┊🔮┊ OPEN FOR FANFIC REQUESTS ┊🔮┊they/them ┊🔮┊Lesbian (???) ┊🔮┊Certified Misty Day lover ┊🔮┊ Queen, Michael Jackson and Fleetwood Mac stan👑🎶 ┊🔮┊ Theater is my passion ┊🔮┊Stevie Nicks and a bunch of witches own me ┊🔮┊Might post my arts or stories here too ┊🔮┊ig: leonaisdramatic ┊🔮┊Michael Jackson's Pretty Young Thing ┊🔮┊ 18+ ┊🔮┊tiktok: sandytheraccoon · · · · ❥៚
im never gonna understand those tumblr accounts who have been spamming the dumb allegations and name calling abt michael under MICHAEL fanbase posts. yall obsessive and dumb as hell😭😭
“Elvis didn't do it. Beatles didn't do it. We have to be phenomenal. When people leave this show, when people leave my show, I want them to say, I've never seen nothing like this in my life. Go. Go. I've never seen nothing like this. Go. It's amazing. He's the greatest entertainer in the world. I'm taking that money, a million children, children's hospital, the biggest in the world. Michael Jackson Children's Hospital. Gonna have a movie theater, game room. Children are depressed. The — in those hospitals, no game room, no movie theater. They're sick because they're depressed. Their mind is depressing them. I want to give them that. I care about them, them angels. God wants me to do it.
Don't have enough hope, no more hope. That's the next generation that's gonna save our planet, starting with — we'll talk about it. United States. Europe. Prague, my babies. They walk around with no mother. They drop them off, they leave — a psychological degradation of that.
I'm gonna do that for them. That will be remembered more than my performances. My performances will be up there helping my children (of the world) and always be my dream. I love them. I love them because I didn't have a childhood. I had no childhood. I feel their pain. I feel their hurt. I can deal with it. 'Heal the World.' 'We Are the World.' 'Will You Be There.' 'The Lost Children.' These are the songs I've written because I hurt, you know, I hurt.”
This is one of the last things Michael Jackson ever talked about, even while he was being heavily drugged by his murderer, and you people expect me to believe he was like Epstein or the damn President of America? We owe it to him to fight for his legacy. We are the very children he was speaking of. We are the very children he wanted to protect.
A/N: Hiii! I'm still waiting for an available room in the ward for my chemotherapy this morning so I finished Chapter 3 using the time I have! I also have an offer for a one-shot and it'll be about Producer!Succubus!reader x Vampire!Michael, it'll be very suggestive but no smut yet. If you guys like it, I might make a second part which is smut. This idea was originally proposed by my great friend, @im-eir! That is all, please let me know what you think of the one-shot idea and of course this chapter. As always, I'm very open to feedback and criticism about my writing. Enjoy reading! Love ya!💋
If you think Silverthorne Studios was a prestige modern building where auditions are held for theater and film, you are terribly mistaken.
This building was abandoned in 1956 due to a fire incident. The architecture style is old, and the walls reek of agony from its past.
Silverthorne Studios had been condemned twice.
Which, to Y/N Bonifacio meant it possessed excellent artistic potential.
Bonifacio immediately bought the property as it is, made a few renovations necessary for auditions like sound system, room for props and costume. But it was not enough to hide the horrors brought by the past.
“It smells haunted,” Teresa muttered while unlocking the studio gates.
Y/N inhaled thoughtfully.
“Dust. Mold. Regret. Perfect.”
The building towered at the end of an empty street, all cracked windows and faded grandeur beneath the rainy evening sky.
Half the lights inside flickered inconsistently like the place itself couldn’t commit to being alive.
Michael had chosen the absolute worst possible weather to arrive looking beautiful.
Naturally.
Michael Jackson stepped out of a black car wearing a dark coat over rehearsal clothes, curls damp from rain, carrying an actual script covered in handwritten notes.
Y/N immediately regretted finding that adorable. “You annotated the script?”
Michael looked confused. “Was I not supposed to?”
“You’re a pop star.”
“…I can read.”
She looked away quickly because she almost smiled. "Come inside. You're gonna catch a cold if you stay there, idiot."
Dangerous territory.
Inside, the studio looked even better.
Long hallways.
Dust-covered props.
Ancient velvet curtains.
A suspicious draft despite the windows being shut.
Michael turned slowly in the center of the room.
“This place looks like somebody definitely died here.”
“Several people probably did.”
“…You say that very casually.”
Y/N set her bag down beside a fake coffin.
“Fear is just atmosphere with commitment.”
Michael stared at her.
“You say things that sound like promised curses."
“They usually are.” "Curses?" "A promise."
The audition itself started surprisingly well.
Too well.
That was the problem.
Michael wasn’t polished like trained actors.
He lacked technical precision sometimes, and his instinct to perform through movement showed in subtle ways.
But emotionally?
He was devastating.
Especially in silence.
Y/N sat behind the camera while Michael read a scene from House of Echoes, playing a grieving musician wandering through a church after his lover’s death.
“You said this place remembered us,” Michael read softly.
His voice echoed faintly through the abandoned studio.
“But I think it only remembers your ghost now.”
Y/N’s stomach did something deeply annoying.
Worse, Michael looked directly at her during the line.
Not flirtatiously.
Not performatively.
Just… honestly.
Like he wanted her specifically to understand the sadness in it.
The room went quiet after the scene ended.
Michael shifted awkwardly.
“…Was that bad?”
Y/N stared at him for a moment.
“No,” she admitted.
“Which is irritating."
Michael smiled brightly.
And at that exact moment, the power went out.
Total darkness swallowed the room instantly.
Silence.
Then:
“Jesus CHRIST,” Y/N hissed violently. A cold air passed by her shoulder, "TANGINANG LAMIG 'YAN!", she stepped back and tripped on a spare wood which made her squeal,
"MERDE!" she says with aggression. Then she stood straight, tried to compose herself, tried
to calm herself while whispering "Jesu, Maria y Jose..."
Somewhere nearby, Michael yelped at a fake skull he swore was never there before.
“I hate this already.”
“You’re the one who wanted the haunted plague building.”
“It had atmosphere!”
Thunder cracked outside.
Something metallic clattered somewhere deeper inside the studio.
Michael immediately moved closer to her in the darkness.
Y/N pretended not to notice this.
“I’m sure it’s just electrical failure,” she announced with the confidence of someone lying professionally.
“You sound terrified. Was that a prayer you just muttered?"
“I am evaluating possibilities.”
“You cursed in three languages.”
“I'm trilingual with stress."
Another loud BANG echoed from another room.
Michael grabbed her arm instantly.
Y/N nearly ascended directly into heaven.
“DON’T DO THAT.”
“You screamed!”
“I reacted.”
“You threatened Satan personally.”
“He knows what he did.”
Michael started laughing nervously.
The idiot was actually enjoying this now.
Then Y/N heard it.
Footsteps.
Slow.
Dragging.
Somewhere down the hallway.
She froze instantly.
Michael noticed.
“…Y/N?”
She raised one elegant finger.
“Shut up.”
The footsteps continued.
Closer.
Michael whispered:
“…You hear that too, right?”
“Yes.”
“…Cool. Cool cool cool.”
Another pause.
Then suddenly Michael leaned closer and whispered directly near her ear:
“Maybe it’s one of the spirits in this building."
Y/N shrieked.
Actually shrieked.
Not dignified.
Not glamorous.
Pure horrified panic.
“SON OF A BITCH!”
Michael immediately burst into laughter so violent he doubled over.
“You got scared!”
“You absolute RAT.”
“You jumped like six feet!”
“You whispered like a serial killer!”
Michael looked unbearably pleased with himself.
“You said you weren’t scared.”
“I’m not scared.”
“You threatened to punch a ghost.”
“Self-defense is universal.”
Then lightning flashed through the windows.
For one split second, both of them saw something dangling from the ceiling farther down the
hall.
A severed hand. Bloody. Too real in candlelight lighting and darkness.
Michael screamed this time.
Y/N grabbed his sleeve immediately.
“Why are you yelling?!”
“THERE’S A HAND.”
“It’s probably a prop!”
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN BY PROBABLY?!"
Another light flickered on somewhere deeper inside the studio.
Red.
Low and ominous.
Smoke drifted faintly from beneath a doorway.
Michael pointed accusingly.
“No. Absolutely not. Horror movie rules say we leave. Oh, I really don't like this right now."
“Horror movie rules also say splitting up is stupid.”
“So we don’t split up.”
"I wasn't planning to!"
