[tlcfrmmike]

my man my man my man my man my maaaaaaaan !!!!!

those eyes make me wanna leave tiny kisses all over his faaaace ugh

[moejacksonn]

sooo handsome .✦ ݁˖

[tropicalbambii]

I genuinely cannot believe that there is people who dislike Michael with his Afro!? He literally was so handsome with his Afro!

[prettyangeliczz]

my angel face, how could you not love him?

[loves2tour]

one of my favorite things to do if I would've been with this man is watch him work and interact with others. of course i yeaarrnn for the physical connection but, seeing him focused on his obligations or watching him create a new piece !! just watching him do the things that bring him joy would've been almost as good as getting to have him in other ways. but lemme stfu before i ruin this post with sumn overly freaked out ..

[mvsticmoony]

your delicate point of view ⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢

[prettyoungcee]

i am absolutely not responsible for the person i become when thick michael is brought up in the conversation

i wanna rub on his belly

[softformj]

pretty, prettier, otw!michael

that's how the english language works

[velvetjackson]

HES SO CUTE OH MY GOD GIVE HIM A COOKIE RIFHT NOW

[sudupp]

He's just 3 apples tall

[velvetjackson]

HES SO CUTE OH MY GOD GIVE HIM A COOKIE RIFHT NOW

[cotercat]

Hear me out , princess & the frog MJ fanfic ??

[softformj]

Cat Got Your Tongue? (Chapter 2: Sunny)

Pairing: otw!Michael Jackson x fem!reader Chapter: 2/? (Click for previous chapters: One) Tags: enemies to lovers, slow burn, supernatural, shapeshifting, angst with a happy ending, eventual fluff, idiots in love

Summary: As an assistant to Michael Jackson's lawyer, you've spent months delivering paperwork to a star you can't stand. One dismissive nod at your first meeting was all your pride needed to write him off as arrogant.

Then a strange old lady decides that pride deserves a lesson and puts a curse on you: human by day, cat by night. One night, a wrong turn leads you straight into the garden of Hayvenhurst, where the man you've been so cold to scoops you up without a second thought.

Now he tells you everything he's never told anyone, and the more you listen, the harder it becomes to keep hating a man you never tried to understand.

Note: The images used above are purely for the aesthetic and mood of the story, or to represent aspects of the reader's role, style, or the chapter itself. They are not intended to depict the reader's physical appearance or ethnicity.

December 1980 The next morning you make yourself a promise. You won’t go back to Hayvenhurst. At least not as a cat. And that’s a promise. You make that promise while brushing your teeth, and again on the walk to work: last night doesn't happen again. It was insane. You broke into a client's property for god’s sake. You let him hold you and you fell half asleep on the chest of a man you can't stand. There isn’t much you control in your life anymore since the curse happened, but this… you could control this. You can control where your paws take you. And they’ll never take you to Hayvenhurst again. At home, you have a TV. And you have a window with a perfectly good view. You can entertain yourself. You are a grown woman who happens to be a cat, not a stray. The sun goes down at 5:14. By 7:30 you're under the gate at Hayvenhurst.

You don't even fight it, and you’re not even embarrassed about it. You paced your apartment twice and thought just to see if he left the window open, and your legs did the rest. Not even one day in between your last visit. So much about promising yourself not to go. The window is open, so you squeeze through the gap and drop silently onto the carpet. And when you look around the studio, you freeze. There's a litter box in the corner. A brand new one, filled with litter. And next to the couch, there’s a food station: two small bowls on a mat, one with water, the other one empty. Nex to it you see a pyramid of several cans of cat food. He went to a store. You can’t help but think about it. At some point today he went to a store (or perhaps he sent someone), and got a litter box and food. For a stray that visited him once, of which he didn’t know if it would ever come back. You feel your heart squeeze and you push it away and step into the room. "Hey!" Before you’ve even taken three steps into the room, he’s up from the console the moment he sees you. And his face… nobody has ever been this happy to see you. Nobody in your whole life. He crosses the room and scoops you up without asking if he’s allowed to, because you're a cat and nobody asks cats. And then he does something unforgivable: he buries his nose in your fur. He rubs his face against the top of your head, against your cheek, nuzzling and peppering kisses all over your face, laughing while he does it. "You came back! I didn't think you would!” He sounds so pleased. “Hi. Welcome back."

His nose in your fur and his laugh right against your ear do not make you nervous at all. At least that’s what you tell yourself. But your body betrays you, because you're purring like an engine. "Look," he says with too much excitement in his voice, carrying you across the room, "Look what I got you." He turns so you can see: next to the console, there’s a small sleeping basket and inside, carefully folded, there’s the blanket from last night. Your blanket. "See? So you don't have to sleep on the couch like a guest. Now you got your own spot." He sets you down beside it and crouches down, watching your face for a reaction. "I didn't know if you'd come. I kept checking the garden all day…” he smiles. “I had no schedule today, so I just waited around, honestly.” He laughs at himself sheepishly. “I waited all day, and nothing! And then the sun goes down and here you are. Same as yesterday." He tilts his head at you. "You only ever come out at night, huh?" You see the moment the idea arrives, because his face lights up. "You know what, you need a name. I can't keep calling you hey." He sits back on his heels, looking at you seriously while thinking. "How about... Sunny?" You blink at him.

