off into slumber.
He doesn't recall the exact moment he fell asleep, somewhere between laughter and the rolling credits, but what he can discern now is the numbness in his right side from your gentle weight and the stiffness in his neck from a lopsided nap.
He shifts gently without disturbing you, reaching up to clutch the back of his neck and massaging his fingers into the skin to relieve the ache as he pulls away. He cautiously maneuvers himself from your space, replacing the warmth of his body with a frilly lemon yellow cushion behind him as he finally stands. A yawn bursts from his lips as he relishes in a stretch of his limbs.
Sleep lingers in each of his movements as he begins to clear up the coffee table, carefully crushing empty packets in his hands to throw into the trash, gathering bowls and mugs to place into the kitchen sink, dusting off any stubborn crumbs and kernels to discard. He straightens up your magazines, the vanilla candle solely for decor, the vase of faux lilies that compliment the cohesive candour of your apartment until the place looks the same as when first arrived a mere few hours ago. Perfect and spotless.
The only remaining thing is you.
Peering down at your relaxed frame, a soft smile tugs at his lips as you unconsciously curl deeper into the couch without a care of where you are. The lips that always part with a giggle or sardonic retort now seemingly void and replaced by the silence of your steady, peaceful breaths. He considers leaving you and heading off to bed himself, knowing how exhaustion must be sinking your weight into the couch with the weeks you've spent running around the city. But then knowing you, he might find you at the brink of annoyance tomorrow morning when you wake up, disorientated and wondering why the hell he was cosied in bed whilst you slept in the living room like some sort of homeless infiltrator. So maybe he should wake you up. Or maybe you'd be irritated at the fact that he woke you up whilst you're in the middle of dreamland.
It's a win or lose situation.
Bending at the knees, he aligns with your sleepy figure. A hand reaches out before he can even think to brush away the few pieces of hair that fall in front of your face. "Julie." His voice is barely above a whisper, careful not to startle. He calls for you again, but you don't budge, and he wonders how tired you must have been to have konked out on the couch. Taking hold of your shoulder, he shakes you lightly and speaks with a little more aggression, "Juliette."
Your eyes finally creak open in slits, just barely comprehending his presence before you. "Hm?"
Your voice is thickly coated with sleep, and he supposes it's a win.
"Let's get you to bed, yeah?"
The only thing you can muster is another soft hum as he begins to pull the covers from your body. He gathers your wrist, warm against his skin, to tug you up only to find it falling limp back at your side. "Juliette, please c'mon."
There's only silence on your end, and he decides he'll have to drag you to bed himself.
Digging his fingers between your waist and curled arms, he finally pries you away from the couch. You sway with sleep as he gently pulls you up to standing, your droopy body falling towards him as your head nestles into the space between his shoulder and head and his breath hitches in his throat. You're so close. Gentle breaths fan against his skin. The scent of your fruity shampoo lingers between them and his hands shoot to your waist to steady you, fingertips brushing a strip of smooth bare skin.
He sucks a breath of air into his lungs to steady his foreign nervousness and the thumping heart that he hopes you can't feel through your sleep. He tucks you into his side, a hand wrapped around firmly around your waist as your head rolls onto his shoulder. Then, he begins to take gradual steps, cautious not to awaken you as he guides you through your living space and into the hallway. The floorboards creak lightly on the way, and his footing stumbles in startled recognition of when your hands subconsciously wrap around the underside of his chest for steadiness. Somehow, the warmth of your body feels entirely unfamiliar.
Pushing open your bedroom door, he's quick to remove his arm from your waist and instead places both his hands firmly on your shoulders, directing you step-by-step to the bed. You seem to have gained a little more consciousness too as your footing stabilises, pulling back the covers as you slide in without a spoken word.
It's only moments later when you're pulled back into a slumber, soft snores escaping past your lips as though you hadn't even moved an inch. Michael stares at you, probably a moment longer than he should, grounding his laboured breaths and wildly beating heart. For some reason, such a simple task of transferring you from the couch to the bed became the most grueling one. And it wasn't even the task itself — it was the instability of his own body's reaction to having you so close to him.
But that's normal, isn't it? Because it's just you.
