˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚Taste of your own medicine˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ
Micheal jackson x Childhoodbestfriend! Singer! reader
credit to @prettyangeliczz for the idea just a bit of a twist
You knew what he was doing but you couldn't prove it. Cause somehow you ended up going to the award show you had dreaded going to.
Number one reason? It was annoying how everyone always looked at the two of you like they never seen a woman and a man together before. Like it was some kind of crime for you to exist in his space.
Second reason? You get dirty looks everytime you were too close to Michael. Like you were some kind of groupie trying to steal him away. It made your blood boil.
And third? For some reasons tabloids just loved your name in their mouths. You'd open up a magazine and there you'd be, right next to his, some headline screaming about how you were "mystery woman" or "secret girlfriend" when you were literally just his best friend.
But everytime Michael asked you to do something, you somehow just automatically said yes. Barely without a fight. It was tiring cause you knew what he was doing.
His eyes, as wide as deers, always widened whenever he asked you something. They would widen till you could see constellations in the sparkled of his eyes. It was amazing how something so cute could be used to abuse power. Those big brown pools of chocolate that just made your insides turn to jelly.
Everytime without fail, you would break. Like last week when you went to the fair, you were terribly scared of heights but as soon as Michael looked at you with those stupid beautiful eyes, you were already buckling your seatbelt and saying a prayer to whatever God was listening.
So now, you sat next to Michael while he had on his blue military style suit. Your dress matched his (another thing he used his bambi eyes to convince you to do). You sat there fidgeting with the sparkles on your dress as he beamed with the intensity of a nuclear weapon. His smile was so bright it could probably power the whole city.
He had somehow gotten at least 6 awards, you had cheered the loudest for every single one of them. Your throat was actually sore from screaming his name. You couldn't believe how far he came. Even though he puts spells on you constantly, you were still so incredibly proud of him. He deserved every single one of those golden statues and more. Watching him up there, bathed in the spotlight, accepting award after award with that humble slightly embarrassed smile—it made your heart swell. You couldn't help but wonder if the whole world saw him the way you did, or if they just saw the icon. You saw the man who stayed up late with you eating cold pizza, the one who called you at 3 AM just to tell you a joke he'd just thought of. The one who would sing softly to you when you couldn't sleep.
But that pride was starting to warp into something else. Something sharp and prickly that settled in your chest like a jealous little monster.
The show was dragging on. It felt like hours since Michael had won his last award, and the speeches were becoming a blur of thank-yous and industry jargon. You kept sneaking glances at your watch, then back at the stage, waiting for it to be over. Your feet were killing you in these heels. Michael, on the other hand, was in his element. He was chatting with everyone, shaking hands, laughing. You caught a glimpse of his profile as he talked to Quincy Jones—his smile was wide, his eyes crinkling at the corners in that way that made your knees weak.
She glided up to Michael, all shimmering gown and radiant smile, and placed a hand on his arm. She laughed at something he said, her head thrown back, her touch lingering a second too long for your liking. You felt your jaw tighten so hard you thought your teeth might crack.
You knew Irene was talented. You knew she was successful. You also knew she was beautiful. But that didn't stop the unpleasant jealous knot from forming in your stomach. Your eyes narrowed into slits. You tried to tell yourself it was nothing. They were just colleagues. He was just being his charming polite self. He was a natural flirt, though he probably didn't even realize he was doing it. He was just too nice for his own good.
Then another girl came up. And another. One even asked him to sign her chest, right there in front of everyone. He did it, blushing and laughing, but he did it. Your eye actually twitched.
That was it. You had been patient. You had been the supportive un-jealous best friend. But your limit had been reached. The spell of his Bambi eyes had broken, replaced by a fierce possessive fire that burned through your veins.
You stood up from your seat, smoothed down your matching blue dress, and walked over to him with purpose in every step. He was mid-conversation with a producer and a starlet who was practically draped over his side like she was a piece of clothing. He turned to you, his expression one of polite surprise.
"(Y/N)," he said, his voice warm. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," you said, your voice light and sweet as honey, but with a flinty edge that only he could probably detect.
Before he could ask anything else, you slipped right into his side, into the space between him and the starlet, and gently but firmly laced your arm through his. You leaned your head against his shoulder, a perfectly innocent gesture for a best friend, but with a clear message to everyone else: Back off. He's taken. The starlet's face fell and you had to hide a smug smile.
You looked up at him, your eyes wide. Big. As wide as you could make them. You bat your lashes, your lower lip jutting out just slightly, a technique you had learned from the master himself. "Michael," you whined softly, just loud enough for those nearby to hear, "I'm so tired. Can we please go soon? You promised we could leave after your last award." Your voice came out all pouty and sweet, just like he did to you.
His eyes widened, not in the way they did when he was trying to get his way, but in genuine shock. His mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. He'd never seen you use his own tactics against him. He looked from your exaggeratedly pleading face to the starlet, who was looking rather miffed, and then back to you. He swallowed hard.
"I… uh…" He stammered, completely caught off guard. His cheeks were actually turning pink.
You squeezed his arm. "Please, Michael?" You batted your lashes again for good measure. "It's been a long night. You got your awards. Let's go home."
The manager he was talking to chuckled, clapping Michael on the back. "Well, Michael, sounds like you've got a lady with a very clear priority tonight. Don't keep her waiting."
Michael let out a nervous laugh. "Right, of course. Yeah, we should… we should get going." He was still looking at you with that wide shell-shocked expression, but a slow curious smile was beginning to creep onto his face. His eyes had that glint in them that usually meant trouble.
He made his goodbyes quickly, his eyes never leaving yours. You kept your hand laced in his arm, your body pressed close to his side, a silent guardian against any more advancements. You could feel the warmth of him through his suit jacket and it made your stomach flutter.
The ride down the elevator was quiet, but his thumb was tracing small circles on the back of your hand. His eyes kept flicking to you, a question in them that he didn't voice. The tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife.
The limo was waiting, as dark and private as a whisper. As soon as the door closed behind you, he turned to look at you with an intensity that made your breath catch. "Okay," he began, a hint of his usual playfulness returning. "What was that about back there? You were laying it on thicker than I ever do. I thought you hated it when I used my eyes on you."
You took a breath, your heart pounding. "Maybe I was just giving you a taste of your own medicine."
He hummed softly, leaning closer. The space between you was shrinking by the second. "And maybe," he whispered, his breath warm against your cheek, "you just wanted to get me all to yourself."
Your heart hammered against your ribs so hard you were sure he could hear it. He was too close. The scent of his cologne and the soft leather of the limo seats filled your head until you couldn't think straight. You had to get the upper hand again. You had to do something to stop him from seeing how much he affected you. You had to prove you weren't just putty in his hands.
So, you did the only thing you could think of.
You leaned in and pulled him into a kiss.
It was a bit clumsy at first, your shyness and the adrenaline of the moment making your lips a little stiff. You felt his body tense in surprise against you. For a horrifying second, you thought you'd made a terrible mistake. Your face was probably bright red.
Then he made a low soft sound in the back of his throat, a sound like a pleased hum. His hands, which had been frozen at his sides, came up to cup your face. He took control, deepening the kiss with a gentle but insistent pressure. He tasted of the champagne he'd been toasting with, and something else that was uniquely him. Something sweet and intoxicating. He kissed you like he'd been waiting for this for a long long time. Like he'd been dreaming about it.
When you finally broke apart, you were both breathless. His forehead rested against yours, his eyes still closed. A slow dawning smile spread across his face. His thumb was stroking your cheek so softly it made you melt.
You covered your face, while he just chuckled
"Dang it! Your doing it again, Micheal!"
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