"Yeah. Sunny." He's grinning now, pleased with himself. "Because you only show up when the sun's gone. So this way you got some sun with you anyway.” He caresses your fur. “I like it when things are opposites. Like how the saddest songs sometimes make you feel better, you know?” He reaches out and taps you gently on the nose. "Sunny. That's you now. No take-backs!" That's you now. He doesn’t know it, but he named you after your jailer. He named you after the exact thing that runs your life, the thing you check your watch for every day now. And he names you so nonchalantly, so softly, as if giving you a gift. It's the meanest joke in the world he isn’t aware of and he's telling it with so much love that you can't even be upset about it. He looked at a stray that only comes in darkness and decided she should carry daylight in her name. "Okay, Sunny," he says, standing up now. "I got some stuff ready just in case. There's a bathroom for you," he points at the litter box proudly. "And most importantly…" He picks up one of the cans.

You know what's coming and your human soul gags. Cat food. You've smelled cat food before. And honestly speaking, you would rather starve with dignity. But then he pulls the tab and peels back the lid. And the problem is you’re starving. You couldn't make it home in time for dinner today. You lived close to the office, but you couldn’t sprint home fast enough to eat anything and there was no time to eat at the office. And strangely, the smell coming out of that can is not the smell you remember. You take a step closer… and it actually smells good. It smells like the best thing anyone has ever put in a bowl. You had noticed this during the week you took a sick leave. The takeout leftovers you loved as a human tasted strange as a cat, all that garlic and pepper and salt making your tiny tongue feel overwhelmed with too many strong flavors. And you'd done some reading afterward, in a library on your lunch break. Apparently, cats can't have most of it, especially with most spices being like poison for their bodies. Plain is what this body wants, meat and not much else, and this can has exactly that… and your body has already made the decision, because you find yourself with your face buried in the bowl. You eat all of it including the gravy, licking the bowl clean. And when you finally finish and look up, he's crouched a few feet away with his chin on his fist, watching you with so much soft affection in his eyes that you have to look away.

"Good, right?" he says. "The guy at the store said that's the best one." The guy at the store. He asked a store employee which cat food is best. You lick your paws so you don't have to look at him. When you're done he strokes your back, one hand smoothing you from head to tail, and then he picks you up and settles you into the basket before wrapping the blanket around you. The basket is right next to the console where he works. "There," he says. "Best seat in the house." And he starts working while you watch him like last night. But it’s different tonight. Last night he worked like the world was ending, but tonight he takes a few short breaks. He rolls his chair back between takes and talks to you, calls you Sunny as if he’s used that name for years. He talks about the most random things. How one of the rabbits is more aggressive than the rest when food is served, and how often he ate the others’ food and now he’s overweight. Or how he can’t decide on a sequence of a song he’s working on, playing both versions he has in mind for you and asking you which one you liked better.

Somewhere close to midnight he rewinds a tape and without looking at you, he says, “Joseph called for a meeting today." He sighs and closes his eyes for a brief moment. "We fired him this year, you know? As my manager. John helped me do it, it was the right thing, everybody says it was the right thing." He stops rewinding the tape and doesn't play it. "Except it’s different when your manager and your father are the same person, so you fire one and the other one still calls. And he's still doing the schedules with the Jacksons stuff. Next year is already filling up with Jacksons this and Jacksons that, and I didn't agree to it, because nobody asked me. It makes me so angry–" He lets out a long breath. Then his hand comes down from the console into the basket and finds your ears automatically, as if the touch is for him more than for you. "I want to do my own thing. I want to do all of this…” he gestures around the room. “And every time I try to step that way, there he is. People say ”just say no to him”, John says it all the time as if it's easy.” He shakes his head and looks at the ceiling. “He's still my father and that's the thing nobody gets. You can fire a manager, but there's no paper for the other thing, you can’t fire your father. Family is permanent." You lie in the basket very still and feel a slight pain in your chest. Because you know what he’s talking about. You know it from the inside.

Your father only ever accepted excellence. He didn’t want to see your effort, he only wanted to see your results. You grew up in a house where an A-minus got a silence that lasted for days and you were forced into law because he decided it for you and there was no way you could say no to him, because he’s your father. People said the same thing to you… “just tell him you don’t want to do it”. But the difference was that those people had fathers they could say no to. At the end of the day, you know you got lucky, because somewhere in the third semester law stopped being his and started being yours as you fell in love with it. Contracts clicked for you the way music must click for the man in this room, and by graduation your father’s dream actually became your own. He used to be a top entertainment lawyer, so he had connections in this field, which is how he got you to work with John. But recently he had worked towards a life goal of his and had achieved it by becoming a member of the Supreme Court. And with that promotion, he had to move to San Francisco, but it still wasn’t far enough. He kept calling to ask about your progress, finding the gap in whatever you reported back to him, reminding you that you're there because he made a call and you'd better be worth the favor. You were relieved when he moved north. You felt guilty about feeling relieved. So when Michael Jackson tells you that there’s no paper for the other thing, you know exactly what he means. He's still your father. Family is permanent. You've said that exact sentence in that exact tired voice to friends who didn't understand it. The man at the console, the arrogant one, the one who looks down on staff, the one you had stamped off during your first meeting, rubs his eyes and carries the same burden you carry as you lie in his warm blanket.

