charlotte

too many words

[sunwritez]

sunwritez is twenty writer hopeless romantic rom-com enjoyer anime fan hard-core antisocial pink lover feminist sagittarius

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ask anything!

[michaeldiary]

　　﹕   (✿˘͈ᵕ˘͈)   ┈  upcoming works! ↷

𝗮𝗺𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗰𝗮’𝘀 𝘀𝘄𝗲𝗲𝘁𝗲𝘀𝘁 𝗯𝘂𝗻𝗻𝘆. ┊ june 5, 2026

status ﹒ ◠ ✩ in progress.

length ﹒ ◠ ✩ ~4k.

summary ﹒ ◠ ✩

when the world’s most famous pop star falls in love with playboy’s golden girl, the reaction sends the world into a frenzy.

she’s beautiful, charismatic, and freshly crowned Playmate of the Year. he’s michael jackson, a global phenomenon whose every move makes headlines. to the public, they’re an impossible match. to the tabloids, they’re a goldmine. every date, every photograph, every glance shared across a crowded room becomes front page news as critics question what either of them could possibly see in the other.

while reporters chase scandals and fans argue over their relationship, michael and (name) find themselves fighting for something surprisingly ordinary: the chance to love each other without an audience. but under the relentless flash of cameras and the weight of public opinion, even the strongest feelings can begin to crack. after all, being america’s sweetest bunny was easy but dating michael jackson is another story entirely.

𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗱𝗹𝗲 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝗰𝗮𝗿𝗲 (𝟯). ┊ june 7, 2026

status ﹒ ◠ ✩ in progress.

length ﹒ ◠ ✩ ~10k.

preview ﹒ ◠ ✩

Michael still has one hand wrapped around the edge of the door.

He looks exhausted in the rawest possible sense of the word. Sweatpants thrown on crookedly, curls flattened unevenly from sleep, eyes still heavy from being dragged awake too fast. But the second Joe points toward (Name) again, something in his expression hardens immediately.

“Josep—”

“No,” Joe snaps, cutting directly over him without taking his eyes off her. “I told you this was gonna happen.”

(Name)’s grip tightens harder around Michael’s arm instinctively and she can physically feel her pulse hammering in her throat now. Nobody’s yelling yet except Joe, but the front porch already feels suffocatingly tense. Too many bodies. Too much noise. Michael subtly shifts more in front of her without seeming fully conscious he’s doing it, blocking part of Joe’s line of sight while she stays tucked tightly against his side.

“She’s got you missing rehearsals now,” Joe continues. “Hour late already. People waiting on you while you’re up here playing house.”

“It’s early,” Michael says quietly.

“It ain’t early when there’s work to do.”

𝗳𝗶𝗿𝘀𝘁 𝗳𝗿𝗶𝗲𝗻𝗱. 𝗹𝗮𝘀𝘁 𝗹𝗼𝘃𝗲. ┊ june, 2026

status ﹒ ◠ ✩ in progress.

length ﹒ ◠ ✩ ~15k.

summary ﹒ ◠ ✩

before the sold-out stadiums, the screaming crowds, and the headlines known around the world, there was simply michael and (name).

they grew up side by side, collecting summers and secrets like treasures. from scraped knees and sleepovers to whispered dreams beneath starlit skies, there was never a memory that didn't somehow include the other. everyone assumed they'd always be inseparable. what no one expected was how difficult it would be for two soulmates to recognize what had been in front of them all along.

as the years pass and life pulls them in different directions, their bond remains untouched by time, woven into every milestone, every reunion, and every goodbye. but when friendship begins to blur into something deeper, michael and (name) are forced to confront feelings that have been quietly growing between them for years.

after all, some people spend their lives searching for their soulmate.

michael and (name) have known theirs since childhood. ♡

© michaeldiary. 2026. do not copy, repost, translate, or feed into ai.

[imhandicapableofmath]

the jackson chronicles: part iii (take it off)

contents page

⊹ ࣪ ˖ ꒰ঌ ♡ ໒꒱ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ michael jackson x spouse! reader

summary ⋆ a prestigious awards ceremony goes wonderfully off-script when you decide to thank your husband for something you definitely shouldn’t be admitting in public. michael spends the rest of the evening trying to recover from the complete character assassination.

content ⋆ 18+, suggestive content warning, mild language, embarrassed michael, reader is a rascal, reader wears a dress but a gender is not explicitly stated

author's note ⋆ this is based on this nicki minaj clip with michael b. jordan. I KNOW SHES FALLEN OFF OVER THE YEARS BUT YOU HAVE TO AGREE THIS WAS REALLY SMOOTH OF HER. this was really funny to write, i kindaaaaa wanna make a spicier continuation of this?? we shall see.

the MTV video music awards had already stretched well past tolerable, the ceremony going deep into the evening by the time the presenters for best music video finally began making their way toward the stage. the auditorium smelled faintly of freshly opened champagne and overheated stage lights, buzzing beneath air conditioning powerful enough to lift napkins but somehow still incapable of cooling the crowd packed inside it.

at this point, both sets of cheeks hurt.

the ones on your face were stiff from smiling at cameras for three straight hours — a practiced, porcelain mask maintained for every roving lens and spontaneous cutaway. then there were the ones currently going numb against a velvet chair, the plush material beginning to feel like hard granite after the fourth commercial break. somewhere beneath the heavy linen of the table, your left foot had dissolved into pins and needles, a dull roar of static creeping up your ankle.

michael, meanwhile, had spent the better part of the ceremony staring at you as if you’d contained the secrets to the universe.

which was not helping your attempts to remain composed for the millions of viewers watching the broadcast. every single time you glanced sideways, trying to look at the stage or the teleprompter, you caught him looking.

not subtly either; it was obvious he had no pretense of interest in the surrounding spectacle.

he was just openly admiring you from across the candlelit table, his chin resting loosely against his knuckles while applause crashed somewhere else in the hall. his thumb moved in slow circles over the sensitive surface on the inside of your wrist below the table — distracted, affectionate, and almost lazy with the familiarity of it — like touching you had become second nature years ago.

‘though it is partly your fault,’ he would’ve told you if you’d confronted him about his lack of focus. the dress had made it nearly impossible for him to think about anything else.

versace had made it specifically for tonight.

black silk poured over your body like ink. fitted close through the waist, dropping lower across the hips, then falling clean against your legs. the fabric moved like liquid when you walked, dark enough to swallow the light before throwing it back in delicate flashes. the back dipped dangerously low, exposing the length of your spine beneath delicate strands of gold embellishment stitched into the silk like molten metal. the detailing arched across your shoulders and lower back in fine, constellated patterns, tiny crystals threaded between the goldwork so every flashbulb caught somewhere different.

michael had gone visibly quiet the first time he saw you wearing it in the hotel.

you still remembered the exact way he’d looked up from tying his cufflinks — a task he usually performed with effortless ease — only to forget how his hands worked.

“baby?” you’d laughed as he fumbled with the cuff.

nothing. just michael staring at you in silence, eyes roaming over the expanse of your body like he couldn’t believe you were real.

“…michael.”

his eyes had finally blinked back into focus.

“you can’t wear that,” he finally managed, his voice strained.

you’d choked on a laugh. “well, i thought showing up naked would be inappropriate.”

“no, i mean — ” he gestured vaguely toward your entire figure, visibly struggling to construct a coherent thought. “people are gonna see you.”

