in my opinion, the question isn't "Is RPF ethical?" but rather "Are you engaging with RPF ethically?" and even more importantly, "Are you being stupid about it?"
I personally hate any kind morality thought policing. I'm not Catholic or religious and I do not feel guilty over my thoughts. You are not an inherently evil person because you saw two athletes in an interview and went "Hmmm...... what if...." The Feds are not going to come banging down your door because you wrote about one band member dicking down the other and sent it to your friend.
Wondering about other people's lives is very human. Being nosy about their personal lives is very normal. People have been writing fiction about other people's lives since the dawn of time. Some people even manage to write New York Times Bestselling Books that are "historical fiction" or "alternate reality." It does not make you inherently bad to be curious about the details of someone's personal life. That's being human. Being nosy is kind of fun.
The problem, however, comes with the ways in which people engage with it, and involve the real people in this. Harassing an musician's real girlfriend because it doesn't fit into the RPF ship. Showing up at real sporting events holding signs about how certain teammates should kiss. Trying to get actors to sign art of them fucking their coworker. Flooding social media with comments using the celebrity's full name and speculation. There's a line, there's a fourth wall, and there's fandom etiquette.
I hate the question of "Is RPF ethical" because it feels like morality thought policing. Post your fics on locked accounts, censor someone's name when you tweet about it, blow up your groupchat with hundreds of "DID YOU SEE THE WAY THEY LOOKED AT EACH OTHER??" texts. It's not inherently evil to wonder what other people are doing when they're out of the spotlight. Kill the cop in your mind.
But just have some basic decency and do not involve the real people. Don't cross the line without caring how it affects them. This is basic fandom 101 and lately we have been flying too close to the damn sun! Everyone get more normal about RPF so major news outlets and magazines stop posting articles about "Is RPF ethical?" and blowing up our spot!
the first thing about rpf to understand is that it is ultimately fiction and we will never understand the true inner workings of the lives of celebrities because there is always going to be a veil of performance clouding the way we perceive them. the second thing about rpf to understand is that it’s always true + real and it happened exactly as i imagine it in my mind
Review ・・ Michael has a crush on his next door neighbor.
⠀ Sound Check・・ Deep thanks to my pookies @confetti-cakemix and @vampgothicz for enabling me to write this! I said I would never write a rpf but the Michael movie has been on my mind and his music is currently being injected into my brain. Read part 2!!
⠀ Credits・・ General audience! Fluff. Light teasing. First kiss. Post Off the wall/ Pre thriller! MJ Era. not proof read , I am free. wc. 3k
Disclaimer ‼ I’m basing this on Jafaar's performance of Michael. That means his personality is taken straight from the movies portrayal! This is all purely fictional. Thank You .ᐟ
It wasn't often that Michael had people over to his house. Sure, he had Managers and musicians come and go. The mailman and other various company movers ride through, but he doesn't ever remember a time when somebody so normal, someone whose main task wasn't to appeal to the Jacksons, came through here.
Michael didn't have friends, not human at least. He had Bubbles, Louie, Muscles— but none of them was a girl— a human girl— who was currently sitting in the stables of Louie's pen. Waiting for Michael to introduce another one of his exotic friends.
You waited patiently, eyes filled with sparkle, cheeks blooming with warmth. You came over, your first time, usually only conversing through the cracks of the walls or by mail due to the massive amounts of fans outside of his gates.
It happened by coincidence, a mistake that turned into a blessing of sorts.
You had packages delivered to his front door, a mishap by the mailman, but you didn't seem to mind it too much. You simply found the perfect opportunity to catch him while he was leaving from his recording studio, calling for someone to answer because you've been trying to get past the gates all week.
He heard, remembering that Latoya had mentioned that there were a few packages that weren't meant for the Jacksons a few days ago and he followed the tune of your shouts.
After another helpless call, he answered.
"I think we have your packages," he said, your voice immediately stopping.
He heard silence for a while, the breeze brushing through the trees. "Um, Hello?" He said. The sun was slowly making its way down to introduce the night. He was getting cold, and he had a meeting to get to in the morning.
He thought you left, but you spoke up.