That slipped out too naturally.
Both of them paused.
Then immediately ignored it.
Y/N marched forward first with dramatic false confidence.
Michael followed suspiciously close behind her.
“You walk like someone trying not to cry,” Y/N informed him.
“I’m trying my best to survive.”
“You have zero survival instincts.”
“You walked TOWARDS the creepy red room.”
“That’s because I understand narrative structure.”
Michael stared at her.
“You would die first in real life.”
“I absolutely would not.”
“You investigate noises.”
“You panic vertically.”
They continued bickering all the way down the hallway.
Michael screamed at a hanging costume.
Y/N flinched violently when a prop skull rolled unexpectedly across the floor.
At one point she became so genuinely unnerved she stopped beside a doorway and quietly
muttered something, a chant or a prayer? under her breath while touching one of her rings.
Michael blinked.
“…Are you doing witchcraft right now?”
“I am considering preventative spiritual measures.”
“You’re seriously exorcising the hallway?”
“You seriously screamed at a silicon prop.”
The red-lit room finally came into view.
Smoke poured dramatically beneath the door now.
Michael looked at her.
Y/N looked at him.
Neither wanted to admit they absolutely did not want to enter first.
“You’re the horror actress.”
“You’re the zombie.”
zz
Another thunder crack BOOMED outside.
The mezzanine's walls continued banging as if
someone was running or punching the walls.
Y/N instinctively stepped backward.
Directly onto the hem of her own heel.
Everything happened at once.
A startled gasp.
A loss of balance.
One extremely undignified curse.
And suddenly Y/N Bonifacio, Hollywood’s untouchable scream queen, crashed directly into
Michael Jackson’s arms.
Silence.
Michael caught her instinctively, hands gripping her waist while both stared at each other in
shock.
Way too close.
Y/N could hear his heartbeat.
Michael looked equally startled by the proximity.
They look like a newlywed ghost couple married in a haunted gothic church.
Then:
Floodlights exploded on overhead.
The smoke machine stopped.
Applause erupted from somewhere behind them.
Y/N blinked slowly.
Teresa stepped out holding a camcorder with the expression of someone spiritually fulfilled.
Behind her stood several crew members absolutely losing their minds laughing.
Y/N’s voice went lethally calm.
“…Explain.”
Teresa wiped tears from her eyes.
“You two have ridiculous chemistry.”
Michael still hadn’t let go of Y/N completely. Y/N is back on her feet, but Michael's hands
were still on her waist.
Neither seemed aware of this yet.
Y/N pointed accusingly.
“You orchestrated psychological warfare.”
“I orchestrated cinema.”
One crew member wheezed:
“The part where Michael screamed at the fake hand—”
“IT LOOKED REAL.”
Teresa grinned wickedly.
“And the part where Ms. Bonifacio almost performed an exorcism on the entire building?”
“It was protective precaution.”
Then Teresa lifted the camcorder triumphantly.
“Oh, and we recorded everything.”
Y/N closed her eyes.
Michael whispered beside her:
“…We’re never recovering from this."
“No,” Y/N muttered darkly.
“We are going to HELL.”
Teresa smirked.
“Actually, you’re going to star in House Of Echoes together. The camera caught everything perfectly and you guys accidentally created a decent horror movie. You guys are starting to look like you both could play Ed and Lorraine Warren if they ever decide to make a biopic.”
Y/N’s eyes snapped open.
“…What?! You can't just make decisions for me!”
Teresa pointed at both of them dramatically.
“Pfft. Please. The chemistry is disgusting. The audience deserves it.”
Michael looked stunned.
Then slowly turned toward Y/N with dangerous hope creeping into his expression.
Y/N saw it immediately.
And pointed one warning finger directly at him, warning in a passive aggressive tone.
A/N: Hi! So, my chemotherapy got postponed today because there's no available room for me to stay admitted in, the hospital's currently full today. Which means I had today to come up with this and solidify my concepts for Chapter 3-4. I really love doing this because it does help with anxiety. Your support means so much too. I forgot to mention, I'm opening a tag list for everyone who wants to stay updated every time a chapter is out, just let me know in the comments. I'm open to feedbacks, suggestions, ideas and criticism as well, I'd actually appreciate it. Let me hear you guys! Anyway, I hope you enjoy this one. I promise the next chapter will be exciting 😈. Love ya! 💋
Warnings: None
POV: Third Person, Use of Y/N
Characters, color-coded dialogues:
• Y/N Bonifacio
• Michael Jackson
• Teresa Briggs (Y/N's Personal Assistant, OC)
• Background Characters
Taglist 🏷️: @aengiexz @gissellec1
Other chapters: Chapter One, Chapter Three
(Note: Divider from Pinterest, not mine!)
Three weeks after the release of Thriller, the world collectively lost its mind.
They were selling millions per week which only meant one thing.
Y/N Bonifacio and Michael Jackson are a dangerous combination.
The music video exploded across television screens like a cinematic virus.
Critics called it revolutionary.
Fans called it addictive.
Parents called it satanic.
Teenagers called it hot.
Bonifacio called it:
“Annoyingly effective.”
Which was high praise.
Unfortunately, this also meant one very specific problem had entered her life permanently.
Michael Jackson had become unbearably smug.
Not publicly.
Publicly, Michael remained charming, polite, soft-spoken.
Privately?
He had started weaponizing eye contact and generosity.
She blamed herself entirely for this development.
“You stared at him too long,” her personal assistant Teresa informed her over breakfast one morning.
Y/N looked up from the newspaper with deep offense.
“I assessed special effects makeup.”
“You assessed it like you wanted to devour him in place.”
Before Y/N could respond, the mansion doorbell rang.
Then rang again.
Then again.
Aggressively.
Teresa frowned. “Who sends flowers at eight in the morning like they’re declaring war?”
A footman entered moments later looking visibly alarmed.
“Ms. Bonifacio…”
He hesitated.
“There’s… more outside.”
Y/N narrowed her eyes immediately.
“What do you mean more?”
Then she walked into the foyer.
And stopped dead.
Flowers.
Everywhere.
Towering arrangements of black calla lilies, deep crimson roses, dark dahlias, black feathers, thorned vines, velvet ribbons.
It looked less like a romantic gift and more like a Victorian widow had buried six husbands at once.
The roses even had carefully trimmed thorns left intentionally intact.
Safe enough to touch.
Sharp enough to feel dangerous.
Y/N stared in stunned silence.
Teresa crossed herself.
“Jesus Christ.”
“No,” Bonifacio murmured faintly. “This is much gayer than Jesus Christ.”
One arrangement rested separately from the others.
Smaller.
More elegant.
A black card tucked between the flowers.
The actress picked it up carefully.
"Dear Y/N,
Thank you for helping make Thriller terrifying in the right ways instead of embarrassing in the wrong ways.
You said horror deserves seriousness. I remembered that.
Also… I was wondering if maybe you’d let me audition for one of your movies someday? I trust you have the perfect role for me.
I promise I’d work really hard, and I'll audition just like everybody else.
Even if you still think I move like “seductively taxidermized wildlife.”
With admiration and magic, Michael."
Y/N closed her eyes.
Teresa immediately lunged for the card.
“Oh, this is catastrophic.”
“It is not catastrophic. It is ridiculous.”
“He sent you funeral flowers. The dedication...”
“They’re... tasteful.”
“You want them in your bedroom, don’t you?”
“I absolutely do not.”
Silence.
The actress handed the card to a servant with perfect dignity.
“Move the large arrangements into the east wing living room.”
“And the smaller one?” Teresa asked.
Y/N sighed and muttered hesitantly,
“…my bedroom.”
Teresa gasped like a Victorian woman witnessing ankle. “Y/N BONIFACIO.”
“They match the curtains and the color of my bedsheets.”
The entire staff exchanged knowing looks, their boss is acting slightly strange tonight. Had she gone possessed? Perhaps under a love spell?
No one was brave enough to ask, nor speak.
Unfortunately, everyone was thinking the same thing:
Oh, she’s doomed.
The world renowned velvet goth queen spent the rest of the day pretending the flowers had no emotional effect on her whatsoever.
This became increasingly difficult.
Especially because they smelled incredible.
Dark roses and incense and something faintly earthy beneath it all.
Like rain falling in a cemetery garden.
Which somehow felt painfully Michael.
Not seductive in a traditional way.
Not macho.
Thoughtful.
Like he’d stood there genuinely trying to imagine what would make her happy.
And damn it, he hit the jackpot.
No man would dare take risk to give her something as eccentrically beautiful, nor did any man seem to care about her floral choices.