He keeps working for a little while longer. He hums a melody to himself and when he starts to yawn he finally does what he did last night: moves to the couch, scooping you up out of the basket on the way and lies back with you on his chest like it's already tradition. "Come on, Sunny, quitting time." He's asleep almost instantly, his hand going heavy on your back. You stay a few minutes longer as his breathing evens out. Then you step off him carefully, jump on the window sill, and slip out into the cold. – January 1981 You don’t visit him every night, you skip some nights to prove a point (to whom you don’t know). But you do go often. Maybe four times a week. Some weeks even five. All the way through January. The window is always open and the basket is always there. It feels like a routine now: you slip into the studio and he offers you food which you gobble up. Then he places you in your basket and you watch him work until he gets tired and you both retreat to the couch. It strangely feels like the only comfortable part of your day. The office is always hectic, especially because daytime during winter is much shorter, so your eyes are always on the clock. But Hayvenhurst feels comfortable. There’s someone here who is genuinely glad to see you. And you always go home before sunrise. Strangely, with the little amount of sleep you’re getting, you somehow still feel energetic the next morning. That’s the unspoken arrangement now: as Sunny you get his softness and as a human, you stay distant. Because you keep thinking: him being kind to a cat proves nothing. Plenty of terrible people love animals. It's easy to be gentle with something that can't talk back or that doesn’t want anything.

So he tells his troubles to a stray and buys the good cat food, fine, whatever. None of it means he doesn't look down on the woman who brings the folders. If anything, you think your dislike for him has grown more now. You couldn't say why if someone asked though. Some nights you come home from his chest and by nine the next morning you can barely stand the sound of his name in the office. As if the night before is his fault and he has to pay for it. So when John tells you you’re joining him to Hayvenhurst today to take meeting minutes, you say "of course" in your flattest voice. As always, the meeting is in the studio. And the moment you walk in and see the couch, you realize you slept there eleven hours ago. You also spot the basket with your blanket in it, and you have to walk past your own bed like a stranger and sit down on your own couch like a guest, knees together, notepad open, professional. You take the minutes. John and Michael go back and forth, and Michael lets John make decisions on his behalf, but not before letting him explain the more complicated parts and agreeing to his decisions afterward. Then John excuses himself to find the bathroom and suddenly the room is silent and awkward. You look towards anywhere in the room but him. The tape shelves, the window, the carpet. And before you can control them, your eyes land on the cans of cat food beside the couch.

He follows your gaze and immediately smiles and becomes hopeful. "Oh, that's, um." He lets out a small laughs. "I have a cat now, sort of. She's a stray, she started coming by at night, a few weeks now? Almost every night.” He smiles so wide you think his face must hurt. “I don't know if I can call her mine, she does what she wants, but she's got her own spot and everything, so…" His awkwardness is replaced entirely with warmth and hopefulness. "I named her Sunny. Honestly she's the cutest cat I've ever seen in my life, and I've seen a lot of cats. And the softest, her fur is like touching a cloud. I kind of wish she was here right now, you’d love her–" "The distribution clause." Your words come out like a blade and he stops mid-word. He looks at you confused. "Earlier," you say, not looking up from the notepad. "You and Mr. Branca were going too fast. The percentages on the second term, I didn't get the full figure. What was it?" He pauses for a moment. "...Sixty-forty," he says finally, quietly. All the warmth gone fast. "Stepping to sixty-five after the first year."

"Thank you." You write it down. Your handwriting stays even. That's the one thing you can control right now: the evenness of your handwriting. Because the rest of you is angry. Every word of that little speech of his went in like a needle. The cutest cat he's ever seen. The softest fur. He wishes she was here. He was being nice, he was just talking about the one safe topic in the room, but that topic is your prison. It's not his fault, none of it is his fault. But you still make it his fault. John comes back and the meeting resumes. Michael answers John's questions and doesn't direct a single word to you again, and you take perfect minutes. – The other time is the elevator. You're running late back from lunch and you come through the lobby at a half-jog just as the elevator doors start to slide shut, and you call out, "Hold it, please!" and see a hand catch the door. "Thank you so much," you're saying as you slip through the gap, out of breath, "I'm so sorry–" It's him. Michael in the corner of the elevator, with Bill beside him, and it was Michael's hand on the door and he's looking at you with the beginning of a smile, the hopeful kind as always.

You feel your own face fall. Your smile just disappearing, the warmth switching off instantly, and you can't stop it. You straighten your coat and give him a nod, a single cold nod, and turn to face the front. The floors count up in silence. Bill looks at Michael. Michael looks at the numbers. – A few nights after the elevator, you come through the window and something's off. He's at the console but he's not working. He's just sitting there with his elbows on the edge and his chin on his folded hands, staring at the wall. And there's a plate on the side table with a sandwich on it that has exactly one bite taken out of it, probably hours old. When you jump onto the console he doesn't scoop you up like always. He just reaches over and strokes your back slowly. "Hey, Sunny." His voice is low and rough, like he hasn’t used it in hours. "I can't work tonight. I keep trying and it's just… nothing's coming." You settle down next to the tape reels and wait. You've learned this about him: he can't share a room with silence, so if you wait, he’ll talk on his own. "I went to a children's hospital today," he says. His thumb runs along the edge of the console, back and forth. “I do visits sometimes. The sick kids, it makes them so happy, you should see it. They light up like it's Christmas, and the whole time you're there you're smiling and signing casts and the nurses say it helps." He stops for a moment. "And then you get in the car."