“well yes,” you’d said, stepping into your heels. “that is usually the purpose of attending public events.”

he had looked genuinely distressed about this for the rest of the evening, like he was mentally inventorying every available coat available in the tri-state area to drape over your shoulders the moment somebody looked at you for too long. it was a look of profound, adorable panic — the expression of a man who had realized too late that he was expected to share something he very much wanted to keep to himself.

which was precisely why you were currently fighting the urge to ruin his life a little bit, savoring the friction between his growing possessiveness and your own rising wickedness. the dress felt almost like a weapon in the way that you were more than happy to wield if it meant watching the poise of the world’s greatest performer continue to unravel below your presence.

onstage, the presenters for best music video exchanged rehearsed smiles beneath while the orchestra swelled softly through the ballroom. around you, entire tables straightened in anticipation, champagne glasses lifted, conversations cutting off mid-sentence as the cameras swept across the audience searching for reactions.

then the nominees began flashing across the displays overhead one by one: a montage of grainy cityscapes. screaming crowds. music video clips cut together in sharp bursts beneath the roar of the audience.

the opening shot from your newest single, sweet nothings, filled the LED screens surrounding the venue, your face appearing twenty feet tall in a way that made you reflexively cringe as the crowd erupted into cheers. a rain-soaked city flashed across the montage behind you, silver accents catching briefly against your stage costume beneath the neon haze while a few seconds of the chorus thundered through the speakers before the montage cut sharply to the next nominee.

beside you, michael inhaled sharply.

his arm slid instinctively around you, bringing you closer against his side as the final nominees were announced. the movement looked casual to everybody else, but you could feel the tension underneath it — the way his fingers flexed once against the silk of your dress before settling there.

because if you won this tonight, that was it. a full sweep.

artist of the year. best choreography. best direction.

and now this.

michael leaned down slightly, close enough for only you to hear him over the music. “you okay?”

you laughed once through your nose, though it came out tighter than intended. “ask me in thirty seconds.”

a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, but his eyes stayed fixed on the stage. the envelope hadn’t even been opened yet, and somehow both of you already looked like you were bracing for impact.

"and the award goes to — "

the presenter paused for a grueling few seconds, the silver cue card catching the harsh glare of the broadcast cameras while the entire room collectively held its breath. cameras swept across the nominees one by one, flashing nervous smiles to the people at home.

beside you, michael’s hand found your knee so quickly it surprised you. then —

your name echoed into the audience.

your entire table celebrated instantly, a symphony of crashing silverware and jubilant shouts of glee.

before you could even properly process the win, michael was already on his feet beside you. he was clapping harder than anybody else in the auditorium, he looked at you with such open pride that it made your eyes sting. 

“oh my god,” you mumbled, stunned and lightheaded as your composure cracked.

“you won,” he breathed, already halfway out of his chair. he gripped your shoulders, squeezing them tight with excitement. then he pulled you toward him, pressing a quick kiss against your cheekbone. “baby, you won!” 

“i didn’t doubt you for a second.”

you giggled, still trying to comprehend the praise surrounding you. “well, it’s nice one of us didn’t, because i definitely did.”

michael just shook his head, smiling like the idea itself was ridiculous.

the pins and needles in your foot vanished the second you stood. you tilted your head up to kiss him quickly — lipstick, laughter, adrenaline, all of it catching between you until the intensity of the ballroom rushed back into view.

then you turned toward the stage.

though you didn’t miss the way his eyes dipped shamelessly as you walked away, his focus dropping to the curves of your dress before he dragged himself back up to public decorum.

unbelievable behavior.

the applause swelled around you as you climbed the stairs, the award finally settling into your grasp — heavier than you’d expected, cool against your palms. your reflection flashed briefly across the giant monitors surrounding the stage, chandeliers scattering fractured gold across the darkened auditorium as the crowd continued howling somewhere beneath you.

michael smiled up at you from his seat the entire time, he watched with the same intent attention he always wore whenever you talked about something you loved. his eyes felt like an anchor in the blur of bright flashes and indistinct faces, steadying your nerves every time they threatened to slip. even from across the hall, his admiration felt almost tangible.

adjusting the microphone, you gave the standard opening first: thanking the academy. your team. the collaborators who pushed your vision. supportive friends. your family.

everything was going perfectly normal.

then near the end of the speech, your eyes drifted back toward michael again. and there he was, still staring.

there was something so endearing about him —  chin tucked into his fist, eyes fixed on you with complete and utter adulation  — that you felt the first spark of trouble curl through your chest before you could stop it. 

“and of course,” you started warmly, “shoutout to donatella versace for custom-making this dress for me tonight.”

polite applause scattered through the room. michael nodded approvingly from his table.

then you looked directly at him. a tiny smile tugged at the corner of your mouth.

and instantly his expression shifted into pure suspicion. the man who had spent the night in a daze of adoration suddenly sharpened, his eyes narrowing as he recognized the specific brand of mischief that always accompanied that particular curve of your lips.

he knew that look.

“…and shoutout to my husband michael jackson—”

the audience burst into cheers the second his name left your mouth, the sound vibrating through the floorboards. michael ducked his head, laughing coyly while the cameras swarmed toward him.

then you finished, the words pouring into the microphone with devastating precision:

“—because he’ll definitely be taking it off me later.”

silence.

for one glorious, suspended moment, the entire ballroom simply forgot how to function. the oxygen in the auditorium seemed to vanish, sucked out by the collective gasp of a thousand industry elites.

the monitors cut to him immediately.

michael froze mid-applause, his hands hovering inches apart as if the signal to clap had been abruptly severed from his brain. his eyes went wide behind impossibly long lashes as the reality of what you’d just said hit him in real time.

then the room lost its mind.

laughter surged through the auditorium in waves. people doubled over at their tables. the front row was a scene of total disarray; one prominent actress nearly fell out of her chair, needing to catch herself against the edge of the table while she desperately gasped for air.

meanwhile, you remained the picture of composure at the podium. with the award still resting beside you, you simply took a small sip of water and peered over the rim of the glass with wide, innocent eyes as though you hadn’t just publicly assassinated your husband’s dignity on live television.

“oh my god,” somebody screamed from somewhere near the back of the room, the exclamation cutting through the general din and triggering a fresh wave of delight from the audience.

at the center of the storm, michael looked like his soul had left his body. several celebrities at the surrounding tables were leaning over to congratulate him like he’d won an award himself, grabbing his shoulders, patting his back, laughing so hard some of them could barely get words out. all while michael sat there flushed deep enough to show through his stage makeup, seeming seconds away from disappearing directly into the upholstery of his chair.

by the time you returned to the table, he was hiding his face behind the nearest object he could find. which was currently a decorative vase.

“you are unbelievable,” he whispered hoarsely the second you slid back into the chair beside him, the scent of his expensive cologne mixing with the frenzied energy of the moment.

you smoothed your dress innocently. “what?”

“why would you say that?” he asked, lowering the vase just enough to reveal dazed, dark eyes. “in front of everyone?”

“because it was true.”

michael made a small, wounded noise deep in his throat, a huff of air that was half-wheeze and half-protest. around you, the nearby tables continued to ignore the actual ceremony, their occupants openly staring at the two of you and whispering behind their programs.

“oh, look at him. how precious! he's red!” somebody pointed out nearby.

they were right. the flush climbing up michael’s neck had become impossible to hide.

“baby,” he hissed under his breath, actively trying to crawl beneath the tablecloth.

a tiny stab of sympathy hit you then. you leaned closer, catching his face in between your hands and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek in apology.

unfortunately, that only made the nearby tables react even louder.

michael made a strangled sound as you kissed the corner of his mouth next, trying your very best to comfort him while simultaneously making the situation worse. his entire face had gone hot beneath your touch, eyes darting everywhere except directly at you while the cameras continued circling like vultures.

“i’m sorry,” you whispered, already collapsing against him again as your composure threatened to give out entirely.

“no you’re not,” he muttered, voice muffled into your shoulder as he tried to hide his face.

and honestly?

he was right.

the rest of the ceremony passed in a haze of cameras and secondhand mortification. every time somebody referenced your speech in the following categories, the broadcast cut back to your table, catching michael in his bewildered state all over again.

at one point, an interviewer approached your table with a grin already threatening disaster.