The same girl he's known for the last decade. The same girl that makes him laugh till his stomach hurts. The same girl who drinks cups of tea like they're her only lifeline. The same girl who likes her cushions fluffed in a certain way, who lights candles only because she likes how they look rather than their scent, who leaves magazines scattered neatly across coffee tables and never seems to finish the last handful of popcorn in a bowl.
The same girl who hums beneath her breath without noticing whenever she's reading. Who curls her legs beneath her no matter where she sits. Who absent-mindedly tucks damp curls behind her ears after a shower. Who reaches for his M&Ms before her own without even thinking.
It's just you.
So why does it feel different?
The weight of sleep drops onto his body like a ton of bricks, and he shakes his head to rid of the overcomplicated thoughts, excusing them as a form of exhaustion from the day.
With a final glimpse around your room and a gentle sigh pulling from his chest, he drags his feet into the hallway and closes your bedroom door behind with a soft click.
Ten days have passed since Michael arrived in New York.
What was only intended to be a few short days ended up whirling into just over a week when on his supposed final evening, the two of you found yourselves squeezed into the back of a cab, bellies full of milkshakes and pancakes after your final late-night visit to the Moonlight Diner. Over the course of the days the trip had quickly added itself to the list of many rituals you already share. Before leaving, Michael yet again had left a hefty wad of cash to the waiter and promised to visit again whenever he was in New York, having grown fond of the underrated establishment just like you. Not long after that, in the contented silence of your cab journey, he casually proposed the idea of staying a little longer.
At first you hesitated. Your final days in the city were already packed with heavy commitments, and as much as you agreed with the suggestion, the thought of leaving him alone in the apartment whilst you rushed between duties didn't quite sit right. However Michael, harbouring that gentle yet stubborn persistence you've grown so familiar with over the years, assured you that he'd keep himself occupied.
And that's exactly what happened.
Whenever you disappeared into another casting, fitting or meeting, Michael found solitude vital in terms of productivity. He didn't waste any time. Lyrics sprawled across sheets of loose paper, ongoing melodies tucked into notebooks and rough sketches accumulated on almost every free surface he could find. Your stereo became his rehearsal partner as he worked on the upcoming choreography for his music videos, Billie Jean and Beat It. The sounds echoed throughout the apartment loud enough that he was pretty convinced you'd wake up to a noise complaint the following morning.
Yet it never came.
Between rehearsals, he'd borrow your telephone to call Hayvenhurst or check in with his crew. Conversations would rarely stay practical for long before switching to whatever new ideas he had swimming around in his mind that day. On the mornings where inspiration refused to stay inside four walls, he'd hire a temporary bodyguard and disappear into the city for meetings with producers or directors, only to return hours later with another notebook filled with fresh pages.
Sometimes he'd find you awaiting his arrival and sometimes he wouldn't. But on the evenings you were, you'd be sitting beside the window with a steaming mug of tea resting in your hands, absent-mindedly flipping the pages of a magazine as you watched New York drift below. Other nights you'd answer the door still warm from a shower, sweet coconut and vanilla clinging to your skin as a telephone balanced between your shoulder and ear. Once he even returned to find you halfway through making dinner, the crackle of the stereo spilling through the apartment with Do I Do by Stevie Wonder as you stirred a wooden spoon through a mouth-watering pot of macaroni and cheese. Each evening slipped so naturally into the next that it almost felt as though this had always been your life.
It was strange. Neither of you had ever stayed together for this long before, yet it never felt as though he was a guest. Somewhere over the course of those ten days, asking permission no longer felt necessary. He knew where you kept the mugs. Which cupboard the cereal was in. Which floorboard creaked outside your bedroom. The apartment had made room for him, and before either of you noticed, he'd settled into it just as naturally as you had.
For those ten days, the sun seemed reluctant to surrender the sky. No dark clouds lingered overhead long enough to spoil the warmth they'd somehow found together. Life still knocked occasionally — your father would still ring, schedules were still demanding and reminders that the world beyond the apartment still existed, but they drifted like passing shadows to leave the light untouched. Rest came easy. Shared breakfasts. Comfortable silence. Crossing paths in the hallway with sleepy smiles. Existing beside one another until it no longer felt like visiting at all.
But Michael knew the spell wouldn't last.
