Hey I’m not sure if your taking any requests if not pls ignore this but if so I was wondering if you could do a fic with mature Micheal and wife reader set place In 2003 and they have there 3 kids and it’s the 4th of July and there in the encino house with all the other Jackson’s sibling (no Joe) and just like them all hanging out maybe were Janet , Latoya and reader are cooking and just sharing some funny stories just basically a lot of fluff I think it be really cute sorry if this request is awkward but I don’t really do this ,but yeah like I said tho sorry if you not taking any I understand but I love your writing keep up the good work !!!
Fourth of July
Mature Era! Michael Jackson × Fem! Reader | wc: 2,2k | One Day in Your Life
a/n : i hope u like it, honey! <3
2003 — Encino, California
The July sun beat down on the backyard of the Encino house, where the Jackson family had gathered to celebrate the Fourth of July. Little red, white, and blue flags decorated the trees, and the smell of barbecue mixed with the perfume of the garden flowers — planted by Katherine herself years ago, cared for with the same love she gave her children.
Michael arrived with the family in the early afternoon. The black car parked on the stone driveway, and before the driver could open the door, the children were already jumping out, excited, ready to run across the lawn.
"Prince, don't go running off like that!" you called out, trying to sound firm, but a smile was already forming on your lips.
"Leave him alone," Michael said, getting out of the car with Paris in his arms, the six-year-old almost too big to be carried anymore but still clinging to her father's neck. "It's the Fourth of July. Kids are supposed to run."
"You're the kid," you shot back, walking past him with a bucket of fruit salad in your hands.
"I am," he agreed, smiling. "Your kid."
You rolled your eyes, but the quick kiss you planted on his chin as you passed said more than any reply.
The kitchen of the Encino house was spacious, with windows looking out onto the backyard, where the younger brothers were already starting to light the grill. Janet was at the sink, washing strawberries, her hair tied up in a messy bun. LaToya was arranging a platter of salads on the counter, quietly complaining about how much onion her sister had chopped.
You walked in with the bucket of fruit salad and set it on the table.
"I brought this. I hope it's enough because Prince already ate half of it on the way here."
Janet laughed. "He's just like Michael was as a kid. Mom tells stories about how he couldn't stay away from the fruit bowl in the kitchen."
"Still is," LaToya added, smiling. "The difference is now he has someone to cut it fresh for him."
You leaned your hips against the counter, crossing your arms. "He's not that spoiled."
"He's exactly that spoiled," Janet and LaToya said at the same time, and the three of you burst out laughing. You started sharing stories.
That was when a hand appeared from behind you, reaching for the bowl of strawberries Janet had just washed.
"Mmm, strawberries," Marlon said, already with one in his mouth, grabbing another for the road.
"Get your hands off, thief!" Janet tried to slap his hand away, but he was faster.
"I'm just tasting to see if they're good. Quality control."
"Quality control my foot — you've already eaten three!"
Marlon grinned, gave a conspiratorial look, and reached for another. "Were you guys telling a story? I heard laughing from outside."
"About Michael's eighteenth birthday," LaToya replied. "The cake one."
Marlon laughed, nearly choking on his strawberry. "Oh, that one! I was there. He was sick all night long."
Everyone laughed. Marlon shook his head, still smiling, and grabbed one more strawberry — the last one, because Janet made sure to move the bowl out of his reach.
"I'm heading out," he said, already making his way to the back door with the strawberry in his hand. "The grill isn't going to light itself. Tito's been out there for half an hour fiddling with the charcoal and nobody's seen any smoke yet."
"Take more strawberries for him," LaToya called out.
"On it," he replied, already disappearing into the backyard.
"And that other episode," LaToya continued, going back to chopping vegetables, "when he tried to cook for Mom on Mother's Day?"
Janet said laughing. "Oh that one, that one is good—"
"He put salt instead of sugar in the cake. And a lot of salt. My mom took one bite and her face—" LaToya imitated a look of horror, eyes wide, mouth twisted.
The three of you almost cried laughing.
"Really," you started, wiping away tears, "when Michael goes into the kitchen, it's always an event."
"Speaking of funny stories," Janet said, drying her eyes, "do you have any? With the kids?"
You smiled, setting your knife down on the cutting board. "I have one."
"Tell us then," Janet said
"It was last month. Michael decided he was going to bathe all three kids by himself. I was tired, and he said, 'Go rest, I've got this.'"
"How sweet," LaToya commented.
"Sweet until it started." You were already laughing just remembering it. "He filled the tub, put all three in — Prince, Paris, Blanket. Everything was going fine until he remembered he had an important call with the producer. 'Five minutes,' he said. 'I'll be five minutes and I'll be back.'"
Janet's eyes widened. "He left the kids alone in the tub?"
"He thought it would only be five minutes. The call lasted twenty. When I decided to go upstairs to check, because the silence was strange—"
"Silence with three kids is always suspicious," LaToya interrupted, laughing.
"Exactly. I go up the stairs, open the bathroom door, and..." You started laughing so hard you could barely speak. "The entire bathroom was covered in foam. Floor, wall, mirror, ceiling. The kids were unrecognizable — you could only see their little eyes peeking out from mountains of bubbles. And Michael?"
"And Michael?" Janet asked, already laughing too.
"Michael was sitting on the hallway floor, outside the door, with his head in his hands, repeating: 'I was only gone five minutes. I swear it was only five minutes.'"
LaToya let out such a loud laugh that Janet had to hold onto the sink to keep from falling.
"And the kids?" Janet managed to ask.
"The kids were having the time of their lives. Paris made a foam hat. Prince tried to slide across the shower. Blanket — Blanket was eating the foam."
"Eating foam?"
"Eating foam. I went in, got the three of them out of the tub, wrapped them in towels, and when I looked at Michael, he was still on the hallway floor. He looked at me with the biggest puppy dog face and said, 'I just wanted to help.'"
"The kids were okay?" LaToya asked.
"They were. Blanket didn't eat enough foam to hurt him. Prince and Paris didn't break anything. Everything worked out in the end."
"And Michael?" Janet wanted to know.
"Michael was banned from bathing the kids for a week. Now he supervises. From a distance. Sitting on a chair outside the door."