“so! about the dress—”

michael vanished before the question even finished.

one second he was beside you, the next he was halfway across the venue at concerning speed, pointing back toward you in silent delegation as he abandoned you to deal with the consequences alone.

fair enough.

eventually, sometime past midnight, the two of you finally escaped the barrage of flashbulbs and microphones and retreated back to your hotel suite.

the second the door shut behind you, michael turned and pointed at you accusingly.

“you embarrassed me,” he declared, though his voice lacked any real bite.

you folded in on yourself immediately, kicking off your heels to be abandoned near the doorway as you finally gave up trying to behave. you flicked a hand at him in a dismissive motion. “you survived.”

he stood by the massive window, his eyes fixed on the view overlooking los angeles, the city glittering below him like scattered diamonds. a faint pout was still playing on his lips. “barely.”

michael shook his head, his attention drifting back to you again — it followed the delicate detailing along the sides of the dress, the dangerously cut back, the way the fabric clung to every dip and swell of your body. the remnants of your stage makeup still surviving, smudged.

“i was traumatized,” he muttered weakly.

“oh please, you were smiling the whole time.”

“i was under a lot of peer pressure.”

“sureee.” you started walking toward him, letting your palms glide over the satin lapel of his suit jacket. you danced your fingers across the intricate military-style embroidery, feeling the raised threads beneath your touch. michael’s eyes tracked every motion, sharpening with desire the closer you got.

“so,” you murmured, letting go of him and turning around, showing off the gold zipper that ran down your lower back. you glanced over your shoulder at him with a playful little smile. “you gonna take this off me or what?”

something in his expression shifted.

the shy embarrassment that had followed him around all evening finally broke just enough for something steadier to ease itself underneath. his grip closed around your waist, pulling you flush against him hard enough to make you lose the rest of your sentence.

“careful,” he murmured, finally looking at you directly. “you’ve been causing problems all night.”

his voice had dropped an octave. it sent a pulse straight between your legs. 

“oh, now you wanna act brave?” you teased, even as your heart raced.

michael let out a muted laugh before clasping your zipper and bringing it down agonisingly slow, tooth by tooth, letting the cool air skim across the newly exposed skin as the material gradually loosened around your body.

“you done putting on a show for everybody else?”

you opened your mouth, but he spun you around before you could answer. one strong hand slid under your thigh, lifting your leg high against his hip, forcing you to balance as he pressed you flush against him. the other hand settled possessively at the base of your spine, fingers splayed across the heat of your body.

“because,” he said, eyes dragging over your face, “i’ve been wanting to get you alone since the second you stepped out in that dress.”

the zipper traveled lower under his fingers. the dress loosened, slithering further down your shoulders and arms, barely clinging to your chest. michael’s touch slipped inside, gliding over your ass before hooking into the thin strap of your underwear. he yanked at it until it was taut, letting it snap sharply against your flesh with a soft sting that made you gasp.

he smiled at that. his mouth was on you — brushing your jaw, grazing your neck with his teeth, just enough pressure to make your breath hitch.

“hm,” he hummed, satisfied, feeling the way you trembled against him. “guess you’re done.”

he traced slowly up your spine, tugging the zipper the rest of the way down. the silk dress unraveled completely, descending further until it pooled softly around your waist and exposed the full swell of your chest. michael pulled back just enough to look at you properly.

there was still a voracity there, obvious and impossible to miss, but tangled up with something quieter too — something almost reverent in the way his eyes moved over you like he still couldn’t fully believe you were real, let alone standing here in front of him like this.

only then did he cup your face with both hands and kiss you.

the kiss started deep and warm. but the hunger he’d been holding back all night quickly took over. it grew heavier, more consuming. his tongue brushed yours, teasing as your fingers traveled to his hair. you melted into him, a soft sound leaving your throat while he tilted his head and kissed you even deeper.

one hand stayed at the nape of your neck, holding you exactly where he wanted, while the other skimmed down your bare back. every time you tried to gasp for air, he chased your lips again, refusing to let you go. his kisses turned slower, more sensual — lingering presses mixed with gentle bites to your bottom lip.

“you have no idea what you do to me,” he whispered against your mouth, voice rough and low, before diving back in. the moment stretched until your lungs finally started protesting.

you pulled back first, forehead brushing his as you tried unsuccessfully to steady yourself.

“so,” you murmured between uneven breaths, fingertips smoothing lazily along the buttons of his jacket, “i’m guessing you did like the speech?”

michael let out a light chuckle, thumb brushing slowly across your bottom lip while his eyes stayed fixed on yours. “you’re gonna be the death of me,” he whispered.

he leaned in again, mouth trailing from yours to your jaw, then lower. kisses pressed along your décolletage one by one, lingering beneath your ear before drifting down the column of your neck.

the longer he kissed you, the less restrained he became.

what started gentle turned heavier, more deliberate — the scrape of teeth, the pull of his mouth against your skin, the sting that followed whenever he sucked hard enough to leave colour behind. he took his time with it, savoring every inch, leaving a trail of bruises. by the time he finally lifted his head, faint marks had already begun blooming across your throat and collarbones beneath the dim hotel lighting.

“i loved every second of it,” he admitted quietly, lips grazing your skin between words. “even when i wanted to disappear into the floor.”

another kiss.

“all i could think about was getting you back here and ripping this dress off you.”

the dress hung low on your hips now, threatening to slip further. michael’s attention fell down. eyes outlining the way the fabric clung to your silhouette, gold detailing twisted beneath his fingers from how tightly he’d held you — it completely ruined for anyone else.

“actually keep it on a little longer,” he murmured. he tugged the material up slightly, only to let it fall again. “i’m not finished admiring it yet.”

his palm slid along the curve of your waist.

“…or you.”

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© imhandicapableofmath. 2026 ✦ please do not steal my work/use it to train ai ✦ reblogs are appreciated! ✦ with love, doobi <3

[obriy]

JAAFAR JACKSON behind the scenes of MICHAEL

[michaeldiary]

hey so

[sunwritez]

If I see ONE (1) more bts footage from Michael with Jaafar looking absolutely angelic I WILL start planning our wedding

[crueldiors]

being fed all these michael jackson and jaafar jackson fics and edits wow i love everyone

[sunwritez]

RUNAWAY LOVERS. michael jackson x reader

You didn't think you could love again after your disastrous wedding. But the story between you and Michael was never supposed to end at the local diner.

Michael Jackson x fem!reader

official part II to runaway dreamers.

At around five p.m., you surrender on trying to distract yourself from the feeling of impending doom that’s been tormenting you all day. Glancing at the clock, you shut the book in your lap with a frustrated sigh and throw your head back.

Michael has said that he’ll pick you up at six p.m. sharp, and you still haven’t started on your prepping routine. It’s like your body and mind are in a staggering conflict: your muscles are stretching and aching to get up from the armchair and jump in the shower, but your mind is still stuck on believing this is all a big, fat joke. It feels way too good to be real. Michael Jackson can’t possibly want a date with you. Especially not after you’ve confessed to him every single detail about your failed wedding. I mean, yes, you did run away from the altar, but that’s because you’ve been cheated on. A painful feeling twists in your stomach at the memory: how could Michael, a man made of angeldust, ever want to see you again?

Shaking your head, you throw the book on the couch and force yourself to get up. Getting swallowed in negative thoughts won’t be helping you out. You walk to the bathroom and look at yourself in the mirror, trying to practice some mindful breathing. You got this. You’ll have a beautiful date night with the man that rescued you from being kidnapped on your wedding night. Not Michael Jackson. Just Michael.

It’s been a whole month since that night. You’ve managed to throw out every single thing that reminded you of your ex-fiancée, and got drunk to try and manage the suffocating feeling that made you think you wasted six years of your life with him. I mean, did he even know you? He definitely made up a version of you in his mind that didn’t even exist, and in the meanwhile, managed to cheat on you with your maid of honor. She wasn’t even your best friend, just a college friend you’ve shared your room with. Still, you hoped that she had a little more consideration for your feelings.