"Y-Yes! I'm sorry, I've been doing this every day, I thought I started to hear things!"
He chuckled lowly, finding it all amusing. "Sorry, the front gates are always guarded, but I can have someone deliver it to you tomorrow."
"Oh, that would be perfect! Thank you!"
It wasn't the last time he got your packages, occasionally getting them every few weeks. But it was all cleared when he had the mailman return them.
"Do you really read through all of this mail?" Latoya gasped, opening a red envelope with decorated hearts. "There are so many, it'll be next year by the time you finish."
"I don't mind, it makes me feel important to people when they take the time to write to me."
He picked up a white envelope, his eyes immediately drawn to the last name.
He's seen that name before, on the wrong packages often delivered to his front step.
He opened it, turning away from Latoya who was still in awe of the thousands of letters scattered around on his floor.
He finally got your name— a pretty name at that. Handwriting that was cursive and bubbly, penmanship you don't see often decorated the paper.
You thanked him. A few sentences written about how grateful you were that even with the mishap, he didn't mind sending the packages back. You also mentioned how you were amazed at the fact that you could see a giraffe from your bedroom window sometimes, a sight you don't see often but felt delighted by it.
"I would love to see one up close the same way you do. But maybe when I'm much older and can travel the world on my own, perhaps I will. Thank you once again!"
And that was it.
He probably read the letter ten times before he realized that for the first time, you didn't want to see him as everybody else did— hoping they could get something out of him like a picture or an autograph— but you didn't mention any of it. You simply stated that you wanted to see his animals.
Not him.
His animals.
And that is what started his deep infatuation with you.
He wrote a letter back in the dead of night. The Pen scratching off certain words, frustration hitting through him, and then he was crumpling the paper once more, a fresh sheet already settled under his hand. It's been an hour, the fifth paper so far, and he tried his best to make sure the letter was perfect. It's easier sending a fax to businessmen about his ideas and new musical ideas regarding his career and the next album of his life, but sending a letter to somebody so… regular felt like the hardest thing in the world.
And sending it out was even harder.
But it happened.
And he kicked himself for it.
When he got his fan mail in two large bags, the only thing he wanted to read was yours.
The dial rings once before the line is picked up, the receiver immediately placed against his ear. You greet him first, voice trembling. “Oh! H-Hello? Im S-Sorry, is this the Jackson’s residence?”
“Depends." Michael was lying on his back, the cord stretching from his night stand. “Missing a package again?”
"Michael? Oh goodness, I thought I got the wrong number. I thought that, maybe you were pranking me or something—"
That was a few days ago.
"Why would I give you a fake number?"
"Why wouldn't you?"
There's some hidden underlying fact in your words, like this wasn't the first time you've gotten somebodies number and it was fake. But Michael wasn't like that. He was kind and genuine— he liked having someone to talk to, even if they were animals sometimes.
"No, this is real. My own personal number."
"O-Oh, I see."
It went quiet on the other line.
"I hope I'm not bothering you, I know it's late but you said if I needed anybody to talk to you… you were always free—"
"Did I say that?" He sounded dead serious.
"Huh? I think so? Wait— I'm pretty sure?" You gasped in distraught. "Oh my gosh, did I read that wrong? I'm so sorry, I-I thought the letter —"
Michael laughed behind the line. "I'm joking with you."
“Hey! Come on, don’t be a tease!" you whined.
He found comfort like this, something he only truly found in his family centric circle— besides Joe.
"So, what's the matter?"
He heard you shuffling, the line going quiet.
"I um…needed to hear someone other then my parents… I guess?"
Michael sat up, the tension hardening. "What's wrong with your parents?"
"They think it's okay to control your life," you sighed. "I understand, respect your parents, blah, blah, blah— but I have dreams too you know? I wanna be an actor! Or maybe a journalist? I'm not sure yet, but I'm working it out."
He could relate to that. All of his life has been controlled by Joe. Singing, dancing, shows, music— all of it. His last album was probably the first time he's felt free and the thought of making another one gave him hope but that heavy presence has never left.
"I get it. I have issues with my parents too."
The connection sparkled.