Los Angeles would pull him back into its relentless current, and you into yours. Weeks might pass before he saw you again, perhaps not until Motown. So if time insisted on slipping through his fingers, then he'd hold onto every last day it was willing to give him.
And that's why, when it was finally time to leave New York, Michael suggested the two of you fly back to Los Angeles together.
"You're cheating."
That's where you are now, sitting on the floor of his private jet, indulging in a progressively competitive game of cards.
He glances down at his flushed deck of cards on the muffled carpet, staring at the near perfect run of hearts, a set of kings, and another set tucked below his fingers that he's slid it into view. "What?"
"You've won three times in a row. That's not fair."
You're grumbling, falling back against the side of the beige leather couch with an exasperated sigh. When he leans over to peek at the clutter between your hands, he snickers lightly at how your pile wasn't even ready to be dealt. Somehow, you're mindbogglingly awful as such a simple game. "Knucklehead. You won the first game."
You pull your body back up, throwing your pile onto the floor and gathering all the scattered cards into a messy pile. "Okay, one more time. All or nothing."
"And the winner gets..."
There's a mischievous glint in his eyes, and when you look up you recognise it immediately, countering with a slow quirk of your brow. "Free M&Ms on demand for a full year. No excuses."
Somehow it sounds like you had this idea planned a while back. "Deal."
Over halfway on your journey back to Los Angeles and the cabin around the two of you is a strange contrast of luxury and familiarity. The private jet is polished in every possible way, every surface gleaming underneath the soft glow of the overhead lights. Leather seats curve along each side of the aircraft, pristine and untouched, whilst glossy wooden panels line the walls beneath oval windows. Brass accents gleam against the warm lighting, small details designed to make the space feel less like an aircraft and more like a private living room in the sky.
And somehow, neither of you bothered to sit in the seats. Instead, you're sprawled across the thick carpeted floor in the centre of the cabin, a deck of cards scattered between you and an abandoned bowl of popcorn and M&Ms sitting within reach. Michael has his legs stretched out comfortably in front of him, his back slightly arched with the lack of support behind him whilst you sit opposite with your knees tucked beneath you, surrounded by the evidence of your losing streak.
The jet hums steadily, the quiet vibration blending into the background. Outside the window, the world has disappeared beneath a stretch of white clouds, leaving only the two of you, a deck of cards, and growing confidence from one person who's convinced he'll take the reign as champion.
"Okay, you go first."
Michael swipes a card to add to his deck, mouth twitching lightly in confirmation of his foreseeable win when he notices a set already made, and places another one into the discard pile. He can feel your eyes boring into him, watching his movements like a trained hawk before you take your own turn. You've seemingly perfected your poker face, revealing next to nothing, but upon glancing up at the feel of his gaze now replicating your own, your lips press together tightly before you snort. "What?"
"Nothing." He's feigning nonchalance as he takes his turn, noting your rigid posture when you shift your legs, folding them together as though you've settled full concentration onto the game. The room melts into tension with your spoken winning agreement taunting you at the edge of the finish line. Silence is deafening between you, yet it feels normal.
It's comical. The way you become so invested into such a straightforward game and refuse to admit that he simply has the charm of luck on his side. But he always has. And it's something you know but you refuse to admit, opting to call out his bluff or claiming he shuffled the cards in such a manner that favoured him. Inherently impossible and ridiculous. But your competitiveness never fails to rise through simple games and activities. It could be as little as racing down the stairs, or seeing who can gulp down a glass of orange juice the fastest, or lengthy games such as Monopoly, but you'll never admit defeat once.
Oftentimes he'll be crowned the winner, but sometimes when he feels the world is being a little unfair, he'll purposely slip up to give you the lead again. Then when you win, a victorious smile on your face along with a teasing cackle, a familiar warmth always spreads across his chest.
Minutes pass by as you've alternated turns, Michael calculating the cards he needs to seal his final win, when suddenly you pick up a card to add to your deck, mouth splitting into a grin before you set them flush on the floor.
Complete.
Three games of wins, and somehow you've won him over when it mattered the most.
He stares at your hand of cards with disbelief, darting to his own to see he was only a couple away from free M&Ms for a year. Somehow you've played him at his own game. "There's no way—"
"Ha! Yes, there is. I win. Pay up, Jackson."