The sound of hurried footsteps outside caught your attention. Jackie appeared in the kitchen doorway, holding Prince by the hand. Both were sweaty, the boy's hair plastered to his forehead, his face flushed from running.
"Water," Jackie asked, out of breath. "For me and the captain here."
You were already opening the fridge, grabbing two bottles. "Did you play a lot?"
"We did, mommy" Prince answered, proud, before Jackie could speak. "I beat Uncle Jackie in the race."
"You won because I let you," Jackie said, raising an eyebrow.
"You didn't let me. I'm faster."
Jackie laughed, opened the water bottle, and handed it to the boy. "Drink it all. Then go wash your face. You look like a dirty little chick."
Prince drank the whole bottle in one go and ran back to the yard before Jackie could say anything else.
"He's just like his father," Jackie commented, wiping sweat from his forehead with his forearm. "Endless energy." he said, then went back after Prince.
"It broke his heart," you said, getting back to the salt cake story, wiping your eyes from laughing so much. "He told me he spent days trying to make it up to her."
"And he did," Janet said, with a softer smile. "The next year, he hired a professional chef to cook for her all day. My mom was so embarrassed. 'Michael, you don't have to do all this.' And he said, 'Mom, you deserve all this and more.'"
LaToya shook her head, affectionately. "He's always been like that. Over the top. In love, in care, in worry." The three of you laughed as you went back to your tasks.
"What are you laughing about?" Michael asked, appearing in the kitchen doorway with Blanket in his arms — the youngest, still small, his huge curious eyes watching everything around him.
"Nothing," the three of you answered in unison, exchanging glances.
Michael was suspicious but didn't insist. He approached you and rested his chin on your shoulder, the baby between you.
"You look beautiful today," he murmured, low enough that only you could hear.
"I'm wearing an old t-shirt and my hair's up."
"I said what I said."
You felt your face warm — after all these years, it still warmed — and pushed him gently. "Go take care of the kids. I'm trying to help in here."
"Okay, okay." He moved away, but before leaving, he kissed your temple. "I love you."
"Love you too."
LaToya waited for him to leave before speaking, in an exaggerated whisper: "You two are unbearable. Ten years married and still acting like teenagers in love."
"Ten years?" Janet's eyes widened. "Has it really been that long?"
"Eleven, actually," you corrected, picking up a knife to start chopping tomatoes. "Eleven years married, thirteen together."
"And how did you two meet again?" LaToya asked, leaning back against the counter. "I know the story, but I want to hear you tell it."
You smiled, remembering. "It was at a benefit event. I was working backstage, and he came up to me after the show. Asked for a glass of water. I gave it to him. He just stood there, looking at me, until I asked if he needed anything else. He said, 'Your phone number.'"
The two sisters let out a chorus of "awww."
"And did you give it?" Janet asked.
"I did. But it took me three days to answer the first call."
"Why?" Janet wanted to know.
"Because I thought it was a prank. Michael Jackson calling me? Please."
The three of you laughed. Outside, the noise of the kids running around mixed with the soft music coming from some radio.
Until Tito appeared in the window frame, his shirt stained with sweat, his face slightly sunburned.
"Is the food almost ready?" he asked, looking at the platters on the counter. "Because the fire's been ready for half an hour, and the grill isn't going to wait forever."
"Calm down, Tito," LaToya replied. "We're almost done."
"Almost done for twenty minutes."
"Then wait five more."
Tito rolled his eyes, but a smile formed on his lips. "Five. Counting." He pointed to his wristwatch and disappeared back into the yard.
"And today?" Janet asked, turning her attention back to you, her voice a little softer. "Is he happy?"
You didn't answer immediately. You just looked out the kitchen window.
Outside, Michael ran across the lawn with Prince on his shoulders, Paris running alongside trying to catch up, Blanket sitting on the grass with a little flag in his hand, waving it at the sky. Marlon and Jackie were near the grill with Tito, laughing at some joke you couldn't hear from the kitchen. The setting sun gilded the children's hair, and Michael laughed — a free, loose laugh that echoed across the yard like an old, familiar song, good to hear.
"Yes," you said, without taking your eyes off the scene. "He's happy."
Later, when the sun had set and the string lights were turned on, everyone gathered around the long tables in the yard. The food was served, plates circulating from hand to hand, conversations crossing in joyful overlap.
Michael sat next to you, Paris leaning against her father's shoulder, Prince beside Paris, and Blanket in your lap. A small family within the big family.
"Were you telling stories about me in the kitchen?" he asked, low, his fingers finding yours under the table.
"Never," you replied, too innocently.
"Janet was laughing loudly. I know her conspiratorial laugh."
"We were just reminiscing... anecdotes."
Michael frowned, suspicious. "What anecdotes?"
You smiled, sweetly poisonous. "The strawberry cake. And the bathtub story."
He closed his eyes for a second, sighing — but there was a smile at the corner of his lips. "You told the bathtub story?"
"I did."
Michael buried his face in his free hand, but his shoulders shook with contained laughter. "I'm going to have to ask you to sign a confidentiality agreement."
"Too late, love. I'm already your wife. That voids any contract."
He laughed — low, lovely — and kissed your temple.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
"I am," you replied. "Happy."
"Me too."
Janet, from across the table, raised her glass of lemonade. "A toast."
Everyone raised their glasses.
"To the siblings," Janet said, looking around. "To those here and those who couldn't make it. To our mother. And to new memories."
"To new beginnings," LaToya added.
Michael raised his glass too. "To family."
Everyone drank. Paris tried to imitate the adults and took such a big gulp of her lemonade that she hiccupped, drawing laughs from the whole table. Marlon, from across the way, took advantage of the moment of distraction to steal another strawberry from your plate.
"I saw that," you said.
"I know." He was already chewing.
The fireworks would start soon. Far away on the horizon, the first flashes were already coloring the night sky.
You rested your head on Michael's shoulder, the baby warming your lap, the children around you, the siblings scattered around the tables, laughing, eating, being family.
That moment — that peace — was already more than enough for everyone.