You canceled her number, and his, from your phone book, and avoided answering the phone for a week, afraid that they might be pestering you. You once even saw her walk by your house, and hid behind the curtains. You didn’t want to see her, let alone hear her voice: you might commit a homicide, if you did, and you didn’t feel like spending the rest of your life in prison.

Around week two, you threw yourself into a cyclone of feminist literature: Sylvia Plath, Virginia Woolf, Simone de Beauvoire, Mary Wollstonecraft. This helped you shape your anger and define it better, focusing on finding yourself again. No more getting your heart broken by a useless man; no more wasting days and days waiting for calls and e-mails; no more suppressing your interest to make him happy. Reading those books made you feel like you could still have a purpose in life, something that strayed far beyond landing the man of your dreams.

Week three began with a beautiful, sunny day. It made you feel like a rebirth, almost. You could do this, as long as the sun shined down on you. Michael called that same day, around four p.m. You remember because you absent-mindedly doodled on a piece of paper while he was talking on the phone: the final result was a page full of pink hearts and the number ‘4’ written all over it. Jesus.

His voice was soft and soothing, even through the phone line. It reminded you how good it felt to talk to him at the diner, how he made you feel like you could deal with everything bad in your life.

Michael asked you out, but didn’t tell you anything specific about the date. He only mentioned something ‘fun and different’, and asked you to dress comfy.

You hung up the phone and clutched your head: this was really happening. You were really going out with him, it wasn’t just a dream.

The doorbell rings, and your heart explodes out of your ribcage. Frantically, you adjust your gloss and ruffle your hair. Stop it, stop. Just get out of the damn house.

Stepping out, you immediately spot a black, luxurious car with tinted windows parked on the road in front of your house. Fancy enough to not be mistaken for anybody else’s, surely.

A man gets out of the driver’s side and walks around the car. Reaching out, he opens the backdoor for you, fighting a smile. It’s clear that he’s trying to stay as composed as possible, but he looks very funny with this expression on his face. Nodding and muttering a thank you under your breath, you step into the car.

His cologne is what hits you first: it smells like a mix of wood, vetiver and something else you can’t quite pinpoint, but it fills you and the air in the car like a reassuring promise. Michael is sitting behind the driver’s seat, and his pose is as relaxed as ever. His long legs are touching the back of the driver’s seat, and his hands are rubbing his thighs up and down.

‘You’re beautiful’.

And there goes the last bit of self-dignity you had.

‘Hello to you too, Michael’ you exhale, clearing your throat.

The car starts rolling down the street, and you fixate on the lights passing outside the window, smiling.

‘So. Will you finally tell me where we’re going?’ you ask, tilting your head and looking back at him.

He grins and shakes his head.

‘Forget it, runaway girl. I want to surprise you’ he answers, resting his hands on the small space between the seats. You arch a brow, and a laugh escapes you.

‘Runaway girl? I’m sorry, I didn’t know we already landed the nickname stage, Angelface’ you retorted, putting emphasis on the name. Quite frankly, you didn’t even have to think too hard about it: it just came out of your mouth when you saw him, because he really does look like an angelface. Does he realise how beautiful he is?

He pushes his tongue on his cheek and looks down smiling. You: 1, Michael: 0.

The car takes a turn and stops in front of a small building. Fluorescent lights shine through the tinted windows, but the place looks strangely empty.

Wait. You know where you are.

Michael brought you to the Arcade.

You turn to face him, and he’s already looking at you with a glimmer in his eyes. Your heart skips a beat in your chest, fluttering your hopes.

The car door springs open, held by the driver. You step out, eager for some fresh air, and the feeling hits you again, this time mutating into certainty. The Arcade is empty, which is weird, because it’s a Saturday night. Where is everyone?

The air shifts. Michael is next to you, and your whole body tingles at the feeling.

‘Michael, this is- I love this place!’ you say, smiling. He nods and smiles.

‘Before you ask, yes, it’s empty. That’s because I did one of my little tricks and convinced the owner to leave the place to us, tonight’ he explains, maybe sensing the question on your lips.

You turn to face him.

‘What?’.

‘You heard it right’.

Following an impulsive feeling, you reach out and kiss his cheek. His breath catches at the gesture, and you’re back on your toes and into the Arcade before he moves.

‘This is literally against any rule ever invented, Michael!’

‘You’re just a sore loser’ he retorts.

‘Oh, shut up’ you huff and lightly hit his arm.

'Violence is never the answer' he murmurs, pretending to be annoyed.

'It is when you cheat at games!’.

He rolls his eyes and smiles. He extends his arm and pulls you towards his chest, patting your head.

‘Shh, it’s okay, I won't tell anyone that you’re horribly at playing Asteroids’ he murmurs, trying to stifle a laugh.

You let yourself enjoy the warmth of his body for a second too long, inhaling his scent. You grumble when you hear him laugh, and push yourself away immediately regretting it.

'Let's see if you’ll cheat at Pac-Man too, Angelface’ you tease. He lifts his chin up.

‘I like that, pretty girl. Even though I think you’re the angel here’. His voice is low and soft, careful. Testing, maybe, if you like his flirting.

You bite your lip, and don't miss the way his eyes stay stuck on the gesture.

‘Smooth’ you murmur, and turn to walk to the next game.

‘Not my fault you're beautiful!’ he calls from behind, making you laugh.

‘How bad would it be if I told you that I actually suck at aiming?’.

‘Y/N. It’s a fake, electronic gun made for children’.

You narrow your eyes.

‘Yes, and?’.

Your gaze is shooting daggers.

He shakes his head and smiles.

‘No problem at all, sweetheart. I’ll teach you’ he shrugs his shoulders and takes your hand, walking you two to the machine.

You can’t deny that it is a very basic game: all you have to do, after you insert the coin, is take the little plastic gun, aim at the zombies on the screen, and shoot as many as you can. Easy, yes. Unfortunately, your hand-eye coordination sucks.

Taking position in front of the machine, you steal a quick glance at Michael. His face has been unraveling a little more with each game that you guys played: it was like looking at the sun rising on the horizon. His smile grew bigger and his features relaxed, almost as he felt like he could relax with you. The Arcade is a haven for you two, where you can be young again, free of responsibilities and everyday-stress.

Michael fishes a coin out of the pocket of his jeans and slides it into the box, pressing a button. The game awakens at that.

He walks over to you and stands right behind you. His frame is reassuring, and you feel your shoulder lose tension when he moves his hands and slides them up and down your arms.

‘Okay. You got this, pretty girl. I’m right here’ he murmurs into your ear. Your breath hitches. Would it be bad if you just threw the little gun on the floor and kissed him right here and now?

You nod, exhaling.

It’s just a game.

You raise your arms and point the gun towards the screen. Michael moves a little to press another button on the side of the coin box, and the word START flashes on the screen.

You’re already about to lose your mind at the insanely comic number of zombies filling up the screen, when suddenly Michael reaches up and cups your hands with his. He guides your movements quickly. ‘Shoot’ he mutters into your ear. You shoot, and boom, one down.

‘See? It’s easy’ he laughs quietly, not letting go of your hands. You murmur a response, too busy trying to not lose your mind at how good it feels to have him this close. His chest is pressed against your back, and you’re leaning on him. He’s strong enough to hold you, and his arms are caging you as you proceed to shoot more and more zombies down.

‘I told you, see? You’ve won’ he says. His arm is lazily draped across your shoulders as he guides you towards the exit and into the car again.

‘Only because you’ve guided me through it’ you tease, smiling.

‘What can I say? I’m just cool like that’ he shrugs his shoulders and opens the door of the car for you. You step in, laughing.

A sudden feeling of sadness washes over you. Is the night really over? It feels as if the hours passed by like minutes, and now you don’t feel ready to bid him goodbye.

Michael gets in the car and immediately senses that something is not quite right. As the driver starts driving away from the Arcade, you let out a small sigh.