He doesn't miss the same glimmer of teeth as you proudly present your victory, leaning back against the couch with your arms folded across your chest as though you're actually waiting for him to hand over a year's supply of M&Ms right there and then. His lips quirk in thought, before he narrows his eyes at your teasing head tilt, throwing his arms up in a stretch before shuffling to his feet. "Hm, yeah. I'm tired. Gonna take a nap—"
"Nuh, uh. No way. Admit that I'm better than you right now."
You're peering up at him with a stubborn confidence that for some reason he can't help but find adorable, a smile hidden behind the nibbling of his bottom lip. Though his speech fails to conceal it. "Never."
And then he's retracting faster than a flash of lightning towards the bedroom, but not without hearing you rising and trailing quickly after him with a string of protests, before they morph into laughs at the realisation of his reason to run off so in such a rapid manner. "Wait, you thought you were gonna win that, didn't you? Oh my God, what a sore loser!"
You race after him down the cabin, and he only moves faster at the feeling of you hot on his tail, lips peeling back into a grin as he slips into one of the bedrooms. You enter after him just as he throws himself onto the sheets, the bed bouncing upon impact. His loafers dangle above the ground, mouth parting and throat vibrating to project false snores.
"Michael!" You're laughing at his childishness, reaching down to tug at one of his arms, only for it to fall limp by his side. He peeks an eye open. "That's not sleeping."
"Yes it is."
When his pretend snores continue for a few moments longer, you wonder whether he really is tired and is using this as a polite way to gather some time away from you. Understandable, considering how long you've spent together the last few days. And so you turn around to head out the room, only to hear him shuffling behind you, latching a hold onto your wrist and dragging you back. Your yelp is subdued as soon as your back hits the soft sheets, his head hovering above yours with his eyebrows raised in amusement. "Excuse you?"
"Did I say you could leave?"
His gaze is dark, piercing right through you. You shift with awareness of how close your faces are, scooting back on your elbows to sit up with a huff. "So what, I'm supposed to watch you sleep?"
"Just sleep with me." You jerk your head back at his words, and it takes a moment for him to realise the gravity of them before his eyes widen, cheeks quickly warming up from embarrassment at his lack of filter. "I mean, uh... man, you know what I meant!"
You dismiss his words with a laugh and playful roll of your eyes, crawling back on the sheets to lay beside him with your head resting on a soft pillow. He stays seated, leaning back on his hand, his gaze still trained on the spot you were just in. A moment of silence passes as you gaze over at the back of his head, curls tight yet lightly ruffled with movement. "So, excited for your shoots?"
He hums in response, your gaze following as he slowly leans back to rest beside you, only inches away with his own stare casting upon the warm golden spotlights on the ceiling. "And what about Motown?"
He draws in a breath of air through parted lips, exhaling through his nose for his body to sink against the sheets before responding. "Kinda nervous... but I think it'll go well."
"I'm sure it will." Your reply is immediate but honest. "You've been practicing forever. And that moonwalk you showed me was cool as hell."
Beside you, he laughs. A chuckle that vibrates his entire chest and slips past his teeth like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And then it hits you — you don't know the next time you'll see him. You don't know the next time you'll be able to laugh as hard as you did alongside him on this trip. The next time you'll share a bowl of popcorn and M&Ms whilst a forgotten film plays on the television. The next time you'll be lying beside each other, enjoying each other's company as the world around you drifts away like a mellowed dream.
"Hey, Julie?" He speaks up after a moment of passing silence, and he continues without your reply of acknowledgement. "Thanks for inviting me over. I had a lotta fun with you."
Something pulls at your chest, and your lips tug into a small smile. "Me too."
And after that the two of you remain quiet, because sometimes the silence holds all the answers.
⟡ second person, however you are ‘juliette sweeney’, a girl who has grown up in hollywood (i haven’t included any physical descriptions to try and make it as inclusive as possible).
⟡ this is an extremely slow burn. it includes a load of fluff (clearly my speciality), angst and smut (later no spoilers).
⟡ i’ve tried to keep this historically accurate, however some people and parts of michael’s life may be omitted.
