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Keeping Up With The Jacksons

Episode - 1: Family Game Night

DAY IN THE LIFE PT. 4

parings: michael x reader , platonic!prince and paris x reader

synopsis: another day in the life! all of you go out to pick strawberries or some shit💖💖

warnings: noneee, maybe a little bickering between the two siblings

a/n: HEYYY

𝐇𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐬𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐥 𝐒𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬.

pairing : 70’s Michael x reader.

a/n : first post on this acc how we feelin ?? This is purely fiction, so if isn’t like too a can of paint, I’m sorry?? also this isn’t proof read, and I’m half sleep sooo…

summary : an AU where Michael ( and his brothers) had a regular highschool experience.

contains : fluff, kissing, teasing by his brothers, established rls (kinda??), Michael is still famous but not that much idk, they treat him like a regular boy 🤷🏾‍♀️, flashbacks, “x reader” fanfic, black!coded reader, Michael’s a little nerd who tries to act big and bad (you see right past it.), mentions of n-word (I’m black like pls), suggestiveness at the end, mike gets influenced by friends, Michael is a student athlete (basketball)

˚⋆ Artistic Vision ⋆✴︎｡⋆

Summary: You’re a relatively famous painter who catches the attention of Michael Jackson.

Content: Fluff, only fluff, bad era Michael, fem reader (no specific look), slow burn ish, kissing, Michael x Reader

A/n: first post kinda nervous 😥. Also this is kinda super long so sorry lol hope you enjoy anyway

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You’re an artist holding an unveiling for your new painting at the Museum of Contemporary Art LA. You nervously chip away at the burnt umber acrylic paint remains that faintly haunted your fingertips. Your gallery director, Jason, locked eyes with you from the end of the cornered hallway and raised his eyebrows in greeting. You pushed your lips together, revealing an awkward and uncomfortable demeanor and the dimples that only your plumped cheeks could uncover. Your eyes shift to his fingers cupping the wine glass he raised.

“Drink— ease the nerves.” He lifts an eyebrow and rolls his eyes towards the incoming guests. You reply with a blank expression, zoning into his tie. He relaxes his face in retaliation. “They will love it as much as I do. I would never pressure you into this if I didn't think the piece would be taken well.” You force your bottom lip into a smile as you grasp the stem and gulp a mouthful of the sweetest red wine they've served yet.

As you waited for the expensive liquid courage to work its magic, Jason’s words were echoing in the back of your mind. You are a great artist, not well known enough to become a household name, but well enough that you've only been in the game for 4 years and have caught a great chunk of attention from the media, guaranteeing you a weekly spot in local newspapers and art magazines. You're work has caught so much attention, you've been forced under the supervision and partnership of some people- the gallery, an attorney, a mentor, an accountant, and a studio assistant.

There was a lively energy from the guests, just loud enough to pass words through their posh nostrils, with their quiet luxurious blazers and cocktail dresses suppressing any unfitting volumes or noises. The museum director stepped forward, clacking his tall black loafers— a sound that bounced through the walls until the silence that chased it dominated the atmosphere.

“Good evening, everyone. Thank you for joining us tonight. We are honored to present “Dimmed Novice” by Y/N, an artist gifted in bringing life and a unique essence into any artistic genre she creates. We are delighted to share her newest piece with you, and to welcome her up to share a few words.” He nods and motions his closed fingertips to you.

Your artwork is unveiled as an applause builds up. You relax your posture and unclasp your hands, resting them beside your hips. You inhale and gulp, drowning your nerves with a close-mouthed smile that lifted your cheeks and fattened your eyelids.

“Thank you all for being here tonight,” you drift into a three minute- long and well-rehearsed speech that poised you as a sophisticated and experienced painter, rather than the recklessly nervous and immature rookie you viewed yourself as.

As reception rolled around, a journalist from some magazine stepped forward, in a rushed forward step.

“What inspired the melancholic color scheming of the portrait in the corner?” pointing her finger towards a picture frame on the painted bedside table.

Without a thought, you pushed out the answer as if you breathed it out, “It signals past relationship struggles.”

