THRILLER
Michael Jackson x Female!Reader
Warnings: Anxiety mentioned, especially social anxiety. Reader is shy. Reader is mentioned as a girl.
Summary: you’re a shy actress who’s unsuccessful, until you got a call saying you got the role as the leading lady in Michael’s short movie thriller. Quickly building a bond with Michael.
The ceiling fan in your apartment had a rhythmic click that usually helped you focus, but today it felt more like a countdown. You sat at your kitchen table, a lukewarm cup of tea forgotten beside your elbow, staring at a stack of headshots that felt more like apologies rather than actual professional resumes.
The rent notice sat on the table in front of you like a predatory animal, it’s bold red letters taunting the stack of loose change beside it. You sighed, the sound echoing through the tiny one bedroom apartment that smelled faintly of nettle tea and old floorboards.
Living in LA was supposed to be your dream. Instead it was a series of cold repetitive auditions, polite “no’s,” and long shifts at the diner from across the street. Your parents’ voice still haunting the edges of your brain, “acting isn’t a career, it’s a hobby,” your father had said plainly not taking you seriously, his face set in stone. “When you’re ready to be serious, there’s a desk at the firm waiting for you.”
You hadn’t spoken to them in six months. The pride was a heavy weight, but the anxiety and rush of proving them right was heavier. You were a shy girl by nature, the kind who preferred to be alone in a library on weekends rather than a spotlight, yet when you stepped into character it was the only time when the world made a little more sense. The only time you felt brave.
The sudden, shrill ring of a telephone nearly made you fall off of your chair. You hurried to the wall mounted unit, your heart hammering violently against your ribs.
“Hello?”
“Is this the girl who can actually scream, or am I calling the wrong number?”
It was Rick, your agent. He was a fast talking man who usually only called you to tell you the news of being let down from another audition.
“Rick? Yes, it’s me,” you said your voice small and nervous as you fidgeted with the cord.
“Pack your bags- well, don’t pack your bags, just get your head on straight. You remember that cattle call for the Landis project? The music film?”
You held your breath. You remembered every detail. The room had been loud and chaotic, filled with gorgeous women ready to audition while you had sat in the far corner, nervously going over your script. Feeling like a plain sparrow among peacocks.
“Yes.” You answered, too nervous to give any other sort of answer.
“They want you. Not as an extra. Not as a body in the back. You’re the girl. The lead. The girl in the theatre and in the woods.” Rick was practically vibrating, you could tell he was proud of you, you had waited so long for this. “It’s Michael Jackson, kid. The Thriller short film. You start rehearsals tomorrow.”
The world seemed to tilt. The Thriller song was everywhere, blaring from cars, within every shop. And Michael Jackson? He wasn’t just any regular singer.
“Me?” You spluttered out. “Are you positive?”
“Landis liked your ‘authentic vulnerability.’ His words, not mine. Don’t mess this up. A car will be there at eight. Be ready.”
The line went dead. You started at your yellowish peeling wallpaper, your hands and legs shaking so hard you had to sink down to the floor to sit for a second. You? The girl who apologised to furniture when she accidentally bumped into it? You were going to be on camera with the most famous man on the planet.
The next morning you were buzzing with anxiety. When the black car pulled up outside your crumbling apartment building, the neighbours stared. You kept your head down avoiding eye contact, your stomach currently performing a series of complicated gymnastics.
The production office was a mess of activity. People with headsets seemed to be dashing back and forth, carrying racks of clothes and prosthetic makeup. You felt like you were intruding, a mistake waiting to be corrected.
“You must be the lead,” a woman holding a clipboard said, looking you up and down. “John’s in the back with Michael, they’re going over the choreography. Follow me.”
Every step felt like you were walking towards a gallows. They’re going to realise I’m boring, you thought. They’re going to realise I’m just some ordinary girl they accidentally chose and they’ll send me home.
The woman led you into a large, empty, open rehearsal space. The space was quiet, no music was playing, but the anxiety buzzing seemed to make everything feel loud. In the centre of the room stood a man. He was slender, wearing black trousers and a red corduroy shirt, his hair styled into those iconic curls. He was talking to John Landis, the director, but he stopped the moment you entered.
John instantly beamed. “Ah! There she is. Michael, meet our leading lady.”
You felt the blood drain from your face. You stood there, frozen, your fingers interlaced so tightly they were turning white.
Michael stepped forward. You expected an aura of untouchable cool, cockiness or even rudeness. Instead, he moved with a curious, light-footed grace that seemed almost hesitant.
“Hi,” he simply said.
He seemed incredibly gentle. He stopped a few feet away, giving you your space, his dark eyes wide and searching.