I spot requests are open I have ARRIVED!!! May I request a jaafar Micheal Jackson x best friend fem reader, very very fluffy!!! Bec this one scene the expression on his face had me so heartbroken and wanting to smother him with kisses on his cheek, nose, forehead, and run a hand through his hair be look at this scene!!! Look at his face!! Can we have him infront of his best friend like this looking all vulnerable and she can’t help him and smothers him with all the affection she can give him and all the pet names she comes up with. 😭😩
My Beautiful AppleHead
Jaafar as Michael Jackson × Bsf Fem! Reader | wc: 1,8k
| I'll Be There
a/n : well, idk if it turned out exactly the way you wanted, love. But I did my best. And about the surgery, i based it on the movie's reasons, not real life. Enjoy It!
1979 — Encino, California
The phone rang at 10:30 PM.
You were on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket, an open book in your lap that you hadn't actually been reading for half an hour. The sound of the ring cut through the silence of the empty living room, and you almost let it go — almost. But something — a hunch, an intuition — made you get up and answer before the third ring.
"Hello?"
"Y/N?"
The voice on the other end was muffled, strange, as if the person were speaking through a cloth. But you recognized it immediately. You knew that voice better than you knew your own.
"Michael? What's wrong? Why are you talking like that?"
A pause. You heard his breathing — uneven, nervous.
"Can you come over?"
"Come where? To your house?"
"Yes. No." Another pause. "I'm... I'm on the sidewalk. In front of the house. Can you come? We can sit?"
You were already searching for your shoes with your feet, the book forgotten on the sofa.
"What happened? Are you okay?"
"I just..." His voice faltered. "I just need to see you. Please."
You didn't ask anything else. You didn't need to. When Michael used that tone — that tone you had learned to recognize as "I'm falling apart and I don't know how to say it" — you simply went. It had been that way since you were fifteen, since you met, since he became the person you loved most in the world. Not romantically — or maybe yes, but it was so complicated, so full of rough edges, that the two of you had decided long ago that naming it only got in the way.
You put on your sneakers, threw on your jacket, grabbed the bike leaning against the side wall of the house. And you pedaled.
It was a five-minute bike ride to the Jacksons' house. Five minutes of legs pumping, night air hitting your face, heart racing not from the exercise but from worry. What had happened? Why was he outside the house, alone, on a Tuesday night? Why did his voice sound so... broken?
When you turned the corner, you saw.
Michael was sitting on the curb in front of the gate. His back curved, shoulders hunched, hands dangling between his knees. He wore an oversized dark blue sweatshirt, too big for his thin body, and a cap pulled down low, almost covering his eyes. On his face — even in the dim light of the streetlamp — you could see the bandages.
Bandages on his nose.
You braked the bike, dismounted, and leaned it against the nearest tree. Your steps toward him were silent on the empty sidewalk.
"Michael," you called, softly.
He lifted his head. His eyes — those huge, brown eyes you had known since childhood — were red. Not from crying. From something deeper that you couldn't name.
"You came," he said, and his voice was still muffled, strange, impaired by the bandages.
"Of course I came. You asked."
You sat down next to him on the curb. The distance between you was a handspan. You could feel the night cold on your arms, the smell of asphalt after a rain that never came, and the heat radiating from his body — always warm, always alive, even when everything else seemed dim.
"What happened?" you asked, even though you already knew the answer.
Michael lowered his head. His fingers fiddled with a loose pebble on the asphalt, pushing it one way, pulling it back.
"I had the surgery," he said finally. "The nose. To... to fix it."
You didn't ask why. You didn't ask what was wrong with the old nose — because to you, there had never been anything wrong. You just looked at his profile, at the white bandages contrasting with his brown skin, at the way he kept his cap pulled down as if the world couldn't see what he had done.
Silence fell between you, heavy, dense. Inside the house, a few lights were still on — probably his mother, his brothers. No one knew he was out here. No one but you.
You looked at his profile for another second. Then, without thinking, without planning, you moved.
Your arms wrapped around his shoulders — those broad, tense shoulders that seemed to carry the weight of the world. You pulled him against your chest, his face buried in your shoulder, the cap brushing against your chin.
Michael didn't resist. On the contrary — he surrendered. His body relaxed against yours, his hands finally stopping their fidgeting with the pebble, rising to grab the back of your jacket as if you were the only safe place.
"You're okay," you said against his hair, your voice coming out firmer than you felt. "You're okay, baby."
He didn't answer. He just tightened his fingers on your jacket.
You started talking. You didn't plan the words — they just came out, like a faucet someone had turned on and couldn't turn off.
"My beautiful applehead," you whispered, your right hand rising to stroke his hair under the cap. "My sweet thing. My piece of heaven."
You felt him tremble — not from crying, but from some contained, swallowed emotion that didn't know how to escape.
"You're so brave," you continued, running your fingers through the soft strands. "So strong. I'm proud of you"
"You're lying," he murmured against your shoulder, his voice muffled.
"I never lie to you. You know that."
He sighed. Your arm tightened around him.
"My little angel," you continued, because if you stopped talking, you were afraid he would crumble completely. "My handsome boy. Do you know what I thought when I saw you just now?"
"What?"
"That even with the bandages, you're still the most beautiful creature to ever walk the face of the Earth."
He laughed — a short, muffled, strange laugh. But it was a laugh. And for you, on that dark Tuesday night, a laugh was worth more than anything else.
"You're exaggerating," he said.
"I'm just getting started."
You ran your hand over his back, slow, soothing movements, like calming a child.
"Do you want to know what I think?" you asked.
"What?"
"That after these bandages come off, the whole world is going to realize what I've known since I was fifteen."
"What?"
"That you don't need any surgery to be perfect. You already were. You always have been."
Michael lifted his head from your shoulder. His eyes met yours. They were watery — not from sadness now, but from something softer. Relief, perhaps. Or gratitude.
"How do you always know what I need to hear?" he asked.
You touched his face with your fingertips — carefully, avoiding the bandages, tracing his cheekbone, his jaw, his chin.
"Because I know you," you said. "Because I listen to you. Because when you don't speak, I pay attention to the silence."
He closed his eyes, leaning his head into your touch. The cap slipped a little, and you adjusted it back, your fingers lingering on the brim, fixing it with care.
"Stay a little longer?" he asked, his voice small.
"I'll stay as long as you need."
You sat back down side by side, now your shoulders touching, your hands almost meeting on the cold asphalt. The moon was high, round, lighting up the quiet neighborhood. Inside the house, a light went out — someone going to sleep.
"Y/N," he said after a while.
"Hmm?"
"Thank you. For coming."
...