“Is this in reference to your recent heartbreak with (your ex’s name)?” She picks her head up from her journal and darts her eyes at you, as if to shatter your gaze.

You bushed up your eyebrows and stammered. Interviews recently have become increasingly personal. You try not to give in. Your top lip twitched before you folded them under your teeth. You shifted into a mundane smile and nod before responding to another question.

The rest of the night was steady. You were a tad set off by various personal questions, but the remaining guests were respectfully curious, with many praises from significant figures in art.

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Michael, just a few miles away hidden in a recording studio, after hours, repeating the same line that has been driving him in sand for hours. His perfectionist self could not bare the flat look and unsatisfied comment that Quincy gave him three hours ago as he delivered it. He sat elbows to knees on the couch, rubbing the upper bridge of his nose, rolling back into his eyelids. He moistened his bottom lip and followed with a sharp inhale. He rolled his eyes over to the booth, then to a magazine on a stool that someone had left behind.

Front and center was an unflattering photo of him, along with a witty title that doubted he could “beat Thriller”. He raised his lip in disgust and clicked his tongue. He pushed through the pages in frustration until a visual of a painting— your painting— snapped him out of it. It's dimension through colors and visible, raw vulnerability promoted him to lower his eyebrows and bite his inner cheek.

Intrigued, he flipped attentively to point to the face responsible. On the next page was you—dressed in a form fitting-yet flatteringly modest maroon cocktail dress. One of your arms were bent upwards, and the other combing the hair on your shoulder. You seemed to have been in the middle of introducing your painting before the photographer grew too impatient to take a proper headshot. His eyes shifted to the obnoxiously loud font that read “Artist Y/N with heart on sleeve after vicious breakup”. Now rubbing his chin, he squinted in aims to squeeze as much information about you as possible. His eyes widened towards the bottom of the third page while reading you live in Encino, just a few miles from his home in Hayvenhurst. Hoping to uncover more, he eagerly flips to the next page only to find an ad, then flips back your picture, leaning in for a lengthy zoom.

He set it aside with your page still upright. With your nervous smile and effortless charisma still resonating, he tweaks the line as best as he can before surrendering and heading home.

For the days that followed, Michael experienced nothing short of a quiet obsession. He would request from Bill personally to compile any artifacts that would give insight on your other works or personal life. He studied the way you answered questions, how the media portrayed you, and your body language in pictures. He found that you were painfully honest in interviews because your work already did the talking. However you may have responded to certain questions, you set a strict boundary between you and interviewers. All that you don't opt to show in your paintings, you refuse to give insight to. He found it beautiful that you were both anonymous and open simultaneously.

A few days later, having you and your art remaining in the back of his mind while he went on about his work, Michael was dragged back into conferences. His upcoming album, Bad, had to be perfect. Unforgettable. Refreshing. Futuristic. He knew that, but hated these meetings regardless.

He let the board speak for themselves, letting out an occasional “Yeah” or “No”. He doodled traces of your picture—the windowsill that captured a lifetime of memories, the blurred dolls that stood over the vanity, even the slippers became subconsciously engrained in his head— as if he had studied them for decades.

“With the album cover and music videos alike—We need a refreshing creative depth. Something to draw people in with visuals alone. Something new. Something that doesn't scream 80’s,” an executive aggressively coughed up as if everyone in the room weren't three feet away from him. Michael’s head shot up, as if it were a sign from god.

“I’ve got someone in mind,” he slowly released, holding back his composure. Slightly embarrassed by his eagerness, his eyes lowered to the edge of the table.

“Fill us in,” the same executive added, folding his chubby arms against his chest.

“Y/N?” He eyes him down, studying his reaction.

The room is stiff, dried by the motionless silence that infests every crevice.

The same executive scooted his chair in, rested his arms on the table, and rested his forehead on his interlocked hands. “It’s not going to happen. She’s too big to have such a small role. Plus, especially with all the attention she’s been getting recently, I highly doubt she’ll do it without running our pockets dry.”

Michael poised his shoulders towards Bill, who stood silently across the room. “Get me her manager—or whatever the hell artists have. She's exactly what we need.” With eyes passing through the executive, he mumbles, “Maybe we’ll get lucky?”