No man except Michael, apparently...
That realization disturbed her more than anything else.
By evening, she was sprawled dramatically across a velvet chaise lounge rereading the note for the seventh time when the phone rang.
Teresa shouted from another room:
“If that’s the undertaker you married emotionally, I’m not saving you.”
Y/N ignored her and answered.
“This is Y/N Bonifacio from Bonifacio Estate. Who's this?”
A pause.
Then:
“…Hi.”
Michael.
Soft.
Tentative.
And suddenly Y/N became increasingly aware that she was barefoot, holding funeral roses, and smiling involuntarily.
What a disgusting behavior.
“Michael... You’ve infected my house with gothic horticulture,” she informed him immediately.
Michael laughed softly on the other end.
“So, you got them.”
“The neighbors think I died.”
“That bad?”
“That dramatic.”
He sounded delighted by that.
There was rustling on the other line, like he was pacing nervously.
Then:
“Did you like them?”
Y/N looked toward the black roses resting beside her bedroom window.
“…Unfortunately.”
Michael laughed harder this time.
Warm and bright and impossible not to react to.
God, she hated that sound.
She wanted to hear it again immediately.
“So,” he said carefully after a moment, “about the audition…”
Y/N leaned back dramatically.
“Michael.”
“Mm?”
“You are becoming one of the most famous men alive.”
“…That’s not a no.”
“You dance exceptionally well.”
“Still not a no.”
“You also spent an entire evening pretending to be a werecat and a zombie.”
“I committed emotionally to the role.”
The actress pinched the bridge of her nose because he sounded genuinely earnest about that.
“You want to act in horror.”
“I really do.”
“Why?”
A pause.
Then, quieter:
“Because horror feels honest.”
That caught her off guard.
Michael continued before she could respond.
“In horror movies, people show who they really are when they’re scared. I like that.”
Y/N went still.
There it was again.
That strange depth beneath the glittering public image.
The thing that made him dangerous to her specifically.
Because every now and then, Michael stopped sounding like a pop star and started sounding like someone profoundly lonely.
“You’d still have to audition properly,” she reminded.
“I will.”
“I don’t hand out roles because people send me emotionally manipulative flower arrangements.”
“They weren’t manipulative. I just thought it'd make you happy.”
“They do look stolen from Dracula’s funeral.”
Michael let out a genuine laughter.
Then silence settled briefly between them.
Bonifacio could practically hear his nerves through the phone.
“So…” he said eventually, softer now. “If you really don’t want me to audition, it’s okay.”
And there it was.
Not ego.
Not entitlement.
Just genuine willingness to accept rejection.
For some reason, that made her chest ache unexpectedly.
Damn him.
She exhaled sharply.
“Saturday.”
Silence.
“…What?”
“Saturday. Eight o’clock. Silverthorne Studios.”
Another stunned silence.
“You’ll read for the role of the musician grieving his dead wife in House of Echoes. It'll be psychological horror and it just might drive you crazy. I'll have my driver deliver the script to you tomorrow morning.”
Michael made a tiny noise that sounded suspiciously like excitement overload.
“You mean it?”
“Don’t make me regret this.”
“I won’t. I promise.”
“Don't make promises... Yet.”
“I’ll work really hard.”
“You’d better.”
Michael sounded like he was smiling so brightly it physically altered the atmosphere around him.
“Thank you, Y/N. Thank you so much. I really appreciate this opportunity you've given me. You're an angel.”
She stared at the funeral flowers beside her bed.
“…Don’t thank me yet.”
But after hanging up, she sat there for a very long time holding the receiver thoughtfully.
Then Teresa appeared in the doorway.
One look at Y/N’s expression and she sighed deeply.
your best friend is dating one of the jackson brothers and one summer day she invites you over. who knew playing a game of twister would lead to this. (up to bad era).
t/w: smut, 18+ mdni, oral (fem receiving), fingering, p in v, breeding kink i guess? but also no?
wc: 5k
The California sun beat down on the pavement as you sat on the grass at the edge of the driveway. Watching through heart shaped sunglasses as the boys played basketball and your best friend sprawled out next to you sunbathing.
You were bored out of your mind and it was too hot to focus on the book you brought.
“Why’d you even bring me with you?”
“You need to get out more and you’re depressed.”
Rolling your eyes, you rested back on your palms. One would think having a friend be engaged to one of the Jackson’s would offer a little more excitement, but apparently not.
You’d been over to the house before, but only briefly. The first time you had been so nervous of potentially getting to see the Michael Jackson that you thought you might puke, but he had apparently been in the studio all night and likely wouldn't be joining.
You were far too embarrassed to ask your friend to get an autograph for you and knew you’d would rather drink a gallon of gasoline than give any sort of a hint of having a crush on the man.
“I’m not depressed,” you muttered.
“Right.”
“I’m not!” You just felt lonely sometimes, is all. And sometimes that feeling grew into not wanting to leave the house for three weeks.
The sound of a car caught your attention as well as the rest of the guys and your heart immediately lodged itself in your throat when you realized it was Michael.
The family yelled their greeting and you watched him get out with bated breath as he dug through the trunk for a moment.
Oh my god I’m seeing him with my own eyes.
“Guys, look! I got Twister.” He held up the box with a smile but it fell ever so slightly when his brothers weren’t paying him much attention.
“Twister? Really?”
“You guys wanna play?” He asked, a little hopeful.
“What are we gonna do with Twister?” Tito asked.
“Come on, it’ll be like the old days—“
“I can’t be playing games,” Jackie laughed him off before turning back to basketball.
“I’ll play with you.” You blurted the words out before you could think better of it.
Marlon pointed at you, “there you go. Problem solved.”
Michael turned to look at you and you felt like you’d been struck by lightning.
He considered you for a moment before he smiled again. “Oh, you must be the best friend I’ve heard so much about, it’s nice to finally meet you.”
Standing up on shaking legs, your own smile was tense. What had you just gotten yourself into? Twister? With Michael fucking Jackson. Good God.
“Keep missing each other, I guess.” There was a brief pause and you nodded down to the box. “So, Twister? Is it alright if I join you?”
You were probably delusional but you momentarily thought you saw him blush.
“Sure, yeah. Follow me.” He gestured with his head as he led the way into the house and you shot a panicked look over your shoulder at your friend whose expression seemed shocked, though amused more than anything.
Breathe. Just fucking breathe. He’s just a guy.
You felt lightheaded as you followed him up the stairs and down a hallway, and holy shit I’m about to be in Michael Jackson’s bedroom.
He opened the door for you and the moment you stepped in, you couldn’t help but smile.
“I love your room,” you said, taking in all the stuff he had.
He set the bag from the toy store down and rubbed at the back of his neck. “Sorry, it’s a bit of a mess.”
“I don’t think it’s messy, just filled with things you love.”
His lips tugged up at the slide slightly and he nodded. “I like that.”
A few beats of silence passed and he cleared his throat. “So, I’ll get this set up.”
Forty five minutes later you two were tangled up in a mess of flesh and bone and you had been laughing so hard your ribs hurt.
“You’re cheating.”
“I would never,” he laughed, inching a hand out to flick the spinner.
He tried to move his right foot to blue and the second he shifted you both collapsed into heap on the ground.
“This has been one hell of an ice breaker, I’ve already seen so many sides of you.” You laughed behind your hand and he covered his face, half shy but also an attempt to hide a laugh.
Rolling off of him, you laid down on your back trying to catch your breath. Reality felt fuzzy in a delightful way for the first time in what felt like ages.
“Thank you for doing this, by the way.”
You waved him off, “it was fun. Besides, I needed the reminder.”
Michael rolled onto his side and propped his head up with hand. His focused gaze on you surely made you look like a tomato. “Reminder for what?”
“To not take life so serious, sometimes. I don’t know, be a kid again? It probably sounds silly—“
“No, I get it.”
You shared a smile.
You felt like you had been living on a high the past two weeks after that. Catching yourself smiling without realizing it even though you hadn’t seen him since.
You were in the middle of making dinner when the phone rang. Nearly tripping over one of your cats as you made your way over and plucked it off the wall.
“Hello?”
“Hi, it’s Michael.”
You froze.
“Hello?”
Your tongue felt stuck to the roof of your mouth and then your cat meowed loudly, wanting his dinner.
“Hi, sorry. I just wasn’t… hi.” You squeezed your eyes shut and lightly banged your head on the wall.
“I hope it’s okay, but your friend gave me your number and I just wanted to ask if you were free tonight. I know it’s short notice.”