‘What’s wrong, sweet girl? You didn’t have fun?’ he asks, leaning over to reach you. You turn your head, and once again, his beauty strikes you. He looks even more ethereal up close, like some god woke up one day and decided to create him, then send him down to Earth to bless everyone.

‘You look like an angel’ you mutter, before you can stop it.

His cheeks get flushed immediately, and he looks down.

‘No, you do’ he answers. You find his hand and squeeze it.

‘Take the compliment, Michael. I’m not generous with them’ you joke, smiling.

When the car stops in front of your house, you sigh. This is it. The night’s already over.

The driver comes to open your door and you step out, turning to bid Michael goodnight. But he's not sitting in the car. You frown.

He appears in front of you, and waves a hand towards his driver. The man smiles and nods, and goes back in the car, driving away.

'Are you about to kidnap me?’

'Only if you promise to stay with me’ he teases back. You feel yourself blush and look down at the sidewalk.

‘I just don't think I’m ready for this night to be over’ he murmurs. You can feel his fingers grazing yours.

The air feels perfectly still. Michael is looking at you with a thousand stars in his eyes. You want him close to your body, as close as possible. His whole figure stretches towards you in infinitesimal ways, shaping a new reality with every minuscule movement.

The indecisiveness that tormented you these past few weeks melts into the ground, leaving your body. With a firm gesture, you meet him halfway. His mouth falls on yours, and the world regains balance.

His hands fly up to your waist, and he cages you in his arms, holding you firmly. His mouth is warm. A low sound runs up your throat, and at that, Michael deepens the kiss, tilting his head to slide his tongue in your mouth.

You reach up on your toes and move your hands to his hair, grabbing his curls and giving them a little squeeze. He groans, and the sound threatens to kill you on the spot.

Michael breaks off the kiss, one of his hands moving to cup your head and tilt it upwards.

‘You’re so incredibly beautiful, Y/N’ he mutters, his pupils dilated.

You smile, and for the first time in weeks, you don’t feel that hollow, painful feeling in your chest. It feels like Michael stitched you back together.

‘Don’t leave me’ you feel yourself muttering.

He shakes his head, biting his lip.

‘Never. I’ll never leave you, baby’.

He rests his forehead on yours.

That night you sleep at your house, all tangled up, limbs intertwined and arms wrapped around each other.

It feels like finding something inside of you that has been waiting all these years to be woken up. Soulmate, some say. You don't know if that's the correct term.

You only know the way Michael loves you, infinitely more every day.

[sunwritez]

RUNAWAY DREAMERS. Michael Jackson x reader

Instead of spending your wedding night having fun, you're sitting on the stairs of a hotel, crying your sadness away. Fortunately enough, your Charming Prince will come to save you.

Michael Jackson x fem!reader

Highly recommend listening to Dance Hall Days while reading ;)

Your wedding dress looks very pretty under the city lights. The gowns float like little clouds when you drop down to rest your pained feet. Reaching under the dress, you slip off of your shoes, which looked so good this morning, but feel like another regret.

Regrets. As if you already haven’t enough of them.

You look up, tilting your head to assess where you are. You’re sitting on the flight of stairs that leads to the entrance of the Quinns Hotel. Great. There’s nothing worse than looking like a crazy homeless woman right outside of a hotel full of celebrities and stars.

Sighing, you take back your words. No, actually, there is something worse: finding out that your fiancée has been actively cheating on you with your maid of honor right as you’re about to pronounce your votes. Sighing, you drop your head between your hands. 

‘Are you lost?’

An unknown voice perks up from somewhere behind you. 

You raise your head and turn to it. Something immediately strikes you. There’s a man standing right behind you, a confused expression on his face. He’s wearing a brown leather jacket, and his curls are framing his forehead in a way that looks meticulously studied, but also very casual. 

Realisation hits you like a train. This is Michael Jackson. 

You’re wearing a bridal dress, sitting on the stairs of a hotel in the middle of a busy sidewalk, and Michael Jackson is standing right behind you. 

‘I’m sorry, do I look that crazy?’ you ask, looking up at him. 

He smiles at that, and, then, drops down next to you. Okay, maybe you’ve fallen off the steps of the altar while you were running away from your fiancée. Maybe you’re still there, laying dead, and you’re dreaming this whole scene. 

‘No. But you do look like you’ve lost something along the way’ he looks down at your dress, and raises a brow. 

A laugh escapes your throat. Unfortunately, you’ve been crying the whole day, so it looks more like a snort. Still, you didn’t think you were going to laugh again after today. 

‘It’s, uh, a very long story. Embarrassing, at times. But just so you know, I promise I'm not a runaway psycho from the nearest mental hospital’.

A smile forms on his lips. He doesn’t ask to know more, which feels refreshing. At the same time, there’s something in him that makes you want to confide in him, and tell him everything. 

‘Anyway. Are you lost?’

He looks down at the steps, grinning.

‘Depends on what you mean by lost. Technically, I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be, which is at the Quinns Hotel’. He looks up at you. ‘But I’m also lost, because I can’t find the words I needed to write a song tonight, so I decided to take a walk and let inspiration come to me’ he finishes, looking up and meeting your eyes. 

You nod, turning to look at the city passing by. The night is chilly, but not cold. Not yet. It all feels very surreal, but at the same time, sharp at the edges. Almost like a real dream come true. Just, not the dream you were expecting. 

‘What do you say we go for a walk together?’

The words slip out of your mouth before you can control them. 

He gets up from his seat, and humiliation floods in your body. Great. Abandoned at the altar and labeled as crazy by the Michael Jackson. You brace yourself, ready to see him run away from you.

Instead, he walks in front of you and extends his hand.

‘It’s nice to meet you. I’m Michael Jackson’.

You frown, reaching for his hand but not quite touching it. What kind of game is he playing?

‘I’m Y/N’ you say. He shortens the distance and takes your hand. 

‘You look in desperate need of some comfort. And possibly even something nice enough to distract you from your worries’ he says, lifting you to your feet. You smile, and reach down to slip your heels back on. 

‘You’re right, Michael’ you confirm. One corner of his mouth lifts up, content to see you playing along. 

‘That is such a fortunate coincidence! You see, I’ve been looking for a way out too’ he explains, guiding you down the steps. He puts his hands in his pockets and starts walking backwards. You laugh. He looks silly walking like this, but it’s good to see. 

‘I know of a good place where you can eat great fries, right around the corner. You in?’ you ask, teasing him. Fries are possibly the only thing that could comfort you right now. Besides this lovely man in front of you. 

He nods, and turns to walk beside you. Something prickles at the nape of your neck. There’s something that seems… casually off in his behaviour. Whatever. There’s no space in your brain to worry about anything else. 

Reaching up, you unlodge the veil from your hair, balling it up and throwing it on the ground. It feels like a neat break from everything. 

‘What do you mean that he called dates off because his team was playing?’

Michael looks disconcerted enough. A little distraught too: he’s holding a handful of forgotten fries, and his face shows every ounce of disapproval he’s feeling. Embarrassment makes you blush. 

‘Look, I was in love, okay? I believed it only right to give him his space’ you murmur, shoving fries in your mouth. 

The diner is almost totally empty, save for you two and the owner, James. You’ve known him for years, so he wasn’t exactly surprised when he saw you come in. He did shoot a preoccupied look at your outfit, but something in your face told him it was better not to ask. However, when he saw who was with you, he almost choked. 

You quickly walked the steps to the counter, eyes wide and shaking your head. ‘Don’t’ you murmured. ‘Please’ you added. He exhaled loudly, trying to not look too much at the man behind you. He began trafficking with some glasses behind the counter. ‘Anything I can do for you, dear?’ he asked, as polite as ever. You sighed, relieved.

‘Yes. Could I get the largest portion of fries you have? Make that two’.

‘I’m totally for giving each other space in a relationship. But a man that bails you on date night because his team is playing is not a real man’. Michael takes a drink of his Coke, mumbling something under his breath. 

You tilt your head. 