As the conference ended, Michael shuffted towards Bill as he raised his arms, ready for an explanation. Before he opens his mouth, Bill turned his head sideways with raised eyebrows, cutting him off with the expression alone. “I don't know, kid. I mean, I’ll try my best, but it’s far out of my alley.”

Michael frowned and faced his shoes. Bill noticed the drama of it all and smirked, “Someone’s gotta crush.”

He pulled his eyebrows inward in offense. Michael blushed as his brown irises rolled to the corner of his eye until a blink brought them back center, “Don’t be talkin’ silly, now. We need someone who could bring life to the visual aspects of it, is all.”

Bill maintained that same smirk, “It doesn’t help that she’s pretty, young, and single?” Michael fought to keep a straight face, with a corner of his mouth creeping upwards. Instead of replying, he stared straight ahead and picked up his pace.

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Already starting on your next piece, you tap the end of the paintbrush against your lips. You drift off at the window, hoping to draw inspiration from the sky somehow. After your last museum unveiling being such a success, you wonder what could top it— possibly something that would be a bit safer, especially after the magazines and newspapers ran with the whole heartbreak thing.

Just as you were reaching towards your palette, you get a call from Jason. You glance at the clock and make note that it was unusual for him to call this early in the morning.

You hesitate before picking up the phone, “Hello?”

“Guess what?!” The phone vibrates through his excitement.

“Good morning to you too, Jason,” you dragged his jollies down to earth.

“You heard of Michael Jackson?” He leaves the question lingering, ready to reel you in.

“Is that a question?” You utter back.

“His manager said he would love to have you offer your creative image for his album. He was asking for your number and to set up a meeting,” he finally exhales his enthusiasm.

You blink hard in shock. Your jaw fell, not acknowledging it was open to begin with.

“Hello? What do I tell him?” He says, while knowing exactly what your response is.

“Is that even a question? Yes—yes to everything!” You clear your throat to backtrack to a more nonchalant tone. “Just try not to seem to eager. Ask stuff like ‘what do I get out of it?’”

“You got it. I’ll try. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Yup, see ya,” you subconsciously replied while dreaming of the recognition you’ll get from this project—whatever it is.

You’re still not even entirely sure what Michael Jackson would need from you. A warm feeling fills your chest, probably absorbing the heat that left the rest of your body that’s giving you cold sweats. You’re overwhelmed with gratitude, nerves, and excitement. Not sure how you’ll start the same painting you’ve been standing in front of, you drift back off at the window.

In the evening, you toy with your keys as you walk through your studio door. You just came back from meeting with your attorney over contract issues. An unfamiliar and pleasantly earthy smell sat stale as you heard a faint ringing from your office. Puzzled, you swerve through the clutter of easels and boxes to your landline. On a stool set off near your desk stood a tall bouquet of peony and dahlia, brushed with baby’s breathe. In it— a note that read “Something to draw inspiration from. Hope it’s to your liking. -M”.

Without second guess, you raise the handset. Hesitantly, you raise the transmitter to your lips and focus your eyes at the ceiling.

“Hello?” A gentle, yet determined voice came through.

“Hi,” you said flatly.

“Sorry for the late call, I wasn’t sure you would still be in your office. This is Michael. Michael Jackson. Is this Y/N?”

Your eyes widen, releasing a gasp that you immediately muffled with your hand. “Yes, it is. How may I help you?” You dragged your palm from your mouth to your forehead that you softly hit repeatedly.

“I sent some flowers earlier, I hope you received them. My team and I would love if you would offer some artistic input for my new album, Bad,” he gulps. On the other end, he strokes his chin with his middle and ring finger, occasionally tapping his index against his lip. In his office at the recording studio, he sat with a restless leg and elbows cutting deep into a desk chair.

Your face softened, “Yeah, thank you, they were beautiful.” You pause. “I’d be honored, I’m just not certain I could be of use,” your smile tightens and releases.