“No, no. I’m free.” Jesus, desperate much? “Um, what do you have in mind?”
And that’s how you ended up standing on the front porch, too nervous to ring the doorbell. He told you to dress comfortably and you weren’t entirely sure what that meant so you landed on jeans and a crewneck.
Deep breaths, you’re fine.
You rang on the doorbell and a few moments later it swung open and there he was. Dressed in simple black slacks and a white tee. Looking fine as hell.
Focus.
“Come on in,” he smiled and as you walked past him, you got a whiff of his cologne. God, he smelt heavenly.
“So, what’s the plan?”
“You like movies?”
You don’t know how it happened but later into the night you must’ve dozed off, your head slumping onto Michael’s shoulder given the distance between you had gradually dwindled.
You woke up briefly, still hazy with sleep with the glow of the television dancing across your eyes when you felt a weight against you. Michael had dozed off as well, his head resting atop yours and you could now die a happy woman.
You knew it didn’t mean anything.
That’s how your friendship developed. That’s how the weeks went by: simple, elementary-like hang outs. Games and movies mostly. Sometimes a pool day with the rest of the family.
You didn’t mind. You loved it, actually. Getting those small moments with him sprinkled across the months when he had a rare bit of free time.
Your friend flicked some water at you.
“What?” You lowered your heart glasses, glaring against the sun.
“You’re glowing.” She mused.
“In a sun-kissed way or put more sunscreen on way.”
“No, silly. Just… you look happy.”
You shrugged and lifted your shades back up. “I am happy.”
“Good. Keep it up for my wedding, please.”
Rolling your eyes, you kicked water at her.
Meanwhile up on the back patio, Tito had his feet propped up while he and Michael played cards.
“So, what's the deal?”
Michael raised a brow at him, “what do you mean?”
Rolling his eyes at his brother, he nodded to the two girls in the pool. “You and her.”
Michael let out a laugh and shook his head. “We’re just friends.”
“Right. And is that all you wanna be?”
Placing down a card, he let his eyes drift to you. Watching how the sunlight caught in the pool and glimmered off your skin like glitter.
Right off the bat he thought you were beautiful. Seeing you the first time sitting in the sun with those heart sunglasses you always wore, your hair done up in a messy way that still had a sense of intent behind it. When you two first played Twister all those months ago, he couldn’t remember the last time he had been that nervous around a girl.
And he had… thought about it. How could he not? He was a romantic at heart but he felt like with you he had truly found something special. Their own safe little bubble to escape to and he didn’t want to ruin it.
Besides… “I don’t have time for stuff like that, Tito.”
He clicked his tongue, “don’t forget to get out of your own way, sometimes. You’re allowed to want normal things.”
Later that night he woke up in a sweat and his pajama pants feeling a little too tight, the dream he had been having still on the edges of his mind and he groaned before falling back against the pillows.
It wasn’t the first time and probably wouldn’t be the last.
Your sunglasses were perched on your nose as you held some food out to Lily, watching in amusement as the llama plucked it from your hands.
“There you are, Marlon said you were out here somewhere.”
Turning, you saw Michael approach with that smile to die for plastered on his face. “You ready?”
“Mhm.” With a scratch behind Lily’s ears, you followed him back into the house. It was Twister Tuesday, after all.
You had taken off your shoes as Michael shifted through records before deciding which one he wanted to play.
The air felt a little different but you couldn’t quite place why. Maybe it wasn’t different at all. You always felt a little overwhelmed being with him. His presence felt otherworldly. Like his soul was too big for body.
“I’ve been stretching, so prepare to lose.” You cracked your knuckles for effect and he shook his head with a laugh before spinning the dial.
Twister was a huge mistake.
A massive, horrible mistake.
He didn’t know what was wrong with him. Maybe it was his conversation with Tito, but he knew he’d been feeling… something, for a while now. Maybe his brother just shone a light on it to make it finally click for him.
He liked you.
Which was incredibly annoying because you probably didn’t like him back and now here he was, completely tangled up around your body.
Such a dumb idea.
You turned to get a more balanced angle on your next move and your ass was right next to his crotch and he looked up at the ceiling with a silent prayer.
He was a gentleman through and through but that didn’t stop his mind from racing back to all those dreams he’s had.
Pressing you into his mattress. You bent over in the studio. His head between your thighs in the backseat of one of his cars: the red Corvette to match your heart sunglasses.
Fuck.
“Michael, it’s your turn.”
He cleared his throat, trying to maneuver in the best way possible to reach down to grab the spinner without completely pressing himself into your backside.
A small voice in the back of his head told him to do it anyway, but he snuffed it out.
When it landed on what color he needed to move his hand to, he felt like he was going to throw up his heart but he also couldn’t help the rush of adrenaline.
He could do this. It’s just a game. He bent over slightly to move his hand to the correct position, catching himself from falling over by gently resting his hand on your thigh for a moment and he could’ve sworn he felt you suck in a breath.
“Your turn.” It came out lower than he intended.
When you reached over to spin for your turn, it caused you to push back a bit and directly into him.
He was pretty sure his brain short circuited.
“Sorry,” your voice was a quick whisper and you quickly corrected yourself and he let himself peek down at your face. You were blushing like crazy but what really did it in for him was you biting into your bottom lip.
“It’s okay,” he reassured. Something not quite human was trickling into his mind because he was only aware he had leaned forward till he felt you lightly be pressed into him again.
Your breath slowly grew heavier, or maybe it was his. He wasn’t sure.
“You still haven’t moved.” He muttered, his tone dancing on the edge of a whisper.
What a dangerous game this had turned into.
You hummed and when you slid one of your legs back he couldn’t help it as he sucked a breath in sharply.
Your legs were spread wider now.
And he was as hard as a rock and ninety percent sure you could feel it.
He barely moved and he felt your pulse, there, against him.
Biting down on his lip so hard he thought he might bleed, he spun for his turn.
A moment passed.
Your voice was rough around the edges, “what’s it say?”
He could do this. Either his head was filled with lustful delusions of you also wanting this or he was about to make an absolute fool out of himself. But he wasn’t thinking straight so he went ahead with the reckless idea.
“It says my hand should go here,” and ever so slowly did he dance his fingertips along your side before resting on your hip.
You jolted but he kept his grip firm and when you whimpered he felt whatever restraint he had snap.
He grinded into you.
“Oh.” Your balance shifted and you fell forward on your hands, knees buckling but he went down with you, easily turning you over so you were laying beneath him on the floor.
The moment he caught sight of your blown pupils, he knew he had you.
“Michael?”
“Yeah?”
Your breaths were heavy as his face was mere inches from yours.
“Please—“
His mouth was on yours not a moment later, his heart fluttering when he felt your arms wrap around his shoulder to bring him closer.
It was messy and perfect.
His hips settled against yours and like always they had a mind of their own. But instead of music making them move, this time it was a woman.
He thrusted against you, the layers of clothes between your bodies beyond irritating and having you moan into his mouth only sent him into more of a frenzy.
He had never done this before.
His conscience prayed he locked the door because he knew his mother would have a heart attack even though he was in his twenties.
His tongue danced against yours and his hand lightly gripped your chin. You tasted like those cinnamon candies you loved and he couldn’t get enough of it.
His other hand danced down, hooking onto the edge of your pants to begin tugging them down and he decided he wanted to explore some more. His mouth and tongue trailing down your neck and chest, pushing your shirt up and out of the way.
When his mouth landed on one of your nipples, your back arched off the ground and you slapped a hand over your mouth.
“I wanna hear you,” he tugged your hand away and reached over to quickly turn the music up a little louder.
“Let me hear you,” he repeated, trailing his mouth down over your stomach and his eyes caught yours as he finally began to tug your pants down.
He had no idea what he was doing. But he was a perfectionist and he was determined to figure out how to make you feel just right.
“Michael, I’ve… I've never actually—“
“I haven’t, either.” He leaned forward and kissed you again. “We’ll figure it out together.”
You didn’t know what to expect, just that you were sure you had to be dreaming.
Then his fingers were suddenly down there and your hips jolted in surprise.
You were definitely awake.
And Michael was moving your underwear to the side and lightly dragging his fingers over you and you nearly thought you might cry.
In fact you thought you might start sobbing out of ecstasy when you watched him lift two fingers up to his mouth to get them wet before reaching back down.
Not like he needed to but you appreciated the visual.
God, his hands. You had always loved them but you had suddenly found a new appreciation for them as one slowly started to sink in.