"Michael."
"Hmm?"
"You never have to thank me for being here. I'll always be here."
He didn't answer. But you felt his hand find yours on the asphalt, his fingers brushing against yours, slowly intertwining.
You squeezed back.
And you stayed sitting on the sidewalk, the two of you, until dawn arrived and the cold became unbearable. Until he finally accepted that he needed to go inside, take his medicine, rest. Until you made sure he was okay — or at least better.
"I'm going," you said, already on your feet, the bike in your hand.
"Call me when you get home?"
"Sure."
You pedaled away without looking back. Not because you didn't want to — but because you knew that if you looked, you wouldn't have the courage to leave.
Behind you, on the empty sidewalk, Michael stayed sitting for a few more minutes. The cap still pulled down over his eyes, his heart a little lighter.
He looked at his hand — the hand that had held yours — and smiled. A small, shy, pained smile.
Michael Jackson × Fem! Jealousy Reader | wc : 1,9k | You Rock My World
a/n : idk who sent me this request, but i hope u liked it :)
2001 — Los Angeles, California
The music video set was organized chaos. Lights hung from the ceiling like artificial stars, reflectors pointed at a kind of mock street, and dozens of extras circulated between takes, adjusting clothes, retouching makeup, repeating steps. The mood was one of controlled excitement — after all, this was the first video from the new album, and expectations were enormous.
Y/N sat behind the cameras, her legs crossed, her fingers wrapped around a glass of water she hadn't actually drunk from in half an hour.
She shouldn't be feeling this.
She knew it was work. She knew it was choreography. She knew the girl — a pretty actress, dark hair, tight dress — was just playing her part. She knew all of this rationally.
But her heart didn't listen to reason.
The problem wasn't the dance itself. Michael had always danced with women in his music videos — she knew that when they started dating, knew it when they got married, knew it when they woke up side by side and he talked about new projects. She had never been the jealous type. Or at least, she never thought she would be.
But there, watching the way his body moved around that woman, the way his eyes followed the director's instructions, something inside her clenched. And it wasn't a small clench. It was a dry, uncomfortable twist that lodged itself at the bottom of her stomach and refused to leave.
She watched everything from behind the camera. Every rehearsal. Every new take. Every time his hand found the actress's waist, every time he smiled at her in the middle of the scene, every time the director asked for another take because he "wanted more chemistry."
It's just a video, she repeated mentally. It's his job. You're not that kind of person. You don't get jealous.
But she did.
She felt every approach like a pinch on her skin. Every lingering look like a hammer driving a nail. Every smile he directed at the actress — even if professional, even if rehearsed — like a small betrayal no one else noticed.
Michael, at some point between takes, came over to her. He was sweating, his dress shirt open at the chest. He smiled — that smile that usually made her heart melt.
"Everything okay?" he asked, leaning in to speak near her ear because of the noise on set.
Y/N forced a smile. "Fine. Go on, head back. They're waiting for you."
He frowned, sensing something, but didn't insist. He squeezed her shoulder with a quick gesture and returned to the center of attention.
On another occasion, he would have noticed that her smile hadn't reached her eyes. But the set was chaotic, his focus split a thousand ways.
Y/N stayed there for a few more hours. She watched more takes. More close-ups. More dances. More smiles.
When the clock struck 9 PM, she stood up.
She sent a message through an assistant — "tell him I went home, I'm tired" — and left without looking back.
The drive back was silent. The studio driver dropped her off at the door of the house they shared on the outskirts of Los Angeles, and Y/N entered like a ghost. The lights were off.
She took off her clothes, took a hot shower — a long one, the kind that tries to wash away bad thoughts along with the day's grime. She put on the most comfortable satin pajamas she could find, poured herself a glass of white wine, and threw herself onto the living room sofa.
The TV was on, some random channel. A movie she didn't pay attention to. Her eyes fixed on the screen, but her mind still on the set, still on that woman, still on Michael's hands on her waist, still on the "more intense" gazes.
You're being ridiculous, she told herself. It's acting. Why are you getting worked up now?
Because now it was different. Now he was hers. And maybe — just maybe — the problem wasn't the actress. The problem was seeing him there, in that role, so convincing, so seductive, and wondering if it was just acting or if there was some part of him that actually wanted to be there.
She hated that voice inside her head. She hated the jealousy. She hated feeling small and insecure when she had always been so confident.
The wine went down, and the movie on TV continued, and she stayed there, waiting.
The front door opened around 11:30 PM.
Michael entered with tired steps, but still electric — that post-recording energy she knew well. His eyes scanned the dark living room until they found the bluish glow of the TV and her silhouette on the sofa.
"I thought you'd be asleep," he said, leaving his keys on the entry table. His voice was hoarse, probably from all the talking and singing.
"I tried. I couldn't."
He watched her for a second. Then nodded, as if understanding more than she expected.
"I'm going to take a shower. I'll be right back."
Y/N heard his footsteps going up the stairs, the sound of running water, then silence. She finished her wine (the glass had been empty for a while, but she kept holding it) and turned off the TV sound, leaving only the silent images dancing on the screen.
When Michael came back, he was different. The energy of the set had been washed away along with the makeup and sweat. He wore black sweatpants and a simple white t-shirt, his hair still damp, his face clean, his eyes soft.
He went straight to the back of the sofa.
Y/N felt his hands land on her shoulders — first light, then firmer, beginning a slow massage. His thumbs pressed the right spots, his fingers traced the base of her neck in an intimate way.
"Why did you leave early?" he asked, his voice low, his tone casual — but she knew him too well to fall for that. He was probing.
"Tired," she replied, her voice coming out shorter than intended.
"Hmm."
He continued massaging. The movements were gentle, careful, almost hypnotic. Y/N felt the tension in her shoulders begin to give way, but the knot in her stomach remained, stubborn.
"You're acting strange," he said, not as an accusation, but as an observation.
"I'm acting normal."
"Y/N."
She didn't answer.
One of Michael's hands slid from her shoulder to her neck, and then — with a delicacy that contrasted with the firmness of the gesture — he held her chin and tilted her head up.
Her eyes met his, but he didn't say anything. He just looked. For one second. For two. Then, slowly, he leaned in and touched his lips to hers.