“We could go over details in person. How does tomorrow at noon sound— or any time after 7:00pm? I’m not sure how your schedule’s looking. I’ll have Bill send over an address.” He stands and twirls the cord.

“Noon sounds good. Looking forward to it. Thanks again for the flowers.”

“Yeah anytime. Have a good night.”

“You too, buh-bye,” you gently hook the phone back before running your hands through your scalp, eyes sticking out of your head in shock.

‘Why me’, you think, feeling as if it’s all too good to be true.

That night, you lost sleep over the nerves for your meeting tomorrow. Whatever he needed you for, you hoped you didn’t make a fool of yourself.

He shared a similar night. His thoughts kept him awake, fearing you two wouldn't have a connection after his short-lived obsession over you. He hoped to see your smile in person. He hoped he would charm you rather than scare you off.

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The morning seemed to have gone by in an instant, with Michael’s bed littered with clothes he’d been trying on for your meeting.

“How ‘bout this?” He turns to Bill, and in a blink, turned back. “Nah it’s still not right.”

“I thought it was just fine,” his slight annoyance partnered with a smile. “We’re gonna be late.”

“You’re right, lemme go with the red.” He had decided on a satin red dress shirt, tucked into black slacks with his signature black loafers. The top few buttons were unbuttoned to reveal his white undershirt, giving a more casual impression.

You had taken a cab to the Hayvenhurst residence, where he set aside a meeting room for an informal discussion. Beyond the gate was Michael standing alongside Bill, tapping his loafers onto the concrete impatiently.

As you opened the door, his face lit to the sight of your effortless elegance. You wore a white blouse half tucked into a fitted black skirt that cut an inch above your knee. Your hair was in a messy low bun with a drowning clip and two strands that framed your face. Just formal enough to talk business, just casual enough to be project personality.

He lunged towards you, leaned forward, and shook your hand with a grip. His hands— cold, mildly damp, and firm.

“It’s an honor,” you exhale while scanning his face. The magazines and newspapers never did his face justice. His eyes were rich and seemed to foreshadow an endearing soul. His smile was unforgettable, with cheeks so warm they draw you in. Allured, you drift between each of his eyes, maintaining contact.

“Ms. L/N, Honor’s all mine. I’ve been looking into your work, you’re incredible,” he says to the side of your face while you two start walking. His arm hovered over your back, subtly leading you to the room without invading your personal space.

“I’m flattered someone as great as you would be looking into my work. Also, please, just Y/N.”

His eyes veer to your lips, with his smile repositioning them back into your eyes. “Y/N. Noted.” That look enough made the butterflies in your stomach flutter.

You two made small talk before turning to less surface-level questions. He told you about wanting to move away from his family estate. You told him about your experience with moving away from your family home into Encino for your career. You learned you both share an affinity for animals and struggle in balancing work with family. He spoke with a welcoming and genuine softness that instantly eased your nerves.

He opened the room door, motioning his hand to welcome you in. He pulls out your chair and tucks you in before taking his own seat. ‘What a gentlemen,’ you thought to yourself.

“Here’s the issue— Thriller was supposed to outdo Off the Wall, and, thankfully, it did. The bar is set even higher for Bad. We need all the help we can get in all aspects. Here is where you come in— you will help me decide on visuals for the music videos. I’ll also need help with promotional posters, cassette designs—you know, stuff like that,” his thumbs pushed against each other as his fingers were locked. “It would be great for us to have someone with recognition and talent to join the team, even without experience in filmmaking.”

You puckered your lips deep into thought. You pretended to think it over for a minute to prevent coming off as too desperate. You slowly nodded. “Yeah—no, I’d be psyched.”

His lips curled into a smile, temples releasing their tension. He continued to discuss business details such as pay, the expected hours, and what he may ask of you. You listened through—well you tried. You found his dedication to his passion and the subtle shift in facial expressions so cute.

He grew fond of you, aswell. Despite his usual severe shyness, he felt at ease talking to you, as if you've known each other all your lives. He studied your body language— the way you’d flip your hair behind you, then bring it back when you felt too exposed— the way your face would flush whenever he'd look at your lips— the way your legs would repetitively cross and uncross. He collected that you were nervous, but kind and beautiful. Your humble mannerisms drove home his attraction for you.