‘I haven’t even gotten to the best part yet. This is just an appetizer, Michael. I didn’t run away from my wedding because he bailed on me’ you joke, reaching for some more fries. Your plate was empty. Michael slid his to you, motioning for you to serve yourself. 

You chew silently for a few moments, trying to collect the strength in you to talk about what happened just hours ago. That feeling from before surfaces again. Something in Michael makes you feel good: you feel like you could tell him anything, and he wouldn’t judge you. You don’t remember the last time you felt like this with someone that wasn’t your journal. 

‘So. Picture the scene. I’m at the altar, and the-’ you stop, reaching in your mind for a good enough nickname to give to your ex-fiancée. 

‘Grinch. We’ll call him Grinch’ suggests Michael, leaning back in his seat. You nod.

‘The Grinch, he was right in front of me. The priest was just finishing his sermon. We were about to pronounce our votes, when, all of a sudden, my maid of honor crumbled to the floor. I looked behind me, and I hurried to help her. My first thought was that she may have fainted, or felt ill. But no. She was crying’. You stop, to create a little suspense. Michael crosses his arms, and narrows his eyes slightly. ‘Go on’ he murmurs.

Your stomach twists pleasantly at hearing his low voice. Wait, what?

‘She was crying. I was extremely confused: she’s never been one for antics, and what did she have to cry about anyway? The Grinch, meanwhile, was frozen in his place. I didn’t even think about how suspicious it looked of him to just stand there and do nothing, maybe because that’s what he always did. Nothing’ you smile at that. Michael snorts a laugh.

‘She was sobbing, but also trying to say something. I was growing more and more scared, and asking myself if I should call for help. That’s when she raised her head, and, looking straight at him, she screamed, TELL HER. I freeze. What did she mean, tell her?’. You stop then, and exhale briefly. This is the most painful part of the story. Michael straightens up, and unfolds his arms. 

‘Hey. You’re not forced to tell me anything’ he murmurs, softly. He reaches for your hand, and brushes your fingers. The brief contact soothes you. You nod, and look up from the table to meet his gaze.

‘No. It’s good, I need to talk about it. Plus, you’re a very good listener, Michael. I have never told a stranger about my disastrous wedding, so that’s a point for you’ you try to laugh it off. He smiles, and holds your hand delicately, enough to make you feel like you can finish the story without bursting into tears.

‘Yeah, so, at that point, my brain was piecing things together. I got up, left her on the ground to her despair, and confronted him. I told him: What is she talking about?. He couldn’t even look me straight in the eyes, God. He looked at the priest, as if the poor man could help him out. He sighed, loosened the collar of his shirt, and murmured something. I raised my voice, and repeated the question. The guests had started rumouring, and the church was filled with whispers. He crushed under the tension, and confessed. It seems that my almost-husband and my maid of honor had been hooking up for years, leading up to the wedding. Shamelessly, he didn’t even bent down to try and comfort her. I felt like I was dying, right there, on the spot. I looked around me. Breathed deeply. Then, I collected my gowns and quite literally ran out of the church’. You stop to take a sip of water. ‘I have been aimlessly walking all day, trying to not get lost, and at the same time, trying to not think about what happened. Then I met you, and here we are’ you conclude, sighing. It feels like a heavy weight has lifted off your chest. 

Michael is silent. He bites his lip, looking like he doesn’t really know what to say.

‘He’s an asshole. No, better. He’s demented’. He looks angrier than you. 

‘Don’t worry. At least I’m free of him now’ you shrug your shoulders.

The radio in the background is playing Dance Hall Days. You smile.

Michael looks around, confused. Then, he picks on the music, and mirrors your smile.

‘You like this song?’ he asks, tapping the table with his fingers.

You nod. ‘It’s possibly one of my favourites of all time’ you explain, sipping the rest of your water.

‘What are the others?’ he asks. He seems genuinely curious to know more about something as simple as your favourite music. 

Gosh. Your heart is already beating faster in your chest.

‘Uhm, let’s see. Brothers in Arms, definitely. Also, The Winner Takes it All, and Dancing Queen. This last one has been the soundtrack to my highschool years’. You laugh, then hesitate. You’re not sure you want to tell him the rest.

He senses your hesitation. 

‘Anything else?’ he asks. 

‘I Will Survive. And, yeah, Beat it, also. Maybe even The Girl Is Mine, when I’m feeling romantic’ you finish, trying to play it off. Your cheeks are awfully red, so maybe you’re not really good at this.

Michael laughs.

‘Don’t get too excited, okay?’. You lightly kick his leg under the table, but you’re smiling.

‘No, I’m not making fun of you, don’t worry. It’s just good to see that I’m one of your favourites’ he says, tilting his head. 

You roll your eyes. 

‘You’re not going to let me live it down, right?’ you ask.

He shakes his head, smiling. There’s a strange feeling in the air. What you just said premises a possible future where you two stay in contact. Where you’re friends with Michael. Not the superstar, but the guy who just ate fries with you in an attempt to lift your humour. 

It seems like a very good perspective.

The air is colder when you step out of the diner. You shiver, wanting to set your dress on fire just to warm yourself up a little. 

A jacket lands on your shoulders. You look behind, surprised. Michael has shrugged off his jacket and draped it over your shoulders, looking casual. 

‘Thanks, Michael’ you murmur, taking in the warmth and the smell of his cologne. 

He shakes his head.

‘Don’t. Wouldn’t want you to freeze to death, Y/N’ he says, walking next to you. Your heart takes a leap.

‘I mean, I could get blamed if they find you dead and I’m the last person you were seen with’ he jokes, smiling. You laugh, and your breath draws a puff of air in the chilly night. 

Michael doesn’t want this night to end, and neither does he want to go back to his hotel. He managed to dodge Bill and spend one single hour like a normal man, eating fries with a pretty girl in a diner. A dream come true, really. Still, he feels like he could do more for her. She had to run away from her wedding, so she deserves to live the greatest night of her life. 

He steals a glance at her. She’s awfully pretty, even in the wrinkled dress, ruined makeup and hair down. A brief thought crosses his mind: if she were at the altar with him, she would have been the happiest woman on Earth. He would have never done what the Grinch did. 

Wait, what? Stop it. You look crazy.

Michael clears his throat.

‘So. Are you in a hurry?’.

She turns to look at him, frowning. 

‘Not really, no. Why?’.

He smiles.

‘Great. Follow me’.

The cinema is empty. She bought a large popcorn bucket while he hid behind a poster, trying to not look psycho, and avoid fans all the same. 

The cinema’s showing Singin’ in the Rain tonight. They settled down, sitting next to each other, elbows brushing here and there. Every single time his skin had touched hers, Michael felt a shot of electricity surging through his body. 

Fortunately, he’s got the movie memorized: he spent the entire time stealing glances at the beautiful woman next to him, admiring her. Really, how could anyone consciously cheat on her? 

The door to the cinema hall slams open. Like a scene straight out of a horror movie, a girl appears in the doorway, and points at Michael. She’s screaming.

Survival instincts kick in. Y/N, next to him, is already rising to her feet. Michael takes her hand and guides her toward the exit, while the girl has her back on them. She’s calling someone. Fuck. They don’t have much time. 

Michael holds her hand while they quickly descend the steps and push the door open. He stops for a split second, and looks at her.

‘I’m sorry’ he says, frantic. He didn’t want this to happen. Yes, there was a high risk that someone was going to recognize him and break their little bubble, but still. Sometimes he just wishes he could be your average, normal guy, so he didn’t have to interrupt dates nights with pretty girls like Y/N to run away.

‘Don’t. Michael, I think we have to run’ she says, looking him in the eyes. He still has her hand in his. She’s got a small, lovely hand, and it feels so good to hold her. 

Michael. Back to reality.

‘Yes. We do’ he says, just in time as the door behind them springs open. 

She lurches forward, and they start running away from the cinema. 