It was a slow, deep, deliberate kiss. He took her mouth with a possessiveness that left her breathless, his tongue brushing against hers with an intimacy that made her dizzy. His fingers were on her chin, holding her in place, preventing her from escaping — even though she didn't want to escape.
The kiss lasted longer than she expected. Longer than she was prepared to endure without giving in.
When he pulled away, his eyes were half-closed, satisfied.
"What was that?" she asked, her voice a little shaky.
"An attempt to make you talk," he replied, letting her go. "Did it not work?"
Y/N looked back at the TV, her lips still tingling.
Michael walked around the sofa and stopped in front of her.
"Here's what we're going to do," he said, his voice changing — still calm, but now with a firmness that allowed no negotiation. "We're going to talk in the bedroom. Now."
Y/N bit her lip, feeling her chest tighten. She knew there was no point in running. He had already noticed, and Michael, when he wanted to be, was like water — he found every crack, every escape.
She turned off the TV with the remote. The room fell into semi-darkness, only the kitchen light on in the background.
He reached out his hand. She looked at his fingers and hesitated for a second. Then she placed her hand in his.
He pulled her up — not with force, but with determination. They climbed the stairs together, fingers intertwined, the silence between them heavy.
The bedroom was dark when they entered. Michael didn't turn on the overhead light — just the lamp beside the bed, which bathed the room in a golden, intimate glow.
He sat down on the bed, his back against the headboard, and then looked at her.
"Sit here."
He pointed to the spot in front of him. And she promptly sat down there.
"Now," he said. "Talk to me."
Y/N looked at the floor. Her fingers drummed on her own knees. The courage she had mustered to leave the set, to take the taxi, to shower and drink wine — it seemed to have evaporated.
"Y/N." His voice was soft, but insistent. "Look at me."
She lifted her eyes.
His face was right there, just inches away. Tired, but present. No makeup, no costume, no character. Just Michael. Just them.
"The video," she began, her voice coming out lower than she wanted. "The way it was being shot... I didn't like it."
He frowned, confused. "Didn't like what? The direction? The choreography?"
"No." She took a deep breath. The words hurt to come out — not because they were hard to say, but because admitting them made her feel small. "I got jealous."
Silence settled in. Michael watched her, motionless.
"Jealous?" he repeated, as if testing the word on his tongue.
"You were too close to her. The hands, the looks... I know it's a video. I know. But I couldn't... I couldn't help feeling it."
His expression didn't change for a long second.
Then he laughed.
Softly. Just a sound, an exhalation. But a laugh.
Y/N felt her face warm — now not from jealousy, but from indignation. "You're laughing?"
Michael raised his hand, calming her, but his eyes still sparkled. "It's not what you think."
"It looks like it."
"Y/N." He touched her arm, stroking it with his thumbs. "Listen. Really listen."
She clenched her jaw but didn't pull away.
"I'm sorry," he said, and the laughter had vanished, replaced by something more serious. "If what I did — if what the scene did — caused you this discomfort, I'm sorry. It wasn't my intention. It never would be."
She opened her mouth to say something, but he continued.
"I only have eyes for you. Only you. You know that, don't you?"
"I know, but—"
"But nothing." His fingers traveled up her arm to her face, caressing her cheek. "That out there is work. It's posing. It's telling a story. It has nothing to do with what I feel. Nothing."
She looked away again, and he held her chin, bringing her back.
"Look at me. I'm crazy about you. Extremely, hopelessly, in a way that sometimes scares me." He smiled — that real smile, the one she knew, the one he kept only for her. "No scene, no video, no actress will change that. Nor will it erase what we have. This here..." He touched her chest, over her heart. "...and this here..." He touched his own chest. "...is ours. Only ours."
She felt her throat tighten.
"I don't want you to ever feel like this," he continued. "If seeing me with someone else hurts you — even if it's pretend — then I'll pay more attention. I'll be more careful. You're my priority, Y/N. You always have been."
He sighed, and then — without warning — leaned in and buried his face in her neck.
Y/N felt his nose trace the curve of her neck, inhaling her scent. Then his lips — small kisses, light, almost imperceptible. Then a firmer kiss, at her collarbone. Then another, higher up.
"I'm all yours," he murmured against her skin, his voice vibrant, warm. "All yours. Only yours. Do you understand?"
She swallowed hard, her hands rising to his shoulders, gripping them.
"I understand."
"Are you sure?"
"I'm sure."
He pulled back just enough to look into her eyes. His face was inches away, his brown eyes shining under the lamplight.
"I love you," he said. "In the silliest, most intense, most messy way there is. I love you."
Y/N felt the knot in her stomach finally unravel — not disappear, but transform into something else. Into warmth. Into relief. Into a desire to stay there forever.
"I love you too," she replied. "So much."
Then Michael pushed her gently — so gently she thought she would fall backward, but he went with her, his hands finding hers, their fingers intertwining, his body covering hers like a warm blanket.
The mattress groaned under their combined weight.
Y/N looked at their intertwined hands — his hands over hers, his thumbs brushing her palms in slow movements. When she looked up, he was already watching her.
There was something in that gaze. A promise. An invitation.
"Michael," she whispered.
"Be quiet," he replied, with a mischievous smile. "Now it's my turn to distract you."
He squeezed her fingers, and the night — which was already dark — grew even darker when he reached for the lamp and turned off the light.
Jaafar as Michael Jackson × Fem!Reader | wc: 4,4k | The Second Star to the Right
January 27, 1984 — Los Angeles, California
The phone rang at 6:47 PM.
Y/N was at home, wrapped in a blanket, reviewing notes for a dance class she would teach the next day. She answered unhurriedly, expecting to hear her mother's voice or a friend's.
It was neither.
"Y/N? Is that you?"
She recognized Jackie immediately, but there was something in his voice—a tremor, an urgency—that made her stomach clench.
"Jackie? What's wrong?"
"It's Michael. There's been an accident. On set. We're heading to Cedars-Sinai now."
"An accident? What kind of accident? Is he okay? What happened?"
"Fire. During the commercial shoot. His hair caught on fire, Y/N. We don't really know yet, but it was serious—"
She was already on her feet, her feet searching for her shoes, her heart pounding so hard she could feel it in her temples.
"I'm going there now."
"Y/N, wait—"
But she had already hung up.