He's quiet for a while. "There was a floor we went to. The…" and his voice goes rough before he can say the word, “The hospice floor. That's where the kids are that aren't… that won't…" He doesn't finish it. He presses his lips together and breathes through his nose. "There was a girl. Maybe seven years old. She had a radio by her bed and she knew all the words to my songs and she sang for me, and everybody clapped, and she took a bow sitting down because she can't–" His eyes are shining now, and he wipes at them quickly with the heel of his hand, embarrassed at himself even while alone with a cat. "She's seven years old. She's supposed to have her whole life, she's supposed to grow up and go to dances and get old, that’s how it should be… You're supposed to get to grow up–" And then he's crying. He keeps fighting it the whole time, wiping at it, apologizing to you mid-sob, "Sorry, I'm sorry, I don't know why I'm–" which somehow makes it worse to watch, a person crying and apologizing for it at the same time. "I couldn't eat anything today," he says, his voice thick with grief. "Mother made dinner and I just sat there. I keep seeing her take that little bow." He pulls a sleeve across his face and exhales shakily, looking up at the ceiling. “I donated a lot… I don't even want to say the number, it feels gross to say the number, like it's supposed to fix something. Money doesn't make that floor not exist.” He sighs and closes his eyes. “Money buys machines and it matters, I know it matters a lot, but she's still seven and I still get to leave and drive home to all this, and she–" His hand finds your fur again, and this time the caress is for him, you can tell he needs to touch you.

"You know what's crazy? This morning I was so mad at Joseph. The schedules with the Jacksons stuff, all of it. I was rehearsing this whole speech in my head in the car, all the things I'm finally gonna say to him." He laughs but there’s no humor in it. "And then I stood on that hospital floor for two hours and I couldn't remember why any of it mattered. My big terrible problem is that people want me to sing with my family. That's my crisis. There are kids in that building who won't see spring, and I'm–" He shakes his head at himself, disgusted. "Every time I do a visit, I come home and I call my father back and I say yes to whatever he wants. Yes to the schedule, to the tour, whatever he wants. Because I'd rather do a hundred shows I don't want to do than be one more sad thing in my parents' life. I know that's not the right math. John would say it's not the right math. But that's the only math I know how to do." You can't stand it anymore. You get up off the console, cross the gap onto his chest as he leans back, and press your nose up under his chin. Rubbing your face against his jaw, nuzzling into the warmth there, you try to express your empathy with your actions. You're not a sad thing, you're the best thing in this whole house. Just your small body and your tiny nose wanting to show him compassion, so you give him all of it. And it works a little. You feel him let out a long breath, and his arms come up and gather you against his heart with both hands, holding you as if you’re something he’s afraid to drop. "You're such a good listener, you know that?" he murmurs into the top of your head. His voice is both wrecked and warm at the same time.

"Such a good girl. Look at you. My beautiful girl." He lets out a soft laugh. "Most beautiful in the whole world, I mean that. Nobody even comes close.” His thumb strokes behind your ear slowly. "I like to think you're mine. Is that okay? I know you're your own… you come and go as you please, I know. But I like thinking it. You’re mine, if you want to be?" You are purring so hard you can feel it in your own ribs and you hate yourself for it (and you don't stop). "You make everything better," he says quieter now, the exhaustion finally settling over him. "At the end of the worst days, you come through that window, and everything's just better with you here. Don't ever stop coming, okay? This is your home now, Sunny. This is home." Your heart squeezes as it always does, but this time it squeezes harder than ever. This is home. Said to the half of you that can't answer, by a man the other half of you won't even look at. – The next day you do something you'll hear in your own head for years. It feels like every time you have an especially affectionate Michael at night, the next time you see him, you make him pay for it in your human form. It's afternoon and he's at the office for a signing, and he's brought a box of donuts. Apparently he does that often, showing up with donuts or pastries for the whole floor. The box goes around and the office is delighted. And then he does something he's never done before: he comes to your desk himself holding the box, and there's only one left in it, and you can see that he saved it for you.

"There's one left," he says and smiles at you, hopeful, with the box in his hands. "It's the good kind. I saved–" “No, thank you." You don't look up from your typing. "I don't take food from strangers.” You knew those words would hurt. You hear the box close softly. Strangers. Almost one year of folders and signatures and meetings, and last night you fell asleep over his heartbeat while he told you this is home. And you just called him a stranger to his face in front of the entire floor. You can feel his smile die without even looking at it. And then he says very quietly, "Sure. Sorry," and moves away, and somebody else gets the last donut. You feel guilty before he's even reached John's door. The guilt feels physical, like a hot wire down your throat. Because you know that one wasn't defense, that one was cruelty. “Kindness runs out of you like water when a stranger holds the cup,” the old lady had said. He had held the cup, but you had refused him your kindness. You sit there typing nonsense with your face on fire and you can't even name what you're punishing him for. Maybe for last night, maybe for this is home. – When you slip through the window that night, you can instantly tell he's low.