“You know I really liked the piece you did back in October,” he broke character, loosening his posture.

“The self portrait?” you smiled from the side of your mouth.

“Yeah, but it failed to capture how beautiful you look in person,” smiling playfully while tilting his head.

Your cheeks flush, resisting a smile, “Do you call everyone you work with beautiful?”

“Hm.” He frowns playfully, and adjusts back to a grin. “I believe just the beautiful ones”.

“Well, thank you. You're not too bad yourself,” you retaliated, shooting an enchanted glimpse towards him.

Both of your cheeks emitted a crimson red. The stubborn curls on his forehead garnished his hairline with the reflection of the orange sunlight. The same sunlight blessed your eyes, revealing a glimmer and a seductive iris shade that was hidden under the harsh overhead lights. What drove him over the edge was your subconscious moistining your bottom lip. An intoxicating silence set in.

Interrupting the telepathic intimacy was Bill’s knock. “Sorry kid, you gotta take this,” he leans against the doorframe, gesturing towards a phone in the next room.

“Please excuse me,” he rolled his eyes and bit his lip before struggling to stand on his feet. “Just a moment. Please, stay. I'll walk you out ‘soon as I finish,” he faced his two loose palms towards you.

“Of course,” you snap back into fidgeting with your hands.

He takes a scenic route walking you out of his estate, showing you a few artifacts around that he held a share of pride in. He geeked out on a few collectors items, some of which you geeked out with him. You were both attentive to eachother’s words, and once in a while, your arms would brush against each other, sparking electricity between each of your bodies. This day had seemed more like a date than anything business, and you weren't sure if it were by design.

By the time you arrived to the gate, he insisted you took his limo home. He couldn't bear to see you hunt down a taxi this late in the evening.

“Now I need concept sketches for a few short films, are you free to talk tomorrow?” he adjusts his neck, in an attempt to seem serious with a playful tone.

You raise your chin slightly and bite your smiling lip. “Same time?”

“Sounds good. It was great to meet you,” he kissed the knuckles on your hand so naturally you didn’t notice it was a gesture too inappropriate for the context.

He stood facing the same direction until the limousine left his field of sight. Bill, standing right behind Michael, drops his hand on his shoulder. Michael raised an eyebrow. “You can't just move your meetings for her everyday, now,” he advised, referencing the schedule shuffling he had to do organize your date.

“These people work for me, they'll be fine,” he denied Bill a second thought before walking back into the house.

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Three months of “business meetings” passed before you two were totally casual around one another. Some landed back to back, and some being weeks apart. On days where he didn’t see you, he would call to chat. The calls started off requesting color schemes and concept designing for music videos, and ended with barely a sentence being dedicated to work. The calls grew longer with more personal depth uncovered. You told him anecdotes of your life, and he opened up about his. You would offer each other support for any inconveniences. You both also shared a similar sense of humor, making it dangerous to leave you two together in a professional setting. It was a once-in-a-lifetime connection. However close the relationship may have seemed, you both wondered if the other misunderstood it as platonic.

Despite the confusion on your role in his life, you were what motivated him to get out of bed in the morning. In only a matter of months, you went from being a stranger to one of the most important people in his life.

He had made himself comfortable at your home and studio, and you've made yourself comfortable with his. Your office held a collection of souvenirs he’d left behind in past visits— a few notepads and his favorite orange juice carton in your fridge to name a few. At his studio, you've left a few tubes of paint and discarded canvases. At his home, he started buying your favorite coffee brand, for days you wanted to spend your morning with him.

“Sorry— Quincy, Thursday’s gonna be crazy. What about Wednesday?” Michael rested the phone between his ear and shoulder and sketched gibberish on the calendar.

“But Mike—,” Bill points to the 4 hour gap on the Thursday square before Michael snapped his fingers at him and shook his head vigorously.

Hooking down the phone, Michael apologizes for the rude gestures, “Sorry. It is busy. Going to Y/N’s unveiling. Forgot to write it down.”