The taxi traveled through the streets of Los Angeles as if time were a living entity trying to stop her. Every red light was an eternity. Every slow car ahead, a torture.
Y/N pressed her hands on her knees so hard that her fingernails left marks on her jeans.
Please, she thought, repeating it like a prayer. Please, let him be okay. Please, please, please.
She wasn't religious. But that night, she bargained with whatever force might exist in the universe.
The hospital was organized chaos. Reporters jostled outside, blocked by security guards and metal barricades. Camera lights flashed like a distant storm. Y/N walked past them without looking, her face hidden by her hoodie's hood, and entered through the main door as if she had a destination written in her blood.
The lobby smelled of alcohol and wilted flowers. She went straight to the reception desk.
"Michael Jackson. He was brought in about an hour ago."
The receptionist looked at her, hesitant. "Are you family?"
"Girlfriend."
"You need to be on the list—"
"Y/N!"
She turned around. Jackie was at the end of the hallway, arms open, his face tense. She ran to him and was pulled into a quick hug, too tight, lasting less than five seconds.
"Where is he? How is he?"
"Let's go to the waiting room." Jackie placed a hand on her back, guiding her. "I'll tell you everything."
The third-floor waiting room was small, with blue plastic chairs and a coffee machine that made a sad, intermittent sound. Marlon was sitting, hands clasped, gaze lost on the floor. Tito stood beside him, speaking softly on the phone. Jermaine, was standing by the window, his shoulders rigid.
"What happened? How did it happen?" she asked, sitting down next to Jackie.
Jackie hesitated. He looked at Marlon, who looked away.
"Calm down." Jackie placed his hand over hers. "It was a special effects malfunction. The pyrotechnics went off too early, and a spark caught his hair." He paused, his jaw tightening. "The flames spread fast."
Y/N covered her mouth with her hand. Terrible images formed in her mind—Michael, his hair on fire, screaming. She pushed them away forcefully.
"The fire only affected his scalp," Jackie continued, his voice lower now, heavy. "But it was serious, Y/N. Third-degree burns."
Third degree.
The world seemed to stop for a second. She knew what third-degree meant—deep damage, destroyed skin, grafts, permanent scarring.
"Third-degree?" she repeated, her voice barely a whisper.
"On the top of his head. The doctors are already treating it. But he's going to be okay, Y/N. He's going to be okay."
She took a deep breath, forcing herself to anchor in those words. He's going to be okay. He's going to be okay. He's going to be okay.
"Is he conscious?"
"Yes. Medicated, but conscious."
"I need to see him."
"Wait a little longer. The doctors are still dressing the wounds."
She nodded, trying to control the nerves that spread through her body like static. Her hands were shaking. She hid them between her knees.
That was when she heard the voice.
"What is she doing here?"
Y/N didn't need to look up to know who it was. That tone—sharp, authoritative, dripping with disdain—had been familiar to her for nearly two years.
Joseph Jackson entered the waiting room like a general inspecting a defeated battlefield. His light-colored eyes scanned the room with contempt and landed on her like she was a bothersome insect.
"I asked what you're doing here," he repeated.
Jackie stood up. "Joseph, she has the right—"
"Right?" Joseph laughed—a dry, humorless sound. "She has no right. She's not family. She's not a wife. She's just a little girlfriend who distracts my son with her nonsense."
Y/N stood up slowly. She wasn't afraid of Joseph Jackson. Never had been. Maybe that was why he hated her so much—she was the only person in Michael's circle who didn't cower when he raised his voice.
"I'm here because my boyfriend is in a hospital bed, Mr. Jackson," she replied, keeping her voice calm—calmer than she felt. "No signed permission slip from you is going to stop me from being where he needs me to be."
"You think he needs you?" Joseph took a step forward. "What he needs is to focus on his career. And you, with your sweet talk and your coddling, only serve to distract him. This accident—"
"This accident," Y/N interrupted, and now her voice rose, because the anger she had been holding back for months had finally found a crack, "happened because of you."
The silence that followed was so dense you could hear the coffee machine humming.
Tito hung up the phone. Marlon lifted his head. Jermaine stopped moving by the window.
"What did you say?" Joseph asked, his voice dangerously low.
"You heard me. You pushed him into that shoot." Y/N felt the words coming out hot as lava, but she couldn't, didn't want to hold them back. "And when a technical malfunction happens, your son is there, in the wrong place, at the wrong time, because you put him there."
"Y/N—" Jackie tried to intervene, placing a hand on her shoulder.
"Let her speak," Joseph said, but it wasn't permission. It was a challenge.
"He's 25 years old, Mr. Jackson. Twenty-five." Her voice faltered at the end, but she forced herself to continue. "Have you ever thought that maybe, just maybe, if he had more control over his own life, he wouldn't be lying in a hospital bed right now with burns that will mark him forever?"
"You don't know anything—"
"I know he's in there because of you!"
"Impudent girl—"
"Stop!"
Katherine Jackson's voice echoed down the hallway like a bell. Everyone turned.
The matriarch stood a few feet away, her eyes tired. Very tired.
"Joseph, enough." Katherine entered the room and went directly to Y/N. She didn't touch her, didn't say anything. She just looked for a long second, and then nodded, as if she had reached a conclusion.
"I heard your voice from down the hall," Katherine said, and there was something in her tone—not approval exactly, but recognition. "You'd better go see him. He's in room 312. Ask at the nurses' station."
Y/N felt her eyes well up, but she held back. "Thank you, Mrs. Jackson."
"Go. He's been asking for you."
Y/N didn't look at Joseph as she left. She didn't need to. She felt his eyes burning into her back like embers, but she didn't waver. Each step toward that room was a step away from that suffocating waiting room, away from that argument, away from everything that didn't matter.
The hallway outside room 312 was silent. Just the muffled sound of nurses' footsteps, the medication cart squeaking on the linoleum floor, the distant echo of an intercom calling someone to emergency.
Y/N stopped in front of the door.
She took a deep breath.
You're going to walk in with a smile, she ordered herself. You're going to be light. He doesn't need to see you cry. He doesn't need to know you almost killed his father out there. He needs peace. You're going to give him peace.
She ran her hands through her hair, straightened her blouse, and felt the shape of the doll in her jacket's inner pocket—small, soft, made with hours of dedication. Peter Pan. His favorite. She had started making it weeks ago, in secret, for his birthday in August. She never imagined she would give it so soon.