You both talked for hours afterwards, bubbles sleeping besides him, curled up against his side. You talked about more of your dreams, thoughts you had of the world and he listened.
Eventually it turned into him listing off exotic animals he liked and planned on inviting to his home. He was on number 47, the list already bizarre as it was.
"— and If I could own a panda, I could have free cuddly hugs every minute of the day."
"Panda… elephant… koala…" you said in anstonishment. "Gee, what are you going to say next? A snake?"
"No, I wouldn't say that."
"Thank goodness—"
"I already own a snake. His name is Muscles."
Another slew of chuckles shot through him at how silent you had gotten. "Are you surprised? I mean, do you think that's…" his laughter died, jaw setting tightly. He didn't want to say that word, he hated using that word, but he wouldn't be surprised if you used it. "—That's … not like…weird…to you?"
"Weird?" You started, voice shooting up an octave in offense.
"Y-Yeah, I mean, some people say it's weird. My brothers think so, and Joesph—"
"Oh Michael—" He thought he heard an angel on the other line. "—that's not weird at all. If anything, it makes you more interesting. Not a lot of people care about animals."
He chewed his bottom lip. "If you want— I mean, only if you want, you can say no if you want too. But… You can come over— I mean, visit. I can show you what I have so far."
"You mean that?"
"Yes. How about tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow is no good—" He kicked himself for asking. "— the day after is perfect though. If you still want me?"
He jumped from the bed and bubbles snorted in annoyance but went back to sleep. "Yes! yes, of course. I'll have Bill come for you."
"Who's that?"
"He's my body guard, but I trust him like a father."
"Okay."
Michael got the excited jitters, pumping his fist.
"The day after tomorrow then?" You asked.
"The day after tomorrow then," he repeated back, like he couldn't believe what he was saying.
"Goodnight Michael."
The line cut, and Michael felt like he was on cloud nine.
You came over, just as he hoped, and he immediately showed you his home. The pool, the garden, his room. Nobody was home but the maids, his brothers and father were off somewhere he didn't care to know. All that mattered was that he got the house to himself so that he could show you around without questions following.
You were amazed at his room, the collections of toys and posters he had almost made your eyes pop. You asked about his endless figurines of the Disney character Peter Pan and he gave you the simplest answer.
"He's me."
You didn't make a face in disgust, but you did ask a question.
"Can you fly too?"
He laughed at that. "I'm working on it. If we can land on the moon, it's not far off that a man could fly too."
He introduced you to Bubbles first and while you were scared to get close— holding onto his hand and shaking like an earth quake— you told him that it was very kind of him to rescue a chimpanzee. Muscles on the other hand you refused to go in the room.
He's never laughed so much in his life.
Louie made you calmer. Finding that he was cute and cuddly. And the famous giraffe you often saw outside of your window made the time spent perfect.
You had to go of course, but the late night call was filled with joy.
After that, the calls only kept coming. When he was away, far off while traveling with his brothers, he would send letters to your home in hopes that you would send back. It made him feel special in some way, knowing that somebody cared more about who he was then just the musical aspects of his character.
Whenever you felt down, expressing concern about life and your parents exhausting expectations, he would sneak you over to his house and play twisters in his room.
The maids saw you enough, but they didn't say anything.
And he was thankful for that.
But Bill, his bodyguard and trusted friend had a whole lot to say with a sharp raise of his brows and that light smirk on his face.
"She's your girlfriend now?"
Michael would dodge the question with another question. "So men can't have female friends?"
Bill didn't push for more, but he knew deep down that as long as Michael was happy, that's all that mattered.
"I wonder what he's thinking?"
You were sitting besides him, arms stretched out to pet Louie's head, a small grin adorning your face.
He's known you for a year and your friendship still felt new. Like always, you snuck over, played one of his many board games, and he talked about the stress he had over his upcoming album. So, you suggested that some fresh air could do him good.
Here you were, dangerously close, while showing one of his friends love that he so desperately wanted himself. He believed this was his chance to confess his deepest desire. He chewed the inside of his lips, formed the words in his head, and let it go.