“Oh!” That’s all you could manage with your head thrown back. It was a little tight but it didn’t hurt.
“You’re beautiful,” Michael muttered and you looked back at him and saw he genuinely looked mesmerized.
You were sure you were about to melt.
“I need more.” He was going torturously slow and it wasn’t enough. Not nearly.
He didn’t waste time as he sunk a second finger in and began to thrust them in and out, leaning forward with his other hand to capture your mouth with his.
It felt like you’d been injected with opium the moment his thumb trailed upward and rubbed against your clit. An embarrassing sound left you and you felt him smile into your mouth.
“I like that sound.”
And since he was good at everything almost immediately, he worked you with his fingers like it was second nature to him. Watching you with half lidded eyes as you came undone beneath him.
Just as you realized you were about to come, he disappeared from your line of sight and suddenly felt something hot and wet against you and you had to bite back a shout.
The moment you looked down to see him with his mouth on you as his fingers thrusted, you came.
Although you two still had your regularly scheduled game or movie nights for when he was available, some other things were thrown into the mix.
He couldn’t seem to get enough of you. Even if the hour was absurd after working on his next album, he’d call to see if you were awake.
Now, you two hadn't gone there yet. Though you desperately wanted to and he clearly did as well.
God, you felt high.
Two nights ago he had called a cab to come pick you up from your apartment and had you driven to his studio. It was three in the morning, the night silent.
When you knocked on the studio door and it opened, you didn’t even have time to say hello before his arms were around you and his lips were on yours.
He loved to kiss. Seemed to adore it.
Had you pressed against the wall and devouring you like he was starved.
You loved it and sometimes when you were going to bed at night you grew terrified you’d wake up and this was all a dream.
Two weeks had passed and you hated how much you missed him. Becoming addicted to his presence, which was inherently problematic given most of the time he was on tour for months on end.
You were curled up in bed trying to read a book when the phone rang and you practically lunged towards your nightstand.
“Hello?”
“Hey, baby.”
You let out a silent yell at that and fell back into the bed, kicking your feet in the air.
He had never called you that before.
You cleared your throat. “Hey.” So nonchalant, nice. “How’s New York?”
“Oh you know, busy. But I do like it.” There was a beat of silence. “I wish you were here.”
You stayed up talking till four in the morning.
A few more days had passed and this was supposed to be the day he came back. He said he’d call once he was settled at home and you couldn’t help but pace all day.
Deciding to hell with it and start getting ready.
You really didn’t know what you two were. Obviously not just friends, but you’ve never actually talked about it.
You wouldn’t even know where to begin and dating someone like him came with, well… the whole world being in your business.
You didn’t know if you could handle that. Then again you could be getting way ahead of yourself and Michael just liked fooling around.
He was the biggest star in the world, why would he have time for a girlfriend?
As you finished your hair and makeup you told yourself you didn’t mind, getting these pieces of him was enough. You were lucky. Just appreciate it while it lasts.
Besides, based on literally every news piece about him, girls throw themselves at him all the time. What makes you different?
Tying a robe around you, you were digging in your closet for an outfit when there was a knock on the door.
Your head was so caught up in the depressing cycle of your thoughts that you hadn’t bothered to look through the peephole and you stopped short at the sigh of Michael standing in front of you.
“What?-“
“I couldn’t wait.” He stepped in and grabbed hold of your face as he kissed you, kicking the door shut behind him.
“Michael, I would’ve cleaned—“
“Shut up.” He picked you up, blindly navigating your apartment considering he had never been there before.
You felt a little giddy at his urgency, meeting his mouth with a matched ferocity and eventually felt him lower you onto your bed.
You sat up on your elbows as you watched him undo the buttons on his shirt before tugging it off his head. Biting your lip as he undid his belt with ease.
He paused for a moment as his thumbs latched onto the edge of his pants, looking at you with a hungry glint in his eyes.
“I want you to be my girl.”
You bit your lip, trying to contain your smile and you nodded. “I want that, too.”
“Publicly,” he added. He seemed tense all of the sudden and you sat up, inching towards the end of the bed and you rested your hands on the sides of his face.
“Michael, I’ll be there. Right by your side.”
His eyes shut at your touch. “The press is… they’re like hounds. I just want to protect you from that, but I don’t want to hide you either.”
“Hey,” you pulled him into a hug and felt your heart beat against his as his arms wrapped around you. “As long as we’re by each other's side, they can’t get to us. They don’t matter, it’s just you and I. Okay? I can handle it.”
He pulled back a bit, brushing some of the hair out of your eyes. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Michael hummed and before another breath could pass, he had you on your back again and was kicking his pants off.
You’d seen him a few times now, but the sight of him still made your mouth water.
As he began to crawl up the bed, he kicked your legs apart with his knee and when you realized you two were about to properly have sex for the first time you felt so lightheaded the room started to spin.
You had honestly been under the assumption he wanted to wait to go all the way until marriage.
“This needs to come off,” he tugged at the sash of your robe and pushed the fabric aside, clearly pleased there was nothing underneath it.
His mouth was on yours, open and hungry, his tongue tracing the inside of your mouth and catching the gasp you left out when you felt the tip nudge against your entrance. Gliding up and sliding against your clit before going back down again, feeling like an absolute tease.
“Michael,” you didn’t mean for it to sound like a whine but it slipped out anyway.
He pressed his forehead against yours, seeming to try and restrain himself.
“I want to put a baby in you,” he said it quietly, almost to himself and you were sure you went even more red if possible.
“I… I mean, maybe one day. I’d prefer a ring first.” You weren’t entirely sure if you had crossed a line saying that because he leaned back to look at you. Really look at you.
Biting the inside of his cheek as he did so, and after a moment he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and kissed you lightly.
“Noted.”
Then his hips snapped forward and your jaw fell into a silent scream.
It was overwhelming in all the best ways and he laughed as his mouth caught yours, not wasting a second as he began to thrust into you at a relentlessly delicious pace.
Based on his dancing alone, you knew he could move his hips but oh my god.
You didn’t mean to but your nails dug into his back, desperate to find something to cling onto and you were sure you drew a little blood. It didn’t seem like he cared, in fact it might’ve spurred him on further because he then hooked both of his hands under your knees and brought them up, folding you in ways you didn’t think possible and fuck did he hit a whole new angle.
“Michael,” you cried. It felt good. Great. Too much.
“Say my name,” he urged, his pants heavy in your ear and you knew you’d never get enough of him.
You cried out his name again as you came, only half aware you were crying until you felt his thumb wipe away the tears and his thrusts got erratic.
You were sure you were seeing a glimpse of heaven as you watched him falter, his hips slamming into yours, muscles in his stomach tightening and his head thrown back as he came.
He collapsed on top of you, your sweat coated bodies and the scent of sex in the air providing a blanket of comfort.
You felt him twitch inside of you, maybe still a little too delusional to realize what the two of you had just done.
“I told you I wanted a ring first.” You half joked.
Michael kissed your shoulder and laughed.
Actually, he was laughing a little too much and you raised a brow at him. “What?”
“Would it be insane to say I already have one picked out?”
Four months later, the two of you walked hand in hand out of the wedding venue. Waving and smiling to the hundreds of press and fans as Bill ushered you to a car.
It wasn’t your wedding, but you and Michael decided to make it official with the public at his brother's wedding.
The glint of the engagement ring on your finger caught the flash of every camera.
Once the door shut, the outside world got a little quieter and Michael lifted your hand to his and placed a kiss on your knuckles.
The Bad tour would be starting soon and you’d get a little less time with him. That was alright, you’d be joining some of the major shows at least.
You assumed the universe knew the timing wouldn't be right and you didn’t end up pregnant. That didn’t help the slight heartbreak you felt when you handed him the negative test, watching his smile falter a bit but covering it up the best he could. He had pulled you into a hug, saying you’d try again soon. That it would happen when it was supposed to.
“Michael, I love you.”
He squeezed your hand with a smile. “And I love you.”
It was his second show at Wembley and you knew he was exhausted. He wouldn’t be up for a few more hours, given the sun was only just starting to rise.
You had already been up for an hour, fingers thrumming on the counter as you sipped on some tea. The ring on your finger a little heavier given you two had gotten married during a gap on the tour.
You were now Mrs Jackson everywhere you went and it was just a little bit sweeter considered you and your best friend were now sister-in-laws.
You still got butterflies every time you saw him. Your husband. He really wasn’t shy about you and you loved it. Blushing anytime he walked by because he loved to lightly slap your butt.