She took it out of her pocket and hid it behind her back.
Then she pushed the door open.
The room was large, private, filled with flowers and gifts, with a window facing the hospital parking lot. The curtains were half-closed, letting in only a strip of bluish twilight light.
Y/N's heart stopped for an entire second.
Michael wore a baby-blue hospital shirt, far too large for his thin body. His head was bandaged—thick layers of gauze covering his entire scalp. His face was pale, tired, but there—whole, miraculously intact.
His brown eyes, glassy from medication and exhaustion, were fixed on the ceiling.
He looked so small. So fragile. So different from the electric man who lit up stages and screens.
"My baby," she said, and her voice came out sweeter than she'd planned, more trembling than she would have liked.
His eyes moved slowly toward her. They took a second to focus. Then something in them lit up—a faint glow, but present.
"Y/N," he whispered, and his voice was hoarse, probably from all the screaming or all the tests, she didn't know. "You came."
"Of course I came." She approached the bed, sitting in the chair beside him, as close as she could without disturbing the wires and monitors. "Where else would I be?"
He tried to smile, but the smile hurt—she saw it in his eyes. "I didn't want you to see me like this."
"Like what?"
"Like this. With my whole head bandaged. Looking like..."
"Like the most handsome man in the world who caught on fire doing magic for a camera?" She tilted her head. "Still handsome. The bandage is the ugly part."
He let out a sound that mixed laughter and tears, and his hand reached for hers. Y/N carefully intertwined her fingers with his.
"Does it hurt a lot?" she asked.
He nodded, then seemed to regret the movement, wincing. "It's... a pain that doesn't seem to go away."
Y/N brought his hand to her lips and kissed his knuckles. "If it were up to me, I would take all that pain onto myself. Without thinking twice."
"You don't deserve to feel pain."
"And you do?"
He didn't answer. He just squeezed his eyes shut, and Y/N saw a tear escape from the corner.
"Michael." She touched his face with her fingertips, his cheekbone, the warm, soft skin. She stroked him with the lightness of someone afraid of breaking him. "Did you take your medication?"
"A little. They're giving me morphine every hour."
"Then why are you still in so much pain?"
"Because seems doesn't take it all away. It just... pushes it far away. Then it comes back."
Y/N bit her lip. What do I do? What do I say? What can I offer that has any value against the fire still burning in his body?
The hand hidden behind her back felt like it weighed a ton. She hadn't planned to give him the doll so soon. It wasn't the right moment. But maybe there was no "right moment" for anything in life. Maybe the right moment was always now.
He noticed.
His eyes, even tired, even pained, dropped to the movement of her back. They saw the way she kept her hand hidden. Curiosity sparked—a flash of the Michael she knew, that boy who still marveled at small things.
"What are you hiding?" he asked, his voice a little stronger now.
She smiled slightly.
She brought her hand forward. And showed him.
The Peter Pan doll was there—all crocheted, green like the character's clothes, with a pointed red felt cap attached to the head, little black button eyes, and a crooked smile she had embroidered by hand, without a pattern, hoping it would turn out cute instead of scary.
He measured about four inches, skinny and gangly the way Peter Pan should be. She had spent nights making, unmaking, redoing the legs, the arms, the famous cap. The crochet hook had become an extension of her fingers. And all the while, she thought of him—of the way his eyes sparkled when he talked about the boy who never wanted to grow up.
Michael's silence lasted so long that Y/N almost thought he hadn't liked it.
Then his eyes filled with tears.
"Y/N," he whispered, his voice breaking mid-word. "You... you made this?"
"I made it," she confirmed, feeling her own chin tremble. "For your birthday. But... I thought you might need it now."
He extended his hand, and Y/N placed the doll into it with the delicacy of someone handing over a heart.
Michael held Peter Pan as if it were made of glass. He looked at every detail: the tiny little boots, the embroidered expression, the toothpick sword she had improvised and glued to the right hand. His eyes scanned every inch with such deep attention that Y/N felt her cheeks warm.
"You remember," he said, finally, his voice still trembling. "You remember that I love Peter Pan."
"I remember everything you tell me, Michael."
He pressed the doll against his chest and closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them, the tears had wet his lashes.
"I love it," he said. "I love it so much. It's the most beautiful thing anyone has ever made for me."
Y/N smiled, feeling relief wash away the tension she had carried since leaving home. "Then do I deserve a thank-you kiss?"
He laughed—a low, pained, but genuine laugh.
He tilted his head toward her, as much as the bandages would allow. Y/N brought her face close and touched her lips to his with a gentleness that hurt from being so careful.
The kiss lasted only a second. But when she pulled back, his eyes were a little less clouded with pain.
"Thank you," he whispered.
"You're welcome, my love."
He pulled her into an embrace. Y/N leaned over the bed. Her face nestled into his shoulder, and he wrapped his body around her as best he could with one arm.
They stayed like that for longer than could be measured.
"Y/N," he said against her hair. "What was that noise outside? Before you came in. I heard voices."
She looked away. "It was nothing."
"It sounded like an argument."
"Your brothers arguing about who was going to get more coffee."
He didn't believe her. She knew he didn't believe her. But he didn't press. Instead, he just held the embrace tighter.
"Stay here," Michael said, changing the subject. "Sit here. Stay with me."
Y/N sat on the bed, beside him, her back against the headboard. His hand found hers and intertwined their fingers again.
For a while, no one spoke. The noise of the hospital continued outside—footsteps, carts, intercoms—but inside that room, there was only the sound of their breathing.
"Someone needs to stop him," Michael said, so low she almost didn't hear it.
She knew who he was talking about.
"I know."
"I feel like I can't." His voice trembled. "Every time I try... he talks louder. Or I remember everything he did to get us where we are. And then... then I freeze."
Y/N squeezed his hand.
"This whole thing is his fault, Michael."
He frowned. "Don't talk like that—"
"Someone needs to."
"Anyway..." Michael sighed, his chest rising and falling in a tired motion. "Anyway, I love him. Even though he's like this. He's my father."
Y/N said nothing. She didn't agree, didn't disagree. She just kept holding his hand, because she knew some battles weren't hers to fight.
To change the subject—to give him a break—she looked at the bedside table.
It was crammed full.