“Right, how's it going between you and your girlfriend anyway?”

“She’d have to know she's my girlfriend for us to be a couple, don't you think?” he scrunched in his face sarcastically. He softened his tone, “ I don't know. I don't know what we are.”

“Doesn’t hurt to ask. I seen how you guys get around each other. All giggly and shit. I could've sworn you were dating,” Bill patted his shoulder once before stepping away to let his words simmer.

In a thoughtless jolt, Michael stepped back towards the telephone he just dropped. He brushed his reckless curls behind his forehead and wavered near the phone. His arm reached for the phone and back into an arm fold until he built up the courage to call.

“Hello?”

“Hey,” you say, playfully and suggestively.

“You busy now?”

“Just finishing up, why what's up?”

“I’m swinging by for a few.” He decided to buy himself some time, assessing the possibilities and how to go about it.

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You stood leaning on your back leg, applying fine strokes of detail onto the work you were assigned. Your studio assistant’s distant greeting prompted you to immediately drop your paint brush into the cup.

He stood deliciously in a loose white tee shirt and an open blue button up. Though, you noticed there was something tense about his presence today.

“So good to see you,” you reach in for a hug, careful not to stain his shirt with the rainbow on your apron.

“Always good to see you, girl,” he glances at the cobalt smear across your cheek, the multicolored splatters on your apron, and your messy bun with art supplies tucked in there somehow. You stood there enthusiastically cheesing at the timing of his visit. Your messy grace and eyes that expressed a childlike wonder set a flame in his chest— it did it every time.

“Come! Tell me if you like it!” You drag his arm into a separate room with a giant window and dozens of canvases, of all sizes stretched across the floor. You stand him in front of three separate canvases— three scenes he wanted you to imagine would fit his short film.

You conjured up few fun scenes that portrayed Michael running from everyone, in a high-speed motorcycle chase, and challenging a giant bunny with a dance. The illustrations were colorful and whimsical, giving way to a sense of nostalgia and energy.

The bunny was inspired by a “meeting” where you both sat, socks on the couch and knees up. He leaned against you as you both ate strawberry ice cream. In a conversation you aren’t sure how was started, you were laughing up a storm at the fact that he said his spirit animal would be a bunny. “Stop it!!! It’s cause they’re fast and playful,” he justified, trying to hold back his own laughter.

“Even ‘squirrel’ would've been a better response than that,” you slapped your knee. In a joyful frustration, he hit you with couch pillows to silence your laughter. The chain of events unfolded into a pillow fight where your giggles were audible to neighbors and feathers resembled confetti.

The motorcycle chase was inspired by another “meeting” where you laid on his chest diagonally on the studio floor. Needing comfort, you listened and tried to cheer him up. He was upset that when he was recognized in public without an army of security backing him. A passing motorcyclist grabbed at him and popped a button off his new shirt. “I should've been there. I would've sucker punched him, taken his bike, and ran him over”, you painted a satirical scene that made his face scrunch and dimples pop.

“I don't think 10 of you would be able to do that,” he uttered. You sprung up to see his face holding back a chuckle and made a threatening look. You both laughed until your stomachs ached.

At last, the running was inspired by your favorite “meeting” where he’d touch on the experiences he missed out on because he was always running from paparazzi, fans, and the media. You’d been at his house, feeding bubbles. He monitored your attentiveness. You chopped up fruits and vegetables and hand fed Bubbles, eventually earning a hug from him. Distracted, Michael was feeling vulnerable and felt the need to rant to someone who wouldn’t judge. He’d tell you that he’s never experienced many common human experiences—like that he’s never been grocery shopping, he’s never gotten a proper education, and he’s never had a proper love. The rawness of his emotion set down any boundary that was left between you two. That’s when you knew you mattered enough to him that he could be so open. You embraced him as the tears he fought to hold wet your shoulder. You swayed your hand into his back and pressed your nose into his neck, enjoying the comfort of his cologne.

The corners of his mouth raised instantaneously, thankful he trusted you with as much creative liberty as he did. He stands motionless, simply fascinated by you— not quite just your work, but your determination, optimistic stride, strong sense of self, and humility.