"I think…" He took a deep breath, eyes scanning your face for your next reaction. You were petting Louie's head, comepletly enamored by him— a girl unlike anybody he's ever seen. "I…um, I think he likes you," He finally said, his breath leaving seconds after.
Your eyes slowly found his, attention drawn, your hands slowing down but still acknowledging Louie. "Really?" You questioned, lips curling into a grin. "How'd you know that?"
He gulped, suddenly put on the spot. "He told me."
"Told you?" You titled your head, cheeks puffing with your grin. "Who Louie?"
If this was anybody else, they would have laughed in his face. Called him insane, maybe delusional— in need of more time with humans and less time with animals— but you didn't do either.
You stared at him in wonder, your attention all on him.
Michael cleared his throat, "Y-Yeah, when they like someone, t-they make this small humming noise— sometimes you can tell by the ears. It's down, relaxed— he likes you. A lot." And he probably shouldn't have stumbled on his words so much, painfully obvious, but thankfully you didn't seem to catch it.
"Oh wow, you sure know a whole lot about llamas." you drew your attention back to Louie.
He could finally catch his breath.
"I should probably leave soon. Your family might be back any minute now."
He didn't want you to leave.
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah, Your probably a very busy man. Don't need to cut your time to spend it with me."
And that was the problem, he wanted to spend it with you.
He needed an excuse to get you to stay longer. "Wait— can I show you something?"
"Show me what?" You looked at him questionably.
"I've been working on something but I need input."
"You want my input?" You looked down in thought, "I mean, sure, but I'm not that very good at criticizing things."
"Don't worry, I don't bite."
You shoved him with your elbow lightly. "Please, I'm more scared of the snake."
"Then let's go." He stood up abruptly, dusting off his pants. "It's only a few steps away from here—"
Michael's jaw almost dropped.
You were leaning forward, placing a kiss against Louie's cheek, a goodbye filled with love. Michael wasn't often jealous, but standing here, now, watching you show affection for someone other than him filled him with jealousy beyond comprehension.
"Goodbye Louie." You petted his head once again and stood up.
Michael swallowed around a lump.
"Where is it again?" You questioned.
The studio felt warmer than before. Inches away from you once again but this time it was in his most vulnerable field.
He finished playing a few of his demos, the ones Quincy gave his stamp of approval. You listened and bobbed your head, side eyeing him at particular high ending sections of the songs with a amazement on your face.
"These were really good," you smiled, "I particularly like Starlight, although I'm a little confused on the meaning."
"It's upbeat— something to get the crowd moving."
"Sure,but—" you tapped your chin, "I feel like it's missing something."
He wrote something down on paper, a few words taken straight from your mouth.
Good but missing something
He placed his pen down, turning towards you. "The album isn't done yet, but I'm hoping it becomes the biggest album ever. Still working through some other songs, a title for the album, promotional pictures— other tedious things that you probably don't want to hear."
"I don't mind," you looked over at him. "I like when your like this— happy. You get so hyper about music, I can't help but be hypnotized."
Michael begin to sweat, his face suddenly warm. "You do?"
"We're alike, you and me. Although I'm not a Super Star like you," you laughed. "I can barely handle cleaning my room and your here mixing instruments and doing tours."
"T-That makes sense."
A knock on the door startled you both.
Bill came in, tapping his watch. "You family will be back soon, time to go."
Michael screamed internally.
"Guess I'll see you later?" You titled your head, rubbing a hand over his arm.
"I-I guess so."
You both couldn't break eye contact even if you tried.
"Can I do something real quick?" You asked, catching Michael off guard.
"Sure—"
He wasn't sure what this feeling was— if he was going through cardiac arrest or if someone was hitting him with a bat at the chest, but all he knew was that he didn't want that feeling to go away.
You leaned in, same way you did with Louie and kissed Michael's cheek. Your eyes shut close and your hands resting over his knee. You didn't pull away, even when Bill knocked on the door again. Time fell still. The moment so right that everything was swept away and replaced by your presences only.
Michael didn't know what to do with himself.
Finally, you broke away and chuckled to yourself. "See you later Mikey." You stood up and left a very flabbergasted Michael Jackson.
You opened the door, Bill greeted you and you left with a light skip in your step.