⟡ there is a taglist for this series! comment or message if you’d like to be added. i try to post every weekend.
⟡ this is probably gonna be long af. anywho strap in!
⟡ if you’re interested in more, here is my main masterlist and navigation. also, here is the cover.
(this req is inspired by “Get on the floor” by MJ)
So the idea is that a moderately famous Dancer!reader goes to Studio 54 for the first time and has the time of her LIFE, not only because she very much enjoys dancing and having a good time but because she also gets the chance to meet Off the wall/Jackson era!Michael Jackson, while dancing ‘on the floor’ (get it lmao), and Michael is her favorite artist ever and crush since his J5 era (michael is 1 year older than the reader), so shes trying her best to keep a calm face but internally she’s is star struck and FREAKING OUT, and by the time that its time to leave they end up becoming friends and exchanging numbers and vow to see each other again
⋆˚࿔ ON THE FLOOR
OTW!MICHAEL JACKSON X READER you, a dancer gaining traction in hollywood, finally have the opportunity to head into studio 54. the only thing you weren’t expecting to see was michael jackson on the dance floor.
thank you for the request! i loved writing this. this is my very first one shot so hope it’s good oop. ( f ) ( 2.4k )
masterlist navigation
Studio 54.
A place where reality fades. Where the troubles of the outside world melt like gooey toffee into swaying hips and strobing lights. Pounding beats in your chest and overwhelming heat. Glitter and glamour.
Simply, a place you've always wanted to see.
“Ready to head inside?”
You’re standing in front of the building, absorbing its surroundings like a sponge as though if you were to look away it would squeeze dry from your memory. It beckons you in with an enticing curl of its finger. Bold fonts and golden lights. Glass doors and velvety entrances. Security litter the surrounding area and the music is so loud you can feel it in your ribcage just from outside.
"Hell yeah."
You follow your fellow dancer friend toward the entrance, greeting the bouncers as you step inside. Your heels click against the marble floors of the entrance as the beats gradually build louder. Some familiar faces pass you dress head-to-toe in sequins yet you keep your composure, standing tall and sucking in a lungful of air before finally stepping into the chaos.
All hell has broken loose.
Music rattles through your bones, pounding. Everything seems to be so clear yet blurry round the edges, like slipping into a dream. Primary and secondary coloured lights flash in your face as bodies wriggle together upon a strobing dance floor. Empty glasses clink at your feet as you push through, a balcony coming into view holding another hundred people. And in the middle of it all, a large stature with the words Studio 54.
You made it.
You're immediately thrown into the chaos. Grabbing a hold of your friend's hand, the two of you begin swaying to the electric current of the music with large grins and a heart full of content. Your sparkly satin dress glides against your skin effortlessly, loose hair brushing your shoulders with every movement. It feels liberating, and definitely like the alternate universe you've heard about through whispers and rumours.
Time passes by like a blur, and before you know it, your friend is dragging you by the hand towards the bar for a seat.
"God, I am never leaving this place."
Your friend laughs, adjusting herself on the barstool and crossing a leg over the other. Your spine rests against the edge of the bar as you cast your gaze around the expanse of the theatre. Your fingers twitch with the urge to head back into the rhythm of bodies, however, you stay put.
"It's incredible. I've never seen anything like it. And the amount of celebrities? I think we're in heaven." your friend says.
"We really are."
Just then, the music changes in tempo, melting into the opening beats of a song that has gained a lot of traction this year, but one you know to be written by one of your most favourite artists.
"Stop. We need to dance. Now."
You're taking a hold of your friend's hand as soon as you slip down from the barstool, hips already swaying to the groovy rhythm of Get On The Floor. She follows close behind in the same pursuit and you spin around once you've pushed through deeper onto the dance floor to face her, the memorised lyrics oozing like honey from your lips.
You find yourself gliding through the space with ease, watery movements causing you to filter past more familiar faces and a knowing glance to your friend each time partnered with a childish giggle. The lyrics of the song only entice you further. And then, your back bumps against someone and you turn around with the intention of apologising briefly and moving past, only to freeze completely.
Michael Jackson.
Not the one printed on album covers. Not the one on the radios. Not the one on television screens.
Him.