He's on the couch with no music on, one of the rabbits' lettuce leaves shredded to pieces on the table in front of him like he's been sitting there pulling it apart for an hour. When you jump up beside him he gathers you in without a word, and for a long time he just holds you and looks at nothing. "Can I ask you something?" he says finally. You purr. It's the only yes you have. "What do people do," he says, "when somebody hates them and they don't know why?" You go still, but he doesn’t seem to notice. His hand keeps moving down your back slowly while his mind is somewhere else. "There's this girl at John's office. You'd like her. No, I don't know if you'd like her. I don't know if she likes anybody, actually,” he stops. You realize he’s just thinking out loud, because his words are all over the place. “No, that's not true either, she likes everybody. Everybody except me." He scoffs softly. "She's friendly with the whole building. I've seen her, she brings the receptionist coffee. And she's funny, I've heard her be funny through a door. And then I walk in and it's like somebody unplugged her."

You are lying on his chest with your face hidden against his cardigan and your heart going too fast. "Today I brought some donuts for everybody, and I saved her the good one. And she said–" he stops, and you feel his chest go still under you for a second. "She said she doesn't take food from strangers." He says the word carefully. "Strangers. We've worked together for almost a year. I know how she takes her coffee… I noticed how she takes her coffee. And I'm a stranger." He tips his head back against the couch and looks at the ceiling, still thinking out loud. "I keep going over it. I met her in March, I've thought about that day so many times. She came up and introduced herself, and I said hi, I know I said hi… and then I had to get back to work, because it was the middle of everything with my father, and the Grammys… Off The Wall only won a single Grammy and I was so upset and I swore my next album wouldn’t be ignored and that’s what I talked to John about…" He stops speaking. "Was that it? Was that rude? Maybe I looked at her wrong. Maybe somebody told her something about me. People make things up about me all the time, maybe she heard something and believed it, and I can't even defend myself because I don't know what it is." His hand stops on your back. "I don't know what I did," he says, and his voice is softer now. "That's the thing I can't stand. If somebody told me, I'd fix it. Whatever it is. I'd apologize, but there's nothing to fix, it's just me. She just can't stand me."

He shakes his head at the ceiling slowly. "Every time I try to take a step toward her, she shuts me out," he murmurs. “Makes me feel like a stranger." He falls asleep on the couch with the lamp on. You lie on his chest doing the thing you swore never to do: you replay your exchange. The box closing softly. Sure. Sorry. The light going out of him. You always leave those moments behind you the second they happen. You exit fast and don't look back, and by the time you're home the day is over. But he keeps them. That's what you know now that you didn't know before. You throw those moments away but he keeps every single one, and he takes them out at night, looking for what he did. It's not that you thought your words bounced off him. You knew they hurt. You could see it. But you didn't know they hurt him like this, deep enough to keep him up, deep enough that he shreds lettuce over it. And the strangest part: he could end it any time he wants. He's not some coworker who has to put up with you. He's the client. The biggest client the firm has, your boss works for him, which means somewhere down the chain of signatures, he's the one paying you. One sentence to John. That's all it would take, one quiet your girl has a problem with me, and you'd be gone by Friday and not even your father could pull any favors to stop that from happening. He's never said it. Almost a year of your coldness and he's never once reported a word of it, and you lie on his chest wondering why and hating that you already know the answer, because the answer is lying right under you, holding a cat like it's something precious, asking the ceiling what he did wrong. There's nothing he did wrong. You know the answer to the question he's been asking the ceiling. The guilt sits in you like a stone all the way home. And you already know, because you're getting to know yourself in a way you never asked to, that the stone will still be there in the morning, and that it won't change a single thing you do. I'll be kind tonight, you think, at your desk the next day. You think it every day.

As if tonight counts. As if he'll ever know it was you being kind.

Sorry for the late update, been drowning in work... Hope you enjoyed this one! OP is quite proud and hurtful. But this is her test, and to break the curse, she needs to do right. ❤️

[amnesia-sc]

🪐 — groaned too hard while watching this and started coughing

[g0ttheh0ts4mj]

If I ever get a boyfriend I’m gonna feel like I’m emotionally cheating on him all the time because my heart will always belong to michael #sorrynotsorrybabe

THATS DADAAAAA BOOM SHAKALAKAAAAA

[sudupp]

One of the reasons am not able to get a boyfriend 😞🙄😩😍

[humnnatur]

✧₊⁺🕯⋆.˚୨ৎ The Forest that Remembers

pairing: ThrillerMJ x Fem!Reader

type: one-shot.

genre: fluff, very little angst, ancient king x reader in their 20s, and 80s fantasy inspired.

summary: There’s a rumor throughout the village, that an ancient and malicious evil lurks in the forest, but no one knows what it truly is. All they know, is to be indoors before nightfall. Except, one night while foraging, you find yourself accidentally lost. What magic will be unveiled?

wc: 1.6k.

disclaimer: I know this concept is a little out there because I’m portraying Michael in a more fictionalized way. But I hope you all enjoy this more fantasy portrayal.

Of course, this is in no way disrespect to Michael as a real-life person, but I would like to think he’d enjoy the fairytale element.

And I’m a sucker for anything fantasy, so this is loosely inspired by one of my fav young adult fantasy books I read back in the day, titled Uprooted by Naomi Novik. Also, think the movie Legend (1985) for vibes as well.