Your eyes flicked down. Not knowing what to do next. How long to let him sleep. He needed it, you knew that. You also knew he’d mad if he found out you didn’t tell him as soon as you knew. You also knew that anger would evaporate in a second.
He could sleep a little longer.
It was around noon when he finally got up, rubbing at his eyes and calling out for you with a rasp coating his voice.
“Baby?” He walked out into the living area of the hotel suite, pajama pants hung low on hips and he kissed you good morning.
As he turned around to grab some orange juice from the fridge, you slid the pregnancy test across the counter and watched in slight amusement as he came to an abrupt halt the moment he turned around.
You bit your lip, “you’re gonna be a daddy.”
His hand came up to his mouth, apparently speechless for a moment before he turned to look at you. Eyes turning red but you didn’t have time to dwell on it before he picked you up and kissed you.
A/N: We're starting fresh. I won't proofread twice. I just hope you guys like it cuz it's what I've been doing all day just to calm myself from anxiety. This legit helped me get through 3 meals today. Please please please, let me know what you think and if there are any errors in the grammar or accuracy. I would love to hear feedback and ideas from you guys. If I do like a certain idea and might put it in one of my chapters, I will directly mention you and appreciate your beautiful brain for coming up with such masterpiece. Won't talk much now, I just really hope you enjoy. 💋
Warnings: None.
POV: Third Person, use of Y/N
Characters and their color coded dialogues:
Y/N Bonifacio
Michael Jackson
Ola Ray
Director
Background characters
Taglist:
@aengiexz
Other chapters: Chapter Two, Chapter Three
(Note: Divider is not mine. 🦇)
The first thing Y/N Bonifacio noticed upon arriving at the set of Thriller was that someone had fundamentally misunderstood how dead people moved.
The second thing she noticed was the fog machine. Then, the props that looked like this was budgeted by a school production.
“Too much and too less at the same time,” she announced immediately upon stepping onto the soundstage.
Three production assistants were visibly startled.
“The fog?” “Everything."
Her cigarette glowed briefly beneath the dim lighting of the set as she surveyed the fake graveyard with judgemental disappointment.
It was close to midnight. Literally. Crew members rushed around carrying wires and makeup kits while dancers dressed as zombies groaned theatrically nearby, rehearsing their personal adlibs.
Y/N narrowed her eyes and points with blood red manicured fingers, nails sharp enough to cut paper, points it toward a specific dancer who looks to proud of himself to even notice his own mistake.
“One of the corpses is limping the wrong way. You,”
The dancer looked offended and confused. “I thought zombies dragged themselves.” “Yes, darling. Dragged. Not auditioned for a pirate film.” She said with sarcastic enthusiasm.
A familiar soft muffled laugh sounded somewhere behind her.
Y/N turned.
And there he was.
Michael Jackson stood beneath a flickering set light in a red varsity jacket, curls damp with sweat from rehearsal, trying and failing to suppress a grin.
Not smug. Not arrogant.
Worse...
Delighted.
Like she was the most entertaining thing he’d seen all evening.
He ran up to her and almost gave her a welcoming hug.
She stepped back with a blank expression and extended her arm for a formal handshake instead.
God, she hated how her heart leapt at that.
Michael's warm hands met hers, touch lingering longer than expected before Y/N abruptly pulled her hand away.
Wonderful. She already wanted to bite him.
The director hurried over nervously.
“Ms. Bonifacio, thank goodness, you’re here. We just wanted your expertise on horror realism, atmosphere, movement… Mr. Jackson and the whole team is happy to have you co-direct the entire production.”
“Hm.”
Michael stepped forward before the director could continue.
“I’m a really big fan of your movies!”
His voice was softer than she expected.
Not movie-star smooth. Not macho.
Gentle. Curious. Admiring.
Y/N removed her sunglasses slowly, eyes narrowed like a hawk sizing its prey.
“You’re younger in person.”
Michael smiled shyly. “That’s… usually not how people greet me.”
Y/N scoffs with a faint smile.
“You’ll survive.”
Another laugh escaped him.
To her, it sounded dangerous.
That laugh had warmth in it. Too much warmth. Like candlelight sneaking under a locked door.
She ignored the strange sensation entirely.
“Zombies, show me the choreography.” She clapped her hands sharply.
For the next hour, the set descended into absolute chaos.
Bonifacio stalked through the dancers like a glamorous executioner, silk scarf trailing behind her dramatically while she corrected every microscopic detail.
“You’re dead, not drunk.” “You were buried yesterday, not folded into a suitcase.” “No one decays symmetrically, sweetheart.” “You. Excellent collarbone tension. Keep doing whatever nightmare that is.” "You're limping the wrong leg. It's not rocket science, it's basic common sense."
Michael followed beside her the entire time.
Entirely too close.
Watching her with sparkling fascination while she lectured dancers on rigor mortis and cinematic dread.
“You know,” he said carefully, “most consultants aren’t this intense.”
Bonifacio stopped walking.
Then turned slowly.
“Most consultants don’t care whether your undead apocalypse looks horrifyingly embarrassing.”
Michael bit the inside of his cheek to stop smiling.
Though, instead of looking intimidated, he looked thrilled.
That should have concerned her more than it did.
Then came Ola Ray.
Beautiful. Radiant. Sweet smile.
Bonifacio sort of disliked that, maybe found it suspicious? For unknown reasons that she won't admit, even to herself.
Not consciously, of course.
Consciously, she simply had professional concerns.
Very serious professional concerns.
Ola rehearsed a frightened scene beside Michael while Y/N watched from behind the camera.
“No.” The director sighed internally. “What now?” “She wouldn’t stand that close.”
Ola questioned politely. “Why not?” “Because if a beautiful man with cheekbones like that stared at a woman in the dark like he planned to either kiss her or murder her, instinct would compel distance.”
Michael coughed violently into his hand.
Y/N ignored him.
The director rubbed his forehead. “Ms. Bonifacio—” “I’ll demonstrate.”
And before anyone could stop her, she stepped directly into Ola’s position opposite Michael. "Darling, if you'll excuse me. Would you mind stepping aside?" She spoke with hypnotizing smoothness that confused the other woman whether she should be scared or blushing.
Silence fell across set.
Michael looked surprised for exactly two seconds before his expression shifted into something deeply entertained.
Y/N pointed at him sternly.
“You are attempting seduction through horror.” Michael opened his mouth to explain. “No, don’t argue. I heard the lyrics.” A makeup artist snorted nearby.
Bonifacio folded her arms.
“You approach slowly. Predatory, but playful. You know she’s frightened, but you also know she likes it.”
Michael stared at her for a moment too long.
“…You really listened to the song.”
“For obvious reasons, I have ears and comprehension skills.”
Then she demonstrated the scene.
And suddenly everyone became painfully aware of the chemistry.
Crew members exchanged looks. The cameraman slowly lowered his coffee.
Because Y/N Bonifacio, Hollywood’s untouchable gothic queen, was staring at Michael Jackson like she wanted to devour him theatrically.
Meanwhile Michael looked one heartbeat away from forgetting every line he’d ever memorized in his life.
The director whispered: “…well. Damn.”
Y/N stepped back immediately.
“There. Better blocking.”
Ola looked between them with rapidly growing understanding.
“Oh my God...” she muttered.
Bonifacio shot her a warning glare.
Hours later, the transformation sequence began.
Bonifacio expected cheap camp.
Exaggerated effects. Rubber prosthetics. The usual music video nonsense.
Then Michael emerged from makeup.
And her soul briefly left her body.
Golden cat eyes. Sharp fangs. Leather jacket. Claws.
That smile.
Good Lord above.
Michael tilted his head slightly.
He noticed instantly.
Y/N’s expression had gone completely blank.
Not unimpressed blank. Catastrophically interested blank.
And the little bastard became smug.
Not openly, nor obvious. Which somehow made it worse.
Tiny things.
Straighter posture. Lingering eye contact. A smile threatening at the corners of his mouth.
Bonifacio felt homicidal.
“You seem pleased with yourself.” Michael blinked innocently. “Do I?” “Yes.” “Maybe the makeup’s working.” “You look absolutely ridiculous.” “Hey now, you stared at me for eight whole seconds.” “I was assessing the prosthetics.” “If you say so, Ma'am.” God help her, that boyish grin and handsome voice will kill her one of these days.
She wanted to throw herself directly into the Atlantic Ocean.
The filming continued.
Michael somehow became even more unbearable afterward.
Every flirtatious line delivery gained suspicious confidence.
Every grin lingered longer.
Every glance toward Y/N carried quiet amusement.