The one you’ve watched growing up. The one you’ve danced alongside on your bedroom floor. The one who you’ve admired most out of all his brothers and the one whose solos have gone off the charts.
And you just bumped into him. And he's standing here, right in front of you with a feathery smile and a chest heaving with laboured breaths.
"I'm so sorry. I—"
He glances down at your outfit, eyes slowly raking over your appearance before he meets your gaze again. Your heart hammers against your chest, every nerve in your body tingling with the sensation of shock and pure disbelief that he's standing right in front of you. A black silky shirt, sweat glistening against the skin of his collarbones and hair slightly damp yet still perfectly styled.
"I—um..." His words seem to drift every time he opens his mouth, a hand reaching up to scratch the back of his neck. "Sorry, I wasn't paying attention."
Your mouth opens to form a reply, but it takes a while for the words to actually pass. You swallow once and release a shaky breath of air, steadying yourself. "It's okay. Neither was I."
Michael smiles in response, pearly whites glistening beneath the flash of colour around you. Everything around you seems to move as normal, yet time between the two of you seems to have slowed. "I... haven't seen you around before. Do you wanna—"
"Is everything okay?"
The song has long ended and it seems that so has your moment with Michael as soon as your friend pops her head over your shoulder, concerned with how long you've spent conversing with a stranger over an accidental collision.
Michael glances at your friend then you again, taking a step back with a small tug of his lips. "Sorry, have a good night."
And then he turns away, pushing himself into the current of the crowd. The last thing you see is his tuft of curly hair before he vanishes like a simple fleeting moment.
"That was Michael Jackson."
"Yes."
"You just spoke to Michael Jackson."
"Yes."
You turn to face your friend, your smile failing to dissolve with the weight of your interaction with one of your all-time favourite artists and celebrity crushes. He was absolutely mesmerising. Everything about him — his curly hair, his dark eyes, his beaming smile, his effortless style, his soothing voice, his polite manners — is all just too much.
Starstruck is an understatement.
"No way." Your friend grabs a hold of both your arms, her slight shake awakening you into the present moment. "You love him, right?"
"Love? What? No!" You try to brush off the nerves of the encounter, your lips dropping as you try to feign normalcy with a shrug. "I just... like his music. That's all. And he's pretty cool."
"He's gorgeous." The word drips from her tongue slowly, and every bone in your body agrees but for some reason you don't want to engage in it. Probably because it would lead to you simply freaking out and chasing after him like a dog without a leash only for him to run away and leave you as a dejected puddle on the floor. "Go talk to him."
"I can't."
"Why not?"
Your mind swims for an answer for a second before reaching for her hand, pulling her alongside you into the meld of people. "I wanna dance!"
You quickly adjust to the rhythm of music again and time melts away like butter on a stove, yet the lingering weight of the interaction remains in the back of your head. What you don't know is that Michael feels the exact way, standing only feet apart from you as he glances over his shoulder every so often to find you smiling and moving perfectly in time with the beats of music. Your dress sparkles like light catching against diamonds and he so badly wants to approach you without seeming intrusive but he doesn't know how.
"He's looking." Your friend says, her gaze trained far behind you. You turn your head without thinking, finding him standing much closer than you expected, and meeting his curious stare that spreads a warmth across your face.
When you face away, you find your friend’s hand raised in a gentle wave and your eyes pop from their sockets. "Stop—what are you doing!" You speak through gritted teeth, pulling her hand back down.
She laughs, still looking past you. "He's coming over."
"What?"
A moment later there's a tap on your left shoulder, and you snap your head in that direction only to be met without a culprit. Then when you straighten your neck, Michael Jackson is standing on the opposite side, whispering something into the ear of your friend. She keeps her gaze on you with a light smile before nodding, reaching up to cup a hand around his ear and hushing something back. A ball drops in your stomach at the sight, and you take a small step back.
And then, he stands straight and extends a hand in your direction with an eager grin. "Wanna dance?"
Your breath hitches in your throat at the sudden invitation. Bodies continue to push and pull against you yet you stay put, staring down at his warm open palm with wavering deliberation.
You glance at your friend once, who beckons you on with an earnest nod then at Michael, whose smile begins inching down with every paused moment.