“I’m Y/N.” You said quietly, yet loud enough for Michael to hear you.
A small, shy smile tugged at the corners of his lips. He looked down at his feet for a second before meeting your eyes again. "I’m Michael. It’s very nice to meet you. John showed me your tape. You have very expressive eyes. You look like you’re really feeling what the character feels."
"I was mostly just terrified," you admitted before you could stop yourself.
Michael let out a soft, melodic laugh. It wasn't a mocking sound, it was warm. "Me too. Most of the time."
In that moment, the crushing weight of your anxiety lifted just an inch. He was the biggest star in the world, and he was standing here, fidgeting with his sleeve, trying to make you feel comfortable.
You blinked. "You? But you're... you're Michael Jackson."
He shrugged a shoulder, a casual gesture that made him seem remarkably human. "The lights and the cameras help. But when it's just people... it's a little scary, isn't it?"
"It's very scary," you agreed, your voice steadier.
"We’ll be scared together, then," Michael said, his eyes crinkling. "That makes it easier."
The first few days of filming were a whirlwind. You spent hours in hair and makeup, being transformed into the girl of the 1950s for the movie. Michael was everywhere, consulting with the makeup artists on the zombie designs, practicing his footwork in the corner, or huddled with Landis.
But despite his busy schedule, he always found a way to check on you.
"Are you warm enough?" he’d ask during a break in the chilly night air of the backlot, gesturing for an assistant to bring you a jacket.
"I'm okay, Michael. Really," you’d say, touched by the gesture.
One evening, while the crew was resetting a complicated lighting rig for the theater exterior, you found yourself sitting on a prop crate, tucked away from the main bustle. You were reading a worn paperback, trying to keep your mind from spiraling into the "what if I mess up the next take" abyss.
"What are you reading?"
You looked up to see Michael standing there. He had his varsity jacket on, the one he’d be wearing for the scene. He looked like a regular teenager, albeit a very handsome one.
"Oh, it's just a book of poetry," you said, feeling a blush creep up your neck. "It helps me stay calm."
"Can I see?"
You handed it to him. He sat down on the crate next to you, not too close, respecting that invisible bubble of space you always kept around yourself. He flipped through the pages with slender, delicate fingers.
"I like this," he whispered, reading a line to himself. He handed the book back, his eyes lingering on yours. "You’re very quiet, Y/N. People on sets are usually so loud. They want everyone to look at them."
"I don't really want people to look at me," you confessed, looking at your shoes. "I just want to do a good job. I think my agent thinks I’m a bit of a lost cause because I don't network." Michael nodded slowly, as if he understood better than anyone.
He stayed with you for ten minutes, just sitting in the comfortable silence. He didn't demand entertainment, he didn't try to impress you. He just existed in the space with you. When the 1st AD called for "Michael on mark," he stood up and brushed off his jeans.
Before he stepped away, he reached out. It wasn't a grand gesture; he simply tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear. His fingertips grazed your skin, a brief spark of warmth that felt far more intimate than a hug would have.
He didn't pull his hand back immediately. He let his thumb trail lightly along your jawline, a silent, grounding touch that seemed to say I see you.
"If the craft services guy tries to give you that burnt coffee again," Michael added with a quick, lopsided grin, "tell him you're with me. I’ll make sure you get the good stuff from my trailer later."
After a couple of more rehearsals with Michael, you can’t help but feel as if you’ve gotten more comfortable with him. The idea that at the beginning you thought Michael would’ve been cocky seems bizarre to you now.
4 days have passed, it’s the last day of shooting. You can’t help but feel sad, it was the first big project you had ever been apart of, but that wasn’t the main thing that was concerning you. It was the fact that you might not see Michael again.
It was near the end of the short movie, you had been asked to give Michael a small kiss. They hadn’t specify what sort of kiss, on the cheek? On the forehead? Lips? You were anxious, but right in the middle of your chest you could feel a light buzz of excitement.
You were talking with Michael, and you couldn’t help yourself but ask, “where do you want me to kiss you?” Michael looked down at you, a grin splitting onto his face. “Where would you like to kiss me?”
The cameras were rolling, Michael tapped you on the shoulder, your character’s fear facade crumbling as she came to realisation. You stood up as Michael wrapped a arm around your shoulder, quickly you leaned over and gave Michael a kiss which landed on his jaw.
A red lipstick mark appeared perfectly on his jaw, as you looked up you saw the faint hue of a deep red across his cheekbones. He smiled nervously.
After the recording finished you felt sad as you slipped on your coat. You reached into your pockets aching for some warmth from the cold, that’s when you felt a piece of paper neatly folded. You pulled it out and unfolded it and there you saw messily scribbled was Michael’s number.