At one point he delivered: “Girl, I can thrill you more than any ghoul would ever dare try…” while looking directly at her behind the monitor.
Y/N nearly choked when she inhaled too much of her cigarette.
Insufferable creature.
On the good side of things, time was used wisely and so much has been made successfully within a day.
By dawn, filming finally wrapped.
Fog still curled across the empty set while exhausted crew members packed equipment away.
Bonifacio stood beside her car, digging through her purse for keys.
Then Michael appeared beside her unexpectedly.
Still partially in makeup. Still unfairly pretty.
“You leaving already?” He calls out in that annoyingly, sweetly, still energetic voice chasing after her.
“What gave it away? The vehicle?”
Michael smiled softly.
For a moment neither spoke. Only two brown eyes with gaze locked onto one another.
The quiet felt strangely intimate after hours of theatrical chaos.
Then Michael rocked slightly on his heels before asking:
“So…”
Y/N raised one eyebrow immediately.
“So?”
“…are you mad at me?”
His expression was devastatingly earnest. Big eyes. Tiny uncertain smile. Literal prosthetic makeup still on his face couldn't hide how adorable his face looks.
Bonifacio stared at him in disbelief.
“Do I look like I’m mad?”
Michael glanced at her icy expression.
“…a little—?”
“A LITTLE?”
“You’ve threatened me six times tonight.”
“I threaten everyone.” “You called me a ‘devastatingly smug demon.’” “You were behaving smugly.” “So you noticed?” “I will strangle you.”
Michael laughed quietly.
Not mocking.
Fond.
Which somehow made everything worse.
Y/N finally found her car keys with unnecessary violence.
Then, before getting inside, she looked back at him one last time.
And there it was again.
That ridiculous softness in his eyes.
Like he already knew she would come back.
“You almost frightened me tonight,” she admitted reluctantly. That's the highest form of compliment she'd give anyone on first days.
Michael went very still.
Slow. Bright. Victorious.
Y/N opened her car door immediately afterward, deeply regretting her honesty.
Y/N Bonifacio entered Hollywood the way storms enter coastlines: gorgeous, loud, and followed by rumors people swear are true.
By 1985, the tabloids had already run out of normal ways to describe her.
So they escalated.
“The Velvet Widow.” “The Witch of Hollywood Hills.” “The Man-Eater of Mulholland.” “The Filipino Morticia.” “The Scream Queen Who Hates Men.” “Hollywood’s Bisexual Black Dahlia.” “The Lesbian Temptress of Horror.”
She framed some of the magazine covers out of spite.
Not because the accusations were accurate. Well. Not entirely.
The media’s obsession with her sexuality came less from confirmation and more from the fact that Bonifacio refused to perform femininity in a way that made powerful men comfortable.
She complimented women openly. Danced with actresses at afterparties. Held eye contact too long. Smoked elegantly. Never denied rumors. Never explained herself either.
And worst of all?
Women adored her.
Actresses left interviews blushing after meeting her. Female journalists “accidentally” wrote entire paragraphs about her mouth. Even hardened male critics begrudgingly admitted she possessed “dangerous charisma.”
She herself responded to gossip with the same expression a panther gives a prey and sarcasm flying through the roof.
“People see one woman compliment another and suddenly civilization collapses.”
What truly made Hollywood nervous, however, was the fact that she couldn’t be categorized neatly.
Because she could weaponize femininity OR dismantle it entirely depending on the role.
One production she’d play the doomed gothic heroine trembling through candlelit hallways.
The next?
She’d become the monster.
And audiences would root for her anyway. That was the problem. She was too good at being terrifying.
It isn't loud horror. Nor was it slasher-film camp.
Elegant horror. Psychological horror.
The kind where she’d smile softly while ruining someone emotionally.
Critics worshipped her range.
She could scream convincingly enough to make theaters silent, but she could also stand perfectly still in one scene and somehow become more frightening than the bloodiest special effect in the film.
Her “final girls” weren’t fragile victims either.
They survived through intelligence. Rage. Defiance.
Women walked out of theaters wanting to be her. Men walked out confused whether they wanted to fear her or marry her.
Sometimes both.
Y/N’s villains became cultural problems.
Because she played antagonists with so much humanity that audiences started sympathizing with the “evil woman” halfway through the film.
There were university essays written about this.
One critic famously described her performances as: “like being kissed beautifully moments before a disaster.”
And in a fashion sense?
She looked unreal. Like she crawled out of a gothic novel written by Edgar Allan Poe.
Dark curls like storm clouds. Brown skin glowing gold beneath flash photography. Sharp cheekbones. Heavy lashes. Lips perpetually painted shades associated with expensive wine or blood.
Even standing still, she looked cinematic.
But beneath the glamour sat something stranger.
Something older.
Because Bonifacio did not come from ordinary Hollywood wealth.
She came from lineage.
From whispered things.
From generations of women in the Philippines whose names were spoken carefully.
She carried that gift from Manila to Mulholland.
Her grandmother had been a babaylan.
Not in the watered-down mystical-aesthetic way rich Americans romanticized spirituality.
No, she's a real one.
A healer. A leader of her tribe. A spiritual intermediary. A woman that villagers both respected and feared.
Y/N grew up around candle smoke and whispered prayers in languages older than colonization. Around offerings left discreetly at altars. Around stories about spirits, signs, dreams, and protection.
She learned early that spirituality was not performance. It was inheritance.
By the time she moved abroad to study theater, she already carried pieces of those traditions quietly with her.
And then Hollywood happened.
Which meant hiding.
Because 1980s America was not kind to women like Bonifacio.
Brown. Foreign. Spiritually unconventional. Sexually ambiguous. Too intelligent. Too unapologetic.
The Satanic Panic era especially turned anything occult-adjacent into social suicide.
So she adapted.
Publicly: she laughed off supernatural rumors.
Privately?
Her mansion looked like a gothic cathedral collided with ancestral magic. Tarot deck collections filled her bookshelves. Protective herbs drying near windows. Crystal bowls hidden among expensive decor. Candles dressed in oils and sigils. Old Filipino prayers written carefully into journals nobody else touched.
And tucked inside a locked cabinet: a handmade doll resembling Marie Laveau.
It's meant to be an accessory that resembles her. She saw it at one antique bookshop when she starred in a film in New Orleans. Her favorite place.
Bonifacio collected spiritual systems the way some people collected rare art. Not out of trend-chasing fascination or aesthetics but because she genuinely believed the world was alive in ways most people refused to notice.
Which made her uniquely difficult for Hollywood to understand.
Too glamorous to dismiss. Too strange to control. Too magnetic to ignore.
Underneath everything, though, beneath the couture gowns and horror-film screams and scandalous headlines, Bonifacio carried a quieter truth she rarely admitted even to herself:
She was lonely. Not “alone.” Lonely.
There’s a difference.
Everyone desired her. Very few understood her.
People projected fantasies onto her constantly: seductress, witch, lesbian, ice queen, femme fatale, man-eater.
But almost nobody asked whether Y/N Bonifacio herself was tired beneath all that mythology.
Which is exactly why Michael Jackson became dangerous to her so quickly.
Because instead of treating her like a legend, he treated her like a person.
Trope with Michael Jackson
(a.k.a I'm gonna start spamming funny trope tags in hopes to get your attention)
• Grumpy x Sunshine
She wakes up ready to fight the concept of humanity. He walks in humming and suddenly the room has emotional lighting.
• Black Cat Girlfriend x Golden Retriever Boyfriend
She hisses at paparazzi. He waves at them. She threatens violence. He offers people orange juice.
• Scorpio x Virgo
One is all intensity, secrecy, obsession, emotional control.
The other devoted, practical, and loyal partners who express affection through acts of service, attention to detail, and a desire to improve their partner's life
• Femme Fatale x Soft Romantic
Bonifacio enters rooms like she’s about to ruin lives elegantly. Jackson writes emotionally sincere notes and sends funeral flowers because he thought she’d like them. (Oop. Spoiler alert?)
• Horror Queen x Fairy Tale Prince
She loves graveyards and psychological terror. He genuinely believes in wonder and magic and still somehow matches her freak spiritually.
• “I Hate Everyone But You” x “Everyone Deserves Kindness, Especially You”
She judges strangers professionally. He befriends janitors, backup dancers, random children, and probably pigeons.
• Theater Kid x Music Kid
Both insanely dramatic. Both perfectionists. Both capable of turning ordinary conversations into full emotional performances.
• “Touch Him and Die” x “Love, Please Don’t Be Mean To People” / "I Would Kill For Him” x “Baby, NO!"