Why didn’t you decide to get married in sneakers? These heels were the worst choice in the world. You make a mental note to throw them in the fire as soon as you get home. 

The night air is hitting your face and ruffling your dress as you and Michael run away from the screaming fans. If you weren’t busy trying to catch your breath, you would find this scene incredibly funny. 

Michael comes to a halt next to a park.

‘C’mon, come here’ he murmurs. He seems just fine. How does he do this? What kind of training is he under? You feel like your lungs are melting in your chest. 

He drags you over the gates, and shelters your figures in the shadow of an oak, right in the corner. 

Your bodies are pressed close to each other. You let go of his hand and hold on to his shoulders, trying to not breathe too loudly. He looks down at you when you grip his shoulders, and smiles. A hand flies up to rest on your back, moving you even closer.

You tell yourself it’s just because he doesn’t want to be caught.

It’s not much until you hear the crazy storm pass by. Nobody, fortunately, spots you and Michael, which means that you can move.

At this point, you’re breathing fine. Looking up at him, you realise that he looks obscenely pretty after the run. His hair is all messy, and he somehow lost the hair tie along the way, which means that his curls are free roaming his face now. 

‘Are you okay?’ he asks you, brushing away a strand of hair that fell in front of your eyes.

You nod, but don’t say anything. 

‘Let’s go. I’ll walk you home’ he says.

You bite your lip when you get to your flat. The night is officially over, so why does it feel so sour to let go of him?

‘You know, maybe you should take up professional running. Seems like you’re pretty good at it’ he jokes, stopping on his tracks next to you.

You laugh, unable to shake the sadness away.

You’ve had fun tonight. Michael quite literally saved you from absolute doom and despair, and now what? You’re not even sure you’ll see him again.

‘Thank you, Michael. I don’t know where I would be if it weren’t for you’ you tell him, trying not to look too gloomy.

‘I’m the one who has to thank you. You’ve allowed to spend one night like a normal man. You’ve trusted me enough to tell me about your wedding, and you’ve also ran away with me from fans. That’s more than what the average woman would do’ he shrugs his shoulders. You sigh, and smile.

You move to take the jacket off.

‘Don’t. It looks better on you’ he stops you. 

You look up at him, lips parting slightly. 

You want him to kiss you. But also, you still feel that your heart is recovering from this day. But you also don’t want to say goodbye. 

In an impulsive moment, you fish a pen out of the pocket of the jacket, and grab his hand. Turning it upwards, you scribble your phone number on his palm.

‘There. So you’ll know where to find me if you feel like you need another normal night’ you finish, putting the pen away. He looks down at your writing, and smiles. 

‘I don’t want to go, but I have to. Bill is going to have a heart attack if I don’t reappear within the hour’ he sighs. You nod.

You turn your body to walk the few steps up to your door, when a hand grabs your arm. Michael spins you around and drags you to his body.

‘Keep the jacket, I’m serious. In fact, wear it when I see you again’. His hands slide to your waist, and rest there.

‘I’ll call you, I promise. You’ll probably get annoyed at how much I’ll want to hear your voice. Don’t forget about me’ he finishes off, in a whisper.

You look up at him.

‘Call me, Michael. Ask me out, talk to me, whatever you want. I could never get annoyed at hearing your voice’ you confess. The wedding feels like a distant scene, now, something that belongs to somebody else. A version of you that died the moment Michael offered you his hand tonight. 

Quickly, you reach up and leave a kiss on his cheek. He looks as stunned as possible when you pull away.

Smiling, you sneak out of his arms and get into your house, kicking the heels away and sliding down on the floor, smiling like a schoolgirl.

Michael walks to the hotel with a smile on his face.

Let me know if you'd fancy a part two :)

[sunwritez]

PART 2 IS UPPPPP

[sunwritez]

'the cure' by Olivia dropped and I'm feeling a tornado of emotions rn = opening the Word file to Runaway Dreamers part 2

[prettyangeliczz]

no one talks about jaafar in that brown silk shirt and i need dada real bad.

any fic writers please hear my cry.

[imhandicapableofmath]

the jackson chronicles: contents page

⊹ ࣪ ˖ ꒰ঌ ♡ ໒꒱ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ michael jackson x spouse! reader

a collection of domestic drabbles, interview transcripts, and short stories centred around married life with michael jackson — equal parts affectionate, absurd, and deeply unhinged.

tags : married! michael jackson, domestic fluff, shenaniganry, established relationship, the author's questionable humour, 0 media training, occasional hurt / comfort

warnings / content : mild language, suggestive, discussions of fame / public scrutiny, secondhand embarrassment, not proof-read

author's note: if you have any ideas for this series please feel free to insert them into my ask box!

༺☆༻

₊ ⊹ ๋࣭⭑ part i "good f—cking journalism"

₊ ⊹ ๋࣭⭑ part ii "tba"

₊ ⊹ ๋࣭⭑ part iii "tba"

₊ ⊹ ๋࣭⭑ part iv "tba"

₊ ⊹ ๋࣭⭑ part v "tba"

[sunwritez]

Laying in my bed and missing Jaafar Jackson WHAT IS HAPPENING TO ME that man cursed me fr

Real footage of me looking at that gorgeous face of his

[mfriri]

meow

[invinor]

if there are millions of invincible album fans, then i’m one of them. if there is one invincible album fan, it’s me. if all invincible album fans are dead then so am i !!

[lotuspetalss]

My beautiful bambi princess 🧁

[sunwritez]

MESSY, IN-LOVE, AND DROP DEAD. jaafar jackson x reader

Being a real life Bridget Jones is not as funny as people might think. However, it all takes a turn upon meeting the love your life, Jaafar Jackson. Oh, no, he doesn't know you're head over heels for him! Or does he?

Jaafar Jackson x fem!reader

The party is obscenely loud. 

There are people talking everywhere, and unfortunately, their topics of conversation are such that you find standing in a corner to be much more amusing. The truth is, you shouldn’t even be here. You were supposed to be in New York, celebrating New Year’s Eve with your friends, drinking the night away and having fun. 

Instead, you’re doing people-watching at your mother’s ‘Neighborhood Party’, holding a glass of white wine in your hand, and looking unmistakably alone. You were packing for your trip when your mother called you, and asked you at what time you were coming for her annual party. 

You thought, no, you were sure that you told her you weren’t coming. Coincidentally enough, though, here you are. I mean, technically, you are drinking the night away, but-

‘Hello, my darling!’

‘Mom, God, you scared me there’. You try to laugh the nervousness away. 

‘I’m sorry, sweetie. What are you doing here?’

Your mother looks awfully concerned. She clearly doesn’t remember that you’re inept at making social connections. 

‘Oh, you know, I’m just enjoying the night’ you tell her, waving a hand. 

She lifts a brow, shooting you the kind of look that mothers only pull out when they’re scared their child is afflicted by some kind of anti-social syndrome. A moment of silence settles between you two. 

‘Well, come with me. I have someone I want you to meet’. She cheerfully grabs your arm and forces you to follow her through the crowd of middle-aged people. Someone here and there waves at you, remembering you from your childhood spent around these blocks. Your left hand is still holding your glass of wine, and your right is stuck in your mother’s grasp, so you smile as a response. 

Your mother comes to a stop in front of a small circle of people. Oh, no. 

‘Jermaine! It’s so good to see that you could make it!’. She lets go of your arm and you wince back, massaging the spot she was holding: when exactly did her grip become so firm?

‘Anita, darling! I really couldn’t miss this incredible party. Thank you for inviting us even though we’re new in the neighbourhood’. Jermaine bents down and lightly hugs your mother. You smile. He seems like a kind man. You just had no idea that Jermaine Jackson was your mother’s neighbour. It felt a little surreal to be standing this close to a musician of his level.

‘This is my daughter, Y/N. Sweetie, come here’. Your mother hasn’t forgotten about you (unfortunately) and turns to introduce you to the group of people. Jermaine holds out his hand and smiles fondly at you. You freeze for a second, then remember that you’re supposed to introduce yourself properly.