Anywho, I appreciate constructive criticism regarding writing flow, grammar, story-telling, etc.

yes, the trope is ancient king x woman in her 20s, I’m sorry. It’s all fictional.

song inspiration—feel free to listen as you read. 🎧💜 (I could honestly make a playlist for this one-shot haha).

Nestled in the valley sat a small village that had stood for generations, always living in the shadow of the limitless and ancient forest. Foraging at the tree-line, your eyes fell on the countless night-roots scattered in the dirt. You groaned internally at the chore that your mother had so graciously asked you to do earlier that day.

“Seven pieces should suffice.” Your mother mumbled mindlessly, as she gathered different supplies around the quaint wooden kitchen.

“Yes, mother.” You say with a slight annoyed edge, waiting for her signal to leave. Your mother looked to you with narrowed eyes.

“And do make sure to be back before the bells chime. No good to be so close to the forest late in the evening. That means no foolish ideas, girl.”

The memory fades as you looked to your purple-stained hands. The result of the juice leaking from the common herb as you pulled them out of the ground. Wiping your hands on your skirt, your eyes couldn’t help but drift towards the forest edge.

As a child, you often wondered what about the forest bred the curiosity that dwelled within you. Not one among your peers struggled with such strange and persistent feelings as you did. More than once, your parents dismissed you as a foolish maiden, possessed with an imagination that would surely lead you to grave danger.

Yet, their criticism proved always in vain against the call of the woods. Time and again, you would awaken in the night to find your feet at the edge of the forest, staring out into the darkness.

There, you would spy the briefest glimmers of small glowing figures, or hear a distant tune of melodies never heard by mortal ears before. Alas, you had long since decided the forest could not be evil. The terrifying tales of the village elders had to be as untrue as the rumors of sprites luring villagers into the ancient oaks.

Suddenly, the iron chime of the village bells rang, interrupting your thoughts. You seemed to have lost track of time…

One.

Two.

Three chimes.

It was the final warning. As the heavy, metallic tolls echoed across the valley, a sudden cloud of sparrows flew out of the forest trees in alarm, which drew your attention upward.

The bells relentless, frantic ringing carried a desperate warning for all villagers to lock their doors and shutter their windows. For nightfall was almost upon the valley—and with it, whatever hid in the darkness.

Although you believed the tales to be untrue, the years of the elder’s superstitious storytelling still found themselves influencing your instincts. In your rushed attempt to collect the rest of the night-root, you dropped your foraging basket, the wild herbs spilling into the dirt as adrenaline spiked through your veins.

Before the third ring of the bell could fade into the darkening sky, the air around you instantly grew heavy with the scent of crushed pinecones and damp grass.

You turned to run toward the path leading to your village, but the moment the mist swirled around your ankles, a strange, weighted warmth pressed against your temples.

Your vision blurred.

This had never happened in all your years traveling to the edge of the forest. The panicked beating of your heart slowed to a thud that pulsed in time with the glowing fog. A thick weight draped over your mind, pulling your knees down into the soft moss.

Your eyelids fluttered shut and the world went dark.

_____________________

______

When consciousness finally returned, your eyes weren’t met with the familiar wooden structure of your home nor was it morning. Instead, you awoke to a breathtaking expanse of a million burning stars and a moon so big it seemed otherworldly.

“Where am I…” you mumbled as your gazed fixated on the dense forest branches above. They had parted perfectly, framing the night sky. For a split second, the beauty of it held you captive. Then, reality crashed back in.

You were still in the forest. At nightfall.

Your mothers words rang in your ear, “And do make sure to be back before the bells chime.”

Oh how you have utterly failed at just that.

Panic set back in like a shock of ice cold water running down your back. You let out a sharp gasp, your lungs burning as you scrambled to sit up. Your palms pressed into wet earth and glowing, white fragments of nature that hadn't been there during the day.

"No, no, no," you whispered, your voice trembling in the eerie silence of the woods.

You spun around on your knees, your eyes frantically scanning through the thick shroud of trees. The familiar, comforting woods of the daytime were gone. In their place stood towering, twisted trees that seemed to lean inward, casting long, shifting shadows across the small clearing.

“It”s just a forest…I have nothing to fear.” You reassured yourself as your eyes quickly looked for a trail to follow. You needed to remain calm and on alert if need be.

Then, a sudden, sharp sound broke the quiet.

Snap.

It wasn't the clumsy break of a heavy beast, but a sharp, quick sound—like a gentle, liquid rustle of fine silk. You instinctively froze, your breath catching in your throat as a tall silhouette began to materialize from the silver mist at the edge of the clearing. Your eyes squinted, but couldn’t make out a face.

With the silhouette, came a faint, rustling murmur, carrying a slight ringing of music that bled directly into the cool night air. The melody was entirely unfamiliar—nothing like the simple folk songs of the village or the grand hymns in the town square. It was angelic, slow, and impossibly soft, echoing with a strange, otherworldly magic that vibrated right through the crust of the earth below.

You scrambled to your feet quickly, cursing under your breath at your disgraceful movements.

As your body backed away, there was a part of you that quivered with curiosity. How many times as a child had you quietly daydreamed for a chance to uncover the mystery within these woods. Regardless, your heart hammered against your ribs as you backed up against the wide trunk of an oak tree.

"Who's there?" you asked with the steadiest voice you could muster up.

Unexpectedly, the silver mist parted at your feet.