“They’re beautiful,” his tone indicats a distraction. With his internal thoughts fighting against the temptation of his love for you, he switches between looking at the canvas and your smile.

He notices the paint that still marked its presence on your face. He wet the tip of his thumb to wipe the blue stroke off your cheek. You stood there still, facing upwards at him, with your eyes pointed at the ground. “Did you get it?” You looked back at him, with a smile centered under a blush.

“There’s another.” His hand remained on your cheek, stroking the red. His eyes slowly alternated between your lips and your eyes.

“Yeah?” You breathed out. Your heart beat out of your chest with his sharp gaze. His other hand tapped the center of your lips, giving your bottom lip a soft stroke.

With your head in his hands and your hands gripping the back of his neck, your lips graze, then plump against each other. Your racing heart settles into a cleansing warmth that travelled through your chest.

You open your eyes to assess the reality of the situation to catch his eyes searching for yours. With your forehead against his, you shut your eyes to exchange a deeper kiss. You breathed eachother in and occasionally kissed against the smiles that your faces could not hold back. You gripped the neckline of his cotton tee as he savored the taste of your lip balm.

He pulls back gently to catch his breath, “I love you.”

With your cheek now smiling against his, “I love you too.”

He looks down and wraps you gradually into a hug, with your back to his chest and his arms holding you. The thumb that wiped the paint maintained its position on your face, with his hand continuously caressing your jawline. Your arms now cradled his as they cradled you.

You snicker through a whisper, “That wasn’t professional Mr. Jackson.”

He snickers back and kisses your forehead, “What do you mean? I did this exact thing with an exec earlier?”

You face him and reach for his temples, with both of you in a matching ear-to-ear smile. As he rests his forehead on yours, his curls obscure your peripheral vision. He finally feels at peace, still holding your face with a loose grip.

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That's it haha hope you enjoyed 💖

Gone for seventeen years, but never absent from the playlists, the memories, or the hearts of those who grew up with your music ᰔ

#michael jackson #michael jackson fandom #tumblr #michael jackson anniversary #rip #moonwalker #love #jackson 5 #michael jackson x reader

The One Who Wanted Nothing Fanfiction

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Eléa Clementine Jones is a twenty-one-year-old aspiring Hollywood creative with a passion for fashion, music, and everything that happens behind the scenes. After losing her family at the age of nine, she learns to rely only on herself, eventually leaving her small hometown in Georgia for Los Angeles in pursuit of a better future. Quiet, observant, and fiercely hardworking, Eléa has built walls around her heart after years of loss and disappointment. While many mistake her independence for coldness, those who earn her trust discover a loyal, compassionate, and deeply loving soul. Working at Epic Records, her life takes an unexpected turn when she crosses paths with Michael Jackson, setting in motion a journey that will change both of their lives forever.