You reach for his hand a moment too late, and smile.

‘I’m Y/N. Probably already guessed that’ you say, laughing nervously. Great start.

Jermaine smiles. Okay, maybe you can still save yourself.

He turns and holds out an arm to encircle the group, which you have at this point realised is his family. 

‘My wife couldn’t make it, Anita, and she told me to tell you how incredibly sorry she is. She had a family emergency and had to fly out to her mother’ he explains to your mom, who nods and waves a hand. ‘No worries at all, there will be plenty of parties like this, don’t worry’. 

Jermaine is escorted by two young men tonight, who are looking at you like you’re the one supposed to do the formalities. You look behind you. 

No. Where is Jermaine? Where is your mother? 

This is horrible. Straight out of your nightmares.

You turn again, and clear your throat. Your eyes are stuck on your glass of wine. Oh, fuck it. You down it in one gulp, trying to drink the anxiety away.

Should you really introduce yourself again? Or is it better to just stay silent? Your best friend once told you that you should adapt a bolder approach to socialities, or else “you’ll die alone”. But at the same time, you-

‘Hi. I’m Jermajesty’.

A clear voice drags you out of your thoughts. Oh, no, you did it again. You got lost in your fantasies, and now Jermajesty and the other guy surely think you’re a fucking idiot. Great.

‘I’m Y/N’. You smile, trying to not twirl the glass in your hands. Staying still would be better now. You turn to take a proper look at the man next to Jermajesty. 

And there goes the last bit of self-sense you were holding on to.

Because this man looks straight out of your dreams. He looks like God read your journals and sent this man: he’s so awfully pretty, he looks like one of those men you write about in your stories. He looks shy, and kind, and otherworldly. 

You open your mouth to say something, but he anticipates you.

‘My name is Jaafar. Jaafar Jackson’.

You’re in love.

My God, even his name is ethereal. What kind of man could look like this, sound like this, and look like this? This is so incredibly unfair.

Don’t stand there and look stupid, idiot. Introduce yourself.

You exhale and extend your hand.

‘I’m-’

‘Y/N. Yeah, kind of caught that already’. He smiles and shakes your hand. 

He just said my name. Oh, my. I can’t. I’m going to faint.

You nervously move a strand of hair behind your ear, and nod. 

‘So. Have you guys already been to the art gallery in the city centre?’

Small conversation comes down like an angel to save you from staring at Jaafar. As the night goes on, and you gradually feel a little more relaxed in his presence, a scary thought takes residence in your brain.

You’re head over heels for Jaafar Jackson. Jesus Christ. Somebody help me.

March, 2024.

Moving your phone to rest between your ear and your shoulder, you hurriedly reach for the hairbrush with one hand and for the toothpaste with the other. 

No. Not the hairbrush, fuck. The toothbrush. 

‘I’m just saying, are you sure they already casted everyone? Seems a bit unrealistic’. Your best friend's voice speaks up from the phone as you brush your teeth.

‘I fought fo foo’ you mumble.

‘Yeah, I’m sorry, what? Are you speaking alien now?’.

You bend down and wash your mouth.

‘I said: I think so too. They usually take ages to cast everyone, so I don’t know. Maybe it’s all a big, lousy joke from the production’ you repeat, drying your hands.

‘No, but like, I don’t think they would play this kind of joke on you. I mean, you’re the one who wrote the script, and booked the places, and already compiled the soundtrack. They would pretty much be fucked without you’ she finishes, exhaling loudly.

‘I know. But I also know how unrealistic it is to really put together a whole cast in three months. Blue or purple?’

‘Purple. Looks great with your hair. So you really think they’re playing a joke on you, and the main character will be played by Steve the cameraman?’.

‘Steve clearly has a beautifully hidden talent for acting, I would love to see him express himself. Wait, I gotta put on jeans’. You move the phone to rest it on your bedside table, and put it on speaker.

‘No, don’t worry, I gotta go anyway. I’m already late for work, and I still have to take a shower. Bye, honey’. She hangs up and you finally zip up your jeans. 

Working as a screenwriter, and occasionally filmmaker, really does sound like a joke, if you consider that, outside of the sets, you’re totally incapable of acting like a normal person. But it works extremely well for you. You’ve always loved writing stories, ever since you were a kid: naturally, when you grew up, you decided to become a screenwriter, and help other people make their stories real. Doesn’t really matter if it’s for the cinema, or the streaming platforms: nothing in this world will ever beat the feeling of watching a writer see their story transposed into life, and all because you’ve decided to write a script and produce it.

Your playlist shuffles some great songs, as you drive to work. Humming along to September, by Earth, Wind and Fire, you park and get out of the car. The sun is shining down on you, this morning. If the producing crew really managed to put together a good cast, this day will already be perfect.

When you get to the main room, there’s already a bunch of people roaming around. 

‘Y/N, hi! You received my e-mail, right?’. Larry is one of the best casting directors you’ve ever worked with, and it’s always good when you get to work on a project together. Plus, if he’s the one who orchestrated the castings, then at least you’re sure he didn’t bring a bunch of totally incapable idiots here.

This project lies very close to your heart. You loved the book, and immediately decided to make it into a film. The writer was more than fine with your idea, so you invested your best energies into making it the greatest rom-com of the last ten years.

‘I did, don’t worry. You really managed to get me a whole cast?’ you ask, shrugging off your coat and draping it over a seat, marked with your name behind. A flicker of pride tugs inside of you: it’s always good to see your name embroidered behind a seat. Means that you’re someone useful, someone who can do much more than embarrass herself every time she opens her mouth.

‘Absolutely, darling. Come here, I’ll introduce you to them. I decided to bring the main cast in this morning, and then, if you’re okay, we can have a meeting with the entirety of it tomorrow morning’ he says, guiding you towards a small circle of people. You nod.

‘Works for me. Just call the producers and we’ll arrange something’ you answer, already switching into work mode. 

‘Okay, everyone, listen up’. Larry raises his voice, and the circle of people stops chit-chatting and turns to face you. You recognize one of the girls from a recent Netflix rom-com, and pop a champagne bottle inside of you. You specifically requested her for this movie, and now you have her. Already off to a great start.

‘Hi, I’m Lara-Jean. It’s good to meet you’ she extends her hand and smiles sweetly.

‘Hi, Lara-Jean. I’m Y/N’ you shake her hand, then turn to face the others. 

And that’s when it hits you.

Jaafar Jackson is standing next to Lara-Jean. Jaafar Jackson is here.

Your stomach sinks, your heart leaps in your chest and your blood pressure skyrockets to the moon.

You haven’t stopped thinking about him, ever since your mother’s party. He took residence in your heart, and you were very content with fantasising about him and not making any moves. You’re way too shy, and at times even foolish, to really think you stand a chance with him. You filled your journal with stories that centered around him, but never even followed him on Instagram. Let alone text him. 

And now he’s standing right here in front of you. Looking even dreamier than you remembered. 

‘Hello, Y/N’ he says, and you’re pretty sure you’re going to drop dead on the spot.

Larry shifts next to you. 

‘You guys already met?’ he asks, and you can sense an amused subtone in his voice.

‘We, uhm, we met at a New Year’s Eve party, a couple of months ago’. You smile and wave a hand. 

Nobody told you that Jaafar was an actor. You didn’t even insert him into the list you always compiled with the actors you pictured while writing the script. Still, he’s here. He’s playing the male love interest in the movie. He has a copy of the script in his hands, and he’s rehearsing a couple of lines with Lara-Jean.

You’re standing in a corner, pretending to be engrossed in some documents, but you keep on stealing glances at him.

You’ll have to work with Jaafar Jackson, the love of your life, whom you don’t even know how to speak to without blushing like a schoolgirl.

I hate my life.

End of Part I.

@bbyjjunie @youfavoritefangirl

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