“Ah!” You yelled out, cautiously moving your feet away. Instead of a towering monster, two massive, long shapes slid forward into the starlight.

On the left, a magnificent, pearlescent python with scales that shimmered like liquid water slithered onto a mossy tree root protruding from the ground. On the right, a colossal, heavily muscled boa constrictor with deep, midnight-patterned scales coiled neatly on the grass.

Before you could bolt into the dark or let out another shriek building in your throat, a soft, echoing voice resonated directly inside your mind.

“Do not be afraid, little sparrow,” the python spoke, her scales catching the reflective light of the moon. “I am Madonna. And this heavy fellow beside me is Muscles.”

The boa shifted his heavy coils, his golden eyes blinking slowly up at you.

“We are the guardians of these woods,” his deeper, rumbling telepathic voice added, vibrating in your mind. “We mean you no harm. The Master does not allow harm to come to guests.”

Your breath stopped for only a second, your hands still pressed flat against the rough tree bark. They were massive, terrifying predators capable of crushing you in seconds, yet their voices were incredibly polite, almost soothing. They were being…kind.

You found them rather endearing, in an odd, deeply scary sort of way.

"I...I’m from the village, just outside these woods" you stammered, your voice sounding small against the grand space of the forests clearing. You squeezed your hands together to stop them from shaking. "I was just foraging for night-root. I didn't mean to stay past twilight, I swear. The fog... it caught me so fast."

Madonna slithered a few inches closer, her silver scales clicking softly against the moss.

“The mist obeys the Master's rhythm, little sparrow. It’s intentions were not to hurt you, but to guide you here.”

"The Master?" you repeated, looking between the two massive reptiles. "You mean the... the ancient evil the village talks about? I never thought it to be evil or a person for that matter.”

Muscles let out a low, rumbling hiss that sounded remarkably like a heavy sigh. “Then, you would be the first. Evil is a word used by those who fear what they do not understand. The Master is ancient and misunderstood, yes. But he is not evil.”

“He is quite lonely, actually,” Madonna added, tilting her head with a look that almost seemed sympathetic. “It has been a very long time since any human stayed to speak with us. Usually, your kind just shriek and run. Timid and ignorant things you creatures are.”

A breathless, nervous laugh escaped your lips before you could stop it. "Well... to be fair, you are giant creatures lurking in the night. It's a bit frightening."

Muscles blinked his golden eyes, shifting his heavy coils in what looked like a proud shrug. “We take pride in what we do for our master and this forest. But you are still here, are you not? You must have a brave spirit.”

You certainly didn’t feel brave.

A sudden stillness settled over the clearing, so absolute that even the whispering leaves fell silent. You couldn't shake the prickling sensation of eyes on you—a warm, intense gaze staring out from the deep shadows just beyond the veil of heavy branches. Someone was there, hidden in the darkness, watching you.

Yet, instead of the cold dread of a predator stalker, a strange sense of familiarity washed over you. It felt like the phantom presence you had sensed at the tree-line all those years ago.

You weren't running. You weren't screaming. Against all odds, you were staying.

Then, the air grew heavy with a new wave of magic.

With a silent command from the hidden onlooker, the forest itself began to play another strange, beautiful hum. It sounded like a deep wind rushing through ancient, hollow caves, accompanied by a sharp, clicking pulse that echoed off the the treetops above. It was a melody unlike anything you had ever heard—hauntingly beautiful and bursting with an untamed power that seemed to breathe life into the very nature all around you.

The melody vibrated throughout the clearing, humming in your bones and giving life to the glowing white flowers. You weren't sure how it was possible, but the forest seemed more alive than ever.

The sound completely mesmerized you. The fear that had kept your muscles tense just moments ago melted away, replaced by a quiet, breathless wonder. Instead of bolting into the dark, you stayed in place, your gaze swept up by the rhythm as you looked around the dream-like darkness.

As the music pulsed, the shadows and glitter between the trees began to move in perfect time with the beat. From the deepest darkness of the ancient trees, a figure finally revealed himself.

As Michael stepped forward into the night, the forest erupted into vibrant life. Glowing forest critters—luminescent foxes, starlit deer, and shimmering birds—emerged from the thickets around him, moving in fluid, synchronized patterns that danced to the melody.

You stood frozen, in absolute wonder. This wasn’t the destructive, malicious magic the village elders warned you about. He wasn't destroying the forest; he was guiding it, protecting it like a grand conductor leading a symphony.

The moonlight caught his dark, silken curls as they cascaded down, catching the faint glow of the neon moss. His intense focus was highlighted by the sharp, dark eyeliner around his eyes, making his gaze deep and mesmerizing. He wore a glittering white ensemble adorned with intricate silver and blue detailing that glimmered with every graceful step, carrying the unmistakable elegance of a sovereign.

A sudden realization struck you as your eyes locked onto his majestic figure. Is he what all the stories are about?

With a sharp, fluid flick of his wrists, the magic shifted again.

Instantly, the deep green spring trees surrounding the clearing burst into full bloom, exploding with vibrant blossoms of electric blue and midnight purple.

Swirls of petals unfurled in seconds, shedding a gentle cascade of glowing blossoms into the night air. As the final note of the transformation echoed, the glowing forest critters around the two of you fell into a seamless, synchronized hush, bowing to him in absolute reverence as their king.