With your heart in your throat, you slip your hand into his. Colloused and warm, just like you imagined. You’re both beaming and soon he's leading you towards the corner of the dancefloor where he previously stood, spinning back around and pulling you in. Heat and faded cologne radiate from every pore, along with the glitter of sweat across his temples and skin exposed from the open plackets of his dress shirt. The silk disappears beneath the waist band of his slim trousers, a buckled belt to keep them in place, and flaring slightly over heeled loafers that project him slightly taller than he is.
He moves in sync with you to the groove of the beat, his eyes never straying far from yours or your figure. He takes your hand again, lifting it above your head as you twirl with the motion, laughing gently yet beginning to loosen up in his presence. You do the same for him, lifting his own above his head to spin him around only for him to burst into a soft laugh after you.
He takes a moment before fingertips trail up the skin of your bare arms, a residual tingle of electricity in place as he reaches your shoulder, carefully brushing against your hair whilst his other hand slithers onto your waist. "Is this okay?"
"Yeah," you breath out, stepping in a little closer to slide your hands over his shoulders. Your eyes dart between his, mirroring his shy smile yet on the inside, you're bursting with glee. "I'm a really big fan of yours."
"Yeah?" he replies, and you feel him pull you microscopically. Maybe subconscious.
"I've been watching you since I was little." You're trying your best not to let your composure slip, the realisation once again settling in that you're dancing with Michael Jackson. "I love your music, especially your new album. I know every song."
"Really?" He laughs lightly, his dark eyes sparkling in recognition of your admiration before he glances away, looking down. “I appreciate that.”
You can gather that he’s a little shy, and from what you know about him, he always has been. “You’re welcome.”
Looking up, he meets your gaze with a tilt of his head, biting down on his bottom lip as he thinks of his next sentence. "You're a dancer?"
Your brows draw together at his correct assumption. "How do you know?"
"I could just tell.” He shrugs a shoulder, his hand trailing up your arm once before dropping to your waist. You feel impossibly close to him, your bodies pushed together, his hair ticking your face with every movement of his head. "You move like one. Like the music flows through your bones. And…” His sight drops again, the words slipping past just above a whisper, like they’re only meant for you to hear. “I think you’re really pretty, too.”
Dazzled by his quiet sincerity, you break your gaze from him for the first time. Never would you have thought Michael Jackson would be complimenting you instead of the other way around. It’s surreal, and your words spill in the same hushed tone, "thank you."
"You’re welcome." His confidence begins to teeter on its final push as he sucks in a breathful of air. You look up, finding his mouth strung open, searching for the right words. "I… don't wanna keep your friend waiting for too long, but I'd like to see you again, sometime." His eyes search yours for an answer. "If that's okay."
The corner of your lips tug up, your head dropping to the side a little. He's sweet, and if you weren't so sure that you were so in awe of his admirable qualities then you definitely are now. "I'd love to see you again, Michael."
"Good, I mean... yeah—me too."
Laughing gently, you pull him closer to wrap your arms around his neck, nestling your face into the soft skin between that and his shoulder for a warm hug, then you both pull back a moment later. “Um, you got something I can write on?”
“A pen?”
“No… I mean, yeah. Both, actually.”
Retreating from his heat, you reach down towards your sparkly thin shoulder bag and shuffle around. “Um… I don’t have anything really.” You fingers brush upon one of your lipsticks and a napkin, pulling them out. “This good?”
He laughs at the sight, gathering them from your grasp. His fingers fumble with the lipstick before he finally pops it open, resting the napkin on his open palm as he attempts to scribble down his number. The numbers are just barely legible, and his lips quirk with irritation at the difficulty. “Uh, you can’t really see it. Lemme get yours instead.”
Peering down at the scribble of numbers, you giggle before trying for yourself. You flip the napkin over, twisting the bottom of the lipstick for more give, and carefully etch your number with ease before handing it over. He holds the napkin between both of your hands, finding your name and number somehow written with perfection. “That lipstick is rigged.”
Laughing, you slip the lipstick back into your bag as Michael folds the napkin and stuffs it into his pocket.
Neither of you realised it then, but beneath the glittering lights of Studio 54, between one dance and a lipstick-stained napkin, something extraordinary had already begun.
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