Y/N would absolutely threaten someone for disrespecting Michael. Michael would immediately apologize to the person she threatened.
• Intimidating Woman x Man Who Is Somehow Not Intimidated
Self-explanatory?
• “I Don’t Need Anyone” x “Too Bad, I’m Staying”
Michael’s emotional persistence is what breaks through her walls eventually.
• Dark Divine Feminine x Ethereal Celestial Masculine ✨✨✨
Their energies are very: cathedral wine and moonlit silk meets angelic glitter and warm smiles.
• Experienced Flirt x Accidentally Seductive
Y/N knows exactly what flirting is. Michael somehow says devastating things completely unintentionally and leaves her buffering internally.
• “Love Is Dangerous” x “Love Is Worth It”
That’s the emotional thesis of them!
• Power Couple 🤝 Absolute Idiots
One minute they look like gods descending a red carpet.
The next minute they’re screaming over a fake severed hand in a haunted studio. (Spoiler again! 🤭)
• “I Can't Fix Him, Can't I?” x “I Don’t Think She Needs Fixing, Just Someone To Stay”
Michael never approaches Y/N like she’s broken. That matters deeply to her.
• Woman Who Terrifies Men x Man Who Thinks He still Stood A Chance With Her (not arrogantly)
Michael absolutely finds her intimidating nature fascinating instead of threatening.
• “I’m Fine” x “You’re Dissociating Again"
Michael notices her emotional shutdowns WAY too quickly for her comfort.
• “I Don’t Date Men” x “Okay But Hear Me Out First?”
The bisexual awakening crisis adds so much flavor here 😭 (leave me alone, I'm still convinced I'm a lesbian but Michael just makes me feel 😭😭😭)
• Two Artists Who Understand Fame’s Loneliness
Under all the comedy and romance, this is one of their deepest bonds. Both know what it feels like to become an image before a person.
• “You Frighten Me” x “Good.”
• Wednesday Addams x Peter Pan
She’s one bad day away from grave robbing and probably owns a haunted doll collection named after historical women. He’s emotionally powered by wonder and glittering optimism.
• Morticia Addams x Gomez Gone Popstar
He still worships her dramatically, he just does it in sequins and red leather instead of pinstripes.
• Gothic Horror Literature x Fairytale Storybook
She feels like a cursed novel hidden in dusty libraries. He feels like the magical character children insist is real.
• Evil Queen x Male Snow White
She looks like she poisoned apples recreationally. He looks like he would feed the said apples to woodland creatures unknowingly while she had to stop him and tell him they were poisoned.
• Haunted Mansion x Neverland
One smells like incense and thunderstorm dust. The other sounds like laughter echoing through moonlight.
• Vampire Countess x Vampire Who Drinks Blood From A Juice Box
He absolutely would use a tiny goblet with stars on it.
• Black Silk x Red Leather
VISUALLY INSANE TOGETHER. I slayed this one, be fr guys.
• Demon Summoner (by vibes only, we witches don't actually do that) x Man Who Would Politely Ask The Demon Questions
Michael would absolutely be fascinated instead of terrified.
• “I Bite” x “Okay :)”
This stresses her out, probably, according to her.
• “I Can Handle Myself” x “I Know. I Still Want To Protect You.”
Do you want angst? I'll give you angst.
• “You’re Crazy” x “And You Love Me”
The entire relationship dynamic summarized.
• Cursed Object Collector x Man Who Touches Everything He Shouldn’t
Michael absolutely picks up haunted artifacts with curiosity instead of fear. She slaps his hand before he accidentally triggers a real curse.
AND FINALLY, I MADE AN CHAPTER 1 TEASER BECAUSE I'M EVIL MWEHEHEHEHEHE 😈
For reference, I color coded the dialogues: Purple for reader / you / Y/N.
Red for Michael Jackson.
Green for staff and background characters.
It was a wonderful autumn of October 1983.
Hollywood has a new obsession.
Her name is Y/N Bonifacio.
Scream queen.
Occult darling.
Professional menace to men with fragile egos.
The tabloids call her:
The Velvet Widow.
The Witch of Hollywood Hills.
The woman most likely to flirt with your girlfriend and steal the spotlight while doing it.
And tonight?
She’s been invited onto the set of Thriller.
Which immediately becomes a problem.
“The fog?”
"Everything."
Because Y/N Bonifacio hates music videos.
She hates cheap horror effects.
She hates inaccurate zombies.
And she especially hates charming men with dangerous smiles.
Unfortunately for her…
Michael is standing beneath flickering lights in a red varsity jacket looking at her like she’s the most fascinating woman he’s ever seen.
Wonderful.
She already wants to bite him.
“You think I’m funny.”
“I think you’re scary.”
“Good. Keep thinking that way.”
But somewhere between correcting zombie choreography…
Michael Jackson flirts like a creature in a gothic fairytale she's only ever written for films. Or maybe she's being delusional.
And worse?
She likes it.
Then the transformation makeup begins.
Golden eyes.
Sharp fangs.
Red leather jacket.
That smile.
Y/N’s soul briefly leaves her body.
“You stared at me for eight whole seconds.”
“I was assessing the prosthetics.”
Michael smiled like she just said the nicest thing about him.
“If you say so.”
God help her, that boyish grin and handsome voice will kill her someday. Wait, what?
Now the set of Thriller is drowning in tension.
Crew members are noticing.
Michael is becoming smug.
And Bonifacio is one cigarette away from a psychological breakdown.
At dawn, after one disastrous night of horror, flirting, and medically accurate zombie critiques…
“You almost frightened me tonight.”
…Michael finally smiles like he’s won something.
“…That's great!”
...
A/N: Hi, my loves! This is not proofread. I initially wrote this under my OC, Leonora Bonifacio, and last minute decided to make it a reader insert fic instead. I think I enjoyed too much writing this. Let me know what you think. I'll be posting Chapter 1 today after I finish polishing it. I'd also love to hear your ideas in the comments for the succeeding chapters because I honestly don't know how to end this and so far, I only have ideas for until Chapter 4 and I'm planning on taking this series seriously. Wish me luck! Will need friends to help me improve my writing and has to see the drafts before I post. I'll make sure it's as accurate to reality as possible but I'm only human ^^
HI, NEW TUMBLR MOONWALKER JOINING IN WITH A FIC OFFER, PLS READ CUZ I LOVE TO YAP 🦇
Hi, people! I'm Leona. I have been a moonwalker even before the movie biopic ever got released, but the movie did help reawaken my love for him. I knew I wasn't randomly defending that talented kind man when I was 10 for nothing. Anyway, this is me formally getting out of my social comfort zone to join the world of Tumblr writers.
Here's what I offer: I will be writing a multiple chapter fanfiction of Michael Jackson and a reader who's a famous actress and Hollywood's Scream Queen, Velvet Goth Queen. It will be heavily focused on Thriller at the start. It will be romcom. Reader is emotionally constipated and bisexual, Michael is adorable and confused. It'll be fun and comedic. Will there be smut? The possibility is high because I'm a Scorpio and cancer cannot stop me from being horny most of the time and I have nowhere to express that horniness.
I've drafted a chapter last night. I don't know when I'll post it but I'll spend my time in the chemo ward writing about it. Ooh yeah! Another fact about me is I'm a cancer patient currently on treatment since June last year, I'm diagnosed with Stage 4 Nasopharyngeal Carcinoma Cancer. Michael Jackson and his music had been a big help in my journey because my life isn't easy right now and I use his music, his presence, and fanfics like these to heal myself mentally. Ever since the movie got released, Michael pulled me out of a deep sea of depression and silence. Suddenly, I was dancing and moonwalking, I was doing chores and helping my mom as the eldest sibling again. I attended three parties. It is a huge difference to the version of myself just half a month ago, when I stayed in bed in depressive silence, waiting for each day to pass by.
I would love to have friends from the moonwalker fandom and have your support! I won't have a specific schedule but I'll try to post as much. I'm gonna have chemo today again which will probably last me four days in the hospital if nothing goes too bad. I really hope I can go home immediately because to be honest, staying in the hospital for longer days has happened to me so many times that I am traumatized by every single thing that has happened to me because of a side effect. I'd appreciate all the love!
~ Here's a photo of me that gives off vampire Michael Jackson vibes. [DRAMATIC GASP] Although, my fic will be a bit goth coded because of reader's character, do y'all want a separate Vamp!Michael fic? LET ME KNOWWW. Love ya guys, SHAMONE. 💋💋💋
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