Bill came in, checking in on Michael. "You alright?"
"Hm? Oh, yeah," he shook the shock from his body, cheeks still warm. "I was going to write down a new song."
"Ohhh, Okay. Well, if you need me, I'll be out here— " before he turned, he called out. "— and Michael?"
Michael looked at him in question. "Yes?"
Bill pointed to his cheek. "You got a little something there. It's red, like a kiss—"
Michael quickly rubbed his hand over his cheek. "O-Oh okay! I gotta get to work. I'm a very busy man Bill."
Once Bill left, Michael finally left to his thoughts. He wrote something else under your critique, his face still bloomed with heat.
⁀➴ on borrowed time, you and michael are tucked away in the solitude of his hayvenhurst home. as time mocks your momentary peace, he devotes those fleeting seconds to implant the words i love you without actually saying it. and when the time comes? well, he doesn’t want you to leave!!!
⁀➴ off the wall! clingy! michael x actress! secret girlfriend! reader
⁀➴ fluff || making out
𝒯he moon was nestled into the clouds as it shone onto the quiet house of the Jacksons. You two sat in the quiet glow of the starlight, cuddled with each other on the couch.
With you consumed by acting and Michael by music, it was rare moment of peace either of you get. The quiet was occupied but the mindless hum of the tv, and the shuffling of you and Michael proving how much you love each other.
Sneaking over— it was routine.
Sure, you didn’t have to sneak over. But imagine the fans already awaiting at his front gate, the tabloids itching for a new story, the paparazzi ready to blind you when they discover you and Michael holding hands for too long. You two have so much going on in your lives, and having a “are you two intimate with each other?” on top of that by an invasive journalist is not something you want to worry about.
Of course you made you public appearances together, but keep them light. Simple. Friendly.
Besides— you were going public when Off the Wall releases. You can already imagine some eye grabbing headline like— “The Lucky Lady Behind Michael’s Biggest Hits is Revealed!!” You don’t know— and honestly you don’t want to think about it right now.
Hence, here you are.
The blanket pooled at your hips that straddle his own, fingers tangled in his curls, his own hands gentle but firm on your waist…
Your lips met softly at first, Michael giggling at something he heard on the TV before deepening into something hungry but tender. The rhythm of your lips against his was absolutely perfect! Slow and sweet one moment… then passionate the next.
And Michael was greedy. But gentle, of course.
Every time you kissed him, he never wanted to pull away. His arms would lock around your waist, or hands cup the back of your head— just to keep you close and feel you as your mouths moved together in a slow, lingering kisses that felt endless.
Warmth bloomed like flowers in the spring every time his palms blessed your skin. He’d breathe you in between presses of your lips, fingers tracing the curve of your jaw like you were something precious. And you were. You meant the world to him. And right now? Every second with you was cherished because it was all you both had.
“Michael…” you called out in a sweet whisper, barely audible over the sound of your shared breaths. He didn’t even hear you (or bother to hear you).
He was lost in you, drowning in the sweetness of your sweet lips dancing with his. His hands framed your face, thumbs brushing along your cheeks as he kissed you even deeper. Slow but with desperate. Every press of your mouths felt like a prayer: worship and all-consuming.
Your hands gave his shoulders a squeeze in an attempt to ground him, “Michael—“ he kissed you “I gotta go—“ another kiss.
Oh what the heck.
You reciprocated his kiss with that same desperate sweetness, cupping his face and twirling the curls at the nape of his neck.
Finally you speak again, a little louder this time, soft but persistent against the quiet hum of the room.
Michael finally registered it through the kiss-drunk haze. He blinked slowly before pulling back just enough to look at his woman properly— your lips slightly parted from yours separating, cheeks flushed agsint the dim light of the tv.
His eyes were glassy with affection as he studied the face he fell in love with. “Hm?” he humbled drowsily, that sleepy-sweet tone he only used for you when you’d be making out for ages.
“They’re gonna home in less than minutes…” you didn’t miss his flicker of disappointment, and you couldn’t help but feel it too. “I should be heading out.”
His face fell. He hated that he was being needy and begging you to stay. But he hasn’t seen you in weeks. He misses his girl.