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Introduction

Chapter 1~ December 1977

Chapter 2 ~ Champagne Glasses and Tiger Balm

Chapter 3 ~ Just Michael

Chapter 4 ~ Looking Forward to Tomorrow

Chapter 5 ~ Disco Lights and Fur

Chapter 6 ~ Fur Coats and Bad Decisions

Chapter 7~ Harmless

Chapter 8 ~ Standing Rhythmically

Chapter 9 ~ What Are The Odds

Chapter 10 ~ Good Company

Chapter 11 ~ Come On Universe

Chapter 12 ~ Goodbyes and Hellos

Chapter 13 ~ Angel and Devil Influences

Chapter 14 ~ Operation New Years

Chapter 15 ~ Wishes

Chapter 16 ~ Twenty-Two Hours Missing

Chapter 17 ~ Please Stay

Chapter 18 ~ Executive Project Coordinator for The Jacksons

Chapter 19 ~ Until Then

Chapter 20 ~ 91 Days

Chapter 21 ~ The Picture

Chapter 22 ~ Professional Boundaries

Chapter 23 ~ Different

Chapter 24 ~ The Anniversary

Chapter 25 ~ Not This Year

Chapter 26 ~ When She's Better

Chapter 27 ~ Stuck With Us

Chapter 28 ~ Forty-Eight Days

Chapter 29 ~ Operation Quincy

Chapter 30 ~ Fabric

Chapter 31 ~ Home

Chapter 32 ~ Shotgun

Chapter 33 ~ Falling In Love

Chapter 34 Records and Picnics

Chapter 35 ~ Disney Books & Birthdays

Chapter 36 ~ The Wiz

Chapter 37 ~ Ordinary Days

Chapter 38 ~ New Years Eve

Chapter 39 ~ 1979

Chapter 40 ~ Routine

Chapter 41 ~ Off The Wall

Chapter 42 ~ Countdown

Chapter 43 ~ Rhinestone Shirts

Chapter 44 ~ Bury

Chapter 45 ~ Space

Chapter 46 ~ Distance

Chapter 47 ~ Crossroads

Chapter 48 ~ The Space Between

Chapter 49 ~ Cracks

Chapter 50 ~ Because I Love You

Chapter 51 ~ Stolen Things

Chapter 52 ~ Lemon Bars

Chapter 53 ~ CBS Employee

₊ ⊹✮.*🪩:.𖥔 ݁₊ ⊹✮.*🪩:.𖥔 ݁₊ ⊹✮.*🪩:.𖥔 ݁₊ ⊹✮.*🪩:.𖥔 ݁₊ ⊹✮.*🪩:.𖥔 ݁₊ ⊹✮.*🪩:.𖥔 ݁

Author's Note

Before we begin, I wanted to share a few things about this story!

Eléa was intentionally written to be somewhat open-ended so that readers can more easily place themselves in her shoes. Because of that, I won't be giving her any specific physical features such as hair color, eye color, race, or other defining characteristics. I want the focus to be on her personality, experiences, and relationship with Michael rather than her appearance.

I've chosen to start the story with Eléa at twenty-one years old and Michael at nineteen, during one of my favorite eras of his life. The story will begin as Michael is transitioning into adulthood and establishing himself as a solo artist, leading into major milestones such as The Wiz, Off the Wall, and eventually Thriller. Personally, the Off the Wall era has always been my favorite version of Michael, so it felt like the perfect place to begin his journey.

I'm doing my best to keep the timeline and historical events as accurate as possible, but there are a lot of important moments throughout Michael's life and career. If I accidentally miss a performance, award show, tour date, interview, television appearance, or any other significant event, please feel free to let me know in the comments! I would love any tips, corrections, or suggestions from fellow fans.

Thank you for giving this story a chance. I hope you enjoy following Eléa and Michael's journey as much as I enjoy writing it. Also my first ever story so be kind and let me know your thoughts.

Happy reading! ♡

#michael jackson fandom #michael jackson #michael joseph jackson #michael jackson imagine #michael x reader #michael jackson fic #mj x reader #mjjforever #mj #mjj #mjjinnocent #applehead #king of pop #mjf #michael jackson x reader #fanfiction #fanfic

This man has me on my knees and gripping my face forcing me to stare at him. (Except he wouldn’t need to force me)

#michael jackson #michael jackson edit #michael joseph jackson #michael jackson fandom #mj #mjj #mjjforever #michael jackson fanfic #michael jackson smut #michael jackson forever #michael jackson x reader

LIMELIGHT ⟡ MICHAEL JACKSON

Hollywood lights. Flashing cameras. Cigarette smoke. Popcorn & M&Ms at midnight.

In 1982, Michael's rise to fame feels inevitable. But somewhere between sold out stages, endless interviews and the growing noise of the world around him, the person he cherishes the most begins slipping further from his grasp.

⟡ ⟡ ⟡

hey guys, my name is summer and if you don’t know i normally write on wattpad (follow me sadsurfer). i’ve decided to branch out to the lovely people on tumblr with an exciting story to tell!!

events are loosely based off of michael’s real life, though not every event and situation may align with his reality. just tryna have some fun.

p.s this is written in second person, however ‘you’ have a name. i just find it the perfect balance between first and third person.

if you’d like to be added to the taglist, please comment.

show some love! this is gonna be a hell of a ride ;)

the prologue

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