You stood paralyzed, overwhelmed by what was unfolding. The raw vibration of the ancient magic and the pulsing music hummed so deeply through your body that it was almost too much for your senses to process. On top of the magic, you couldn't look away from his striking features. The sharp cut of his jaw, the gentle curve of his lips, and the intense warmth in his dark eyes made your heart hammer for an entirely new reason.

He wasn't an evil nightmare at all—he was a beautiful dream.

With a newfound surge of courage, you took a slow, deliberate step toward him. Instead of running or speaking, you let the rhythm of the wind guide your feet and began to twirl. The dark purple and blue petals swirled around your ankles as you moved, catching the neon-white light of the moss and flowers.

Michael’s dark-lined eyes widened slightly, shifting into a guarded yet curious gaze. He tracked your movements with absolute fascination, his head tilting as he wondered what on earth this fragile human was doing. For centuries, mortals had only ever fled from him in terror, but you were offering him a…dance.

You cast your village fears aside, letting the heavy music and ancient magic take over every single step. You raised your arms gracefully above your head, while your body swayed to the pulse of the woods as you surrendered completely to his melody.

Realizing you meant absolutely no harm to his beloved home, something inside Michael completely gave way. He decidedly step toward you feeling compelled by the fluid, expressive movements of your body.

Breaking his world of isolation, Michael glided over to you with gravity-defying grace. His steps were completely silent against the earth, moving as if he were floating on the silver mist itself. He stepped right into your space, his dark, mesmerizing eyes locked onto yours as he began to gently sway with you, perfectly matching the rhythm of the melody he had created through the forest.

As he moved closer, his magic rippled through the cool night air. Soft, luminescent petals materialized around his fingertips, drifting upward before gently resting on your head, weaving into a delicate, glowing crown of dark blue and purple blossoms.

A breathless giggle escaped your lips at the tingling warmth of the magic. You looked directly into the face of the mysterious king, the beautiful creature the world had spent generations fearing. His heart softened at the sound of your laugh. Then, The music slowly tapered off into a gentle hum, like a soft heartbeat against the forest floor. The glowing creatures settled into the dark grass, and the falling petals finally rested on the moss.

Michael stopped moving, though he remained close enough that you could feel the comforting warmth radiating from his regal white jacket. He looked down at you, his dark eyes shimmering with a golden hue beneath his curls as he took in the glowing crown of flowers resting on your head.

"You didn't run," he spoke, his voice breaking the silence. It was a shocking contrast to the heavy magic of the woods—soft, breathless, and incredibly gentle.

You shook your head slightly, a small smile resting on your lips.

“A part of me was terrified at first," you admitted honestly. "But another part of me knew there couldn’t be true evil here. I’ve always been so close to entering these woods for so many years, but…” You stopped for a brief moment, taking in the melancholy look on his face. “It was always you, wasn't it? Calling me to this place, showing me small pieces of your magic all those years.” You looked down, a bit embarrassed.

You continued, “The village stories... they say you're a sorcerer destroying these woods. But you're just protecting them."

A faint, bittersweet smile touched his lips as his gaze locked back onto yours.

"They fear what they cannot control nor understand," he murmured softly, stepping just a fraction closer. He reached out, his gloved hand moving with careful hesitation before his long fingers gently brushed a stray petal from your shoulder. "For a very long time, I have been alone here. Everyone who wanders in flees before I can even speak. It... it can be a very lonely experience, ruling a forest of shadows."

He paused, his dark-lined eyes softening with profound gratitude.

"Thank you," Michael whispered, his voice carried centuries of isolating weight. "Thank you for staying. And thank you for the dance, little sparrow."

You wondered what he was doing as Michael held out his hand, palm up. With a soft exhale, a single golden pinecone materialized above his glove, pulsing with a faint light. He gently placed it into your hand, his gloved fingers brushing against yours with a tingling warmth.

"A key to the forest," Michael murmured, a playful, knowing spark lingering in his dark-lined eyes. "The forest will always remember your face now. You will never get lost again. I will come find you when I can, and if… you’ll have me as company.” He gave you a soft nod before gently touching your cheek with his gloved hand, too hesitant to feel you skin-to-skin.

Before you could voice your gratitude, he took a step back, melting effortlessly into the silver mist as the forest's melody gave one final, dramatic crescendo. Then, a glowing pathway of fireflies illuminated the exact route back to the safety of the village.

Without realizing it, your legs carry you to the path until you burst through the heavy barrier of trees. There, you see the village elders and search parties rounding the trail, torches blazing.

Your frantic mother ran up to you, grabbing your shoulders as she scanned your face for injuries. "Thank the heavens you're alive! Did you see it? Did you encounter the ancient, bloodthirsty sorcerer of the woods?!"

Your lips held a knowing smile, while your fingers tightened around the warm and golden pinecone hidden safely in your pocket.

"I did," you replied smoothly, looking back at the dark sea of trees with a mysterious glow. "But don't worry. His footwork is excellent.”

wait…did I just write a Michael Jackson romantasy one-shot? 🫪🫪

anywayss, I hope you all enjoyed. 💜

[hannahtalkz]

the sweat, the messy hair, the smudged eyeliner???? this man was just too beautiful

[sudupp]

HE LOOKS SO FINEE UGHHHHH

[dreamylace]

the most beautiful man to ever grace this earth

[belhead]