“Nooooo,” he whined in denial like a petulant child, pressing his forehead to yours, “five more minutes… please?”
The clock on the wall mocked him— his family probably two streets away from Hayvenhurst… Yet Michael couldn’t find himself to care. He just wanted one more kiss, maybe two, maybe three, maybe ten.
Although he kissed you again— you didn’t dare to pull away. You both know you don’t want to. You giggled into the kiss, your laughter vibrating between your lips. Your hands slid up to cradle his face, fingers threading through soft coils. You melted right back into him despite knowing both of you were on borrowed time.
The world outside— the risk of being caught by his family (and the world in general) coming home— faded for just a few more blissful seconds.
Then Michael had the nerve to trail his lips down your neck. Your eyes fluttered shut momentarily and your head automatically tipped itself back. Every brush of his lips against yours sent little sparks though you. Yall knew you were pushing it— you knew the car could pull up any second now— but this boy addicted to kissing you.
“Michael— I seriously gotta go—“ you tried to be responsible while making no serious effort to leave.
His hands slide down to your hips, squeezing them gently in that way he always did when he was utterly smitten. The touch was warm and possessive, a silent I love you without words.
You hesitated on saying his name again— Michael could see it in the way your lips parted to speak but you held your tongue. With his stupid smirk you loved so much he kissed the hesitation away. Slow and teasing, refusing to let go.
“Mmmm… one more…” he whispered against your lips.
Then one became two.
Three.
Four.
You lost track of time as he kissed you back like a man starved. Each press of his lips was soft! But hungry. His node nudged against yours, breaths mingling,
Each peck was sweeter than the last: one of your bottom lip… then the corner… your cheekbone… the tip of your nose… that little space between your eyebrows… as he chased every inch. He didn’t care about anything else at the moment— not schedules, responsibilities, touring, his brothers, Joseph— just you. Right here, in his arms.
He mumbled without even thinking “Mine…” a quiet claim slipping out before he could stop it. You felt a tingle in your spine.
He swallowed your next gentle scold with a kiss, deeper this time. He didn’t want to hear about responsibilities or curfews… not when you tasted like cherry lip gloss and home. So, he kept kissing you. Slow… hungry… then soft again. Unfortunately you melted into him, arms wrapping around his neck and sighing softly.
“Shhhhh…..” he breathed against your mouth between kisses, fingers sliding to cradle the back of your head while the others held the arch of your back.
You finally put your foot down.
“Michael Joseph Jackson.”
He sat there, dazed and kissed-drunk, lips still puckered from the sudden break in your heated makeout session. Those big brown eyes stared at you with a mix of adoration and poutines.
The both of you look ridiculous. Cheeks flushed, hair messy from fingers running through it… and absolutely lovesick.
Michael looked like a puppy who’d just been scolded for begging too much. “Whaaaaaatt?” he rasped after a beat.
“I have to go,” a soft smile graced your lips as unhooked your arms, thumb tracing his jaw, “like— right now.”
His pout deepened as you found amusement in his heartbroken face. But he knew you were right, they would be home any second now. But damn it… he didn’t want you to leave! Not after you both have been lost in each other for so long.
With dramatic reluctance, he finally exhaled and leaned back on the couch, but not before stealing one last peck.
Your hands fell from his face, down his chest, to your own lap, while his own hands hovered over your hips, like he was determining if he was ready to let go or not. His fingers twitched like they had a mind of their own (something you can confirm.)
And then, in one last act of defiance, he cupped your face and kissed you fiercely. It was messy and desperate, and he didn’t miss the way your hands crept up to grasp his chest.
You two finally parted, chest rising and falling rapidly, what glassy with unspoken emotion.
You grinned, “you done?”
Michael exhaled dramatically, shouldering slumping in exaggerated defeat. He looked at you one last time with those pretty, soulful eyes. Maybe if you stared hard and long enough then you’d stay the night…
He didn’t anything. Then nodded once like a sulky child accepting defeat. “Yeah.. sure…” he muttered, voice low and resigned as he reached to tuck a stray curl behind your ear one last time before you left.
Not before he leaned forward to press his lips to yours…