Letters. Hundreds of letters, stacked in colorful envelopes, some already opened, others still sealed. Flowers in glass vases, belated birthday balloons, teddy bears. And a tray—an enormous tray, covered with sweets, cookies, a glass of fresh orange juice, heart-print napkins.
"Aren't you going to eat any of this?" she asked, surprised.
Michael shook his head without looking. "I'm not hungry."
"Michael, there are cookies there. You love cookies."
"I'm in pain."
"Eating isn't going to make the pain worse."
"It won't make it better either."
She rolled her eyes—deliberately, so he could see. "For God's sake, Michael. Are you going to let me worry twice as much? If you don't eat, I'll think you're worse than you look. If you drink, I'll feel calmer. Do you want me to feel calmer?"
He watched her for a moment. Then he sighed—a sigh so heavy it seemed to carry weeks of exhaustion.
"Alright."
She smiled, victorious. She poured the juice carefully, held the glass with one hand, and slipped her free arm behind his shoulders, helping him lean forward slightly.
"Slowly," she instructed. "Small sips."
Michael drank. His lips touched the rim of the glass with a fragility that tightened her heart. The orange juice went down in small amounts.
"One more," she encouraged.
"Enough."
"Just one more."
He obeyed, but looked at her over the glass with a trace of irritation that made her smile.
"There. Satisfied?"
"Satisfied." She placed the glass back on the tray, adjusted the pillows behind him, and sat down again beside him. His hand found hers automatically, as if by magnetism, as if he needed that anchor not to float away.
Y/N brought his hand to her lips. She kissed his knuckles, his finger joints, his palm.
"Now try to rest," she said.
Michael lay on his side, slowly, carefully, trying not to press his head against the pillow. His eyes found hers. He didn't let go of her hand.
"Stay here until I fall asleep?" he asked.
"I will."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
He closed his eyes. His breathing began to deepen slowly, but she knew he wasn't asleep yet—his fingers still moved, squeezing hers every few seconds, as if checking that she was still there.
Y/N waited. And then, softly, almost a whisper, she began to sing.
"The second star to the right... shines in the night for you... to tell you that the dreams you plan... really can come true..."
Her voice wasn't professional. It didn't have his range or power. But it was sweet. It was soft. It was full of everything she couldn't say in words.
Michael smiled with his eyes closed.
"The second star to the right... shines with a light that's rare... and if it's Never Land you need... its light will lead you there..."
His lips moved. He hummed along, softly, his voice hoarse and trembling, but in tune—always in tune, even in pain.
"Twinkle, twinkle little star… so we'll know where you are… gleaming in the skies above…"
They continued together.
"Lead us to the land we dream of… and when our journey is through… each time we say 'Goodnight'…"
She stopped, letting him continue alone.
"We'll thank the little star that shines… the second from the right…"
The last word dissolved into a yawn. His fingers squeezed hers one last time, looser than before. His breathing finally stabilized—deep, steady, true sleep.
Y/N waited a few more minutes. She counted his breaths. She watched his chest rise and fall, his face relaxed, the Peter Pan doll still pressed against his chest, between his body and the mattress.
Then, slowly, with the care of someone defusing a bomb, she let go of his hand.
She stood up. She adjusted the blanket that had slipped. She looked at him for a long moment—the bandaged head, the dark circles, the parted lips.
She leaned down and kissed his forehead.
"I love you so much," she whispered, her voice so low she could barely hear it herself. "So much I don't even know how to explain it... And this is your life, Michael. And I will fight by your side."
He didn't wake up. He just sighed in his sleep, turning his head slightly toward her.
She straightened up, wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, and took one more step back.
She adjusted the Peter Pan doll so it wouldn't fall off the bed.
And then she left the room, closing the door with a soft click.
Outside, the hospital hallway was quieter now. The lights had dimmed, a sign that the night was advancing. She leaned her back against the wall, closed her eyes, and let the tears she had held back for hours finally fall—warm, silent, inevitable.
Not from fear. Not from the fight with Joseph. Not from what was to come.
But because loving him, she had discovered, sometimes hurt. It hurt to see his pain. It hurt to know she couldn't erase it. It hurt to carry the weight of a love that the whole world seemed to want to crush.
Michael Jackson × Fem!Reader | wc: 1,4k | Another Part Of Me
1986 — The Walt Disney Studios, Burbank, California.
The hallways of the Disney studios were a maze of cables, equipment, and hurried people. Y/N walked with a white box in her hands, a red ribbon loosely tied at the top, her steps light and the smile already on her face before she even found what she was looking for.
She had taken half an hour to find the right dressing room. No one had given her the number—"it's near the set, you'll recognize it"—but she recognized it by the activity. Assistants coming and going, discreet security guards, that air of importance that surrounded everything he did.
She knocked on the door with her knuckles. Two soft knocks.
"There's cake at the door," she announced in a sing-song tone.
On the other side, there was a pause. Then footsteps. The door opened.
And Y/N forgot to breathe.
Michael was dressed in a completely white, padded jumpsuit that truly resembled space armor, featuring prominent shoulder pads, several metallic buckles, and colorful red, yellow, and blue details studded across his chest and waist simulating control panels, along with a white inner t-shirt featuring a diagonal rainbow print and white gloves.
But it was his eyes that undid her. Large, lined, deep—enhanced by dark makeup that made them even more hypnotic.
He looked like a living illustration. Something straight out of a comic book. Something too perfect.
Y/N felt her mouth go dry.
Then, naturally, her eyes traveled down his body from head to toe. Slowly. Deliberately. Like someone appreciating a work of art with no hurry to finish.
"Good afternoon, Captain," she said, her voice coming out in a playful, sweet tone she reserved only for him.
Michael blushed. His fingers twitched at his sides, a nervous tic she knew well.
"You... liked it?" he asked, and there was hesitation in his voice—an insecurity that contrasted absurdly with the grandeur of the costume.
Y/N tilted her head, a slow smile curving her lips.
"Like is a very weak word, Michael Jackson." She stepped forward, entering the dressing room. "You are... I don't even know how to say it. Stunning. Imposing. Beautiful enough to hurt."
He looked down, but the corners of his mouth were already lifting into a shy smile. "You're exaggerating."
"I never exaggerate when it comes to you."
She placed the cake box on the table beside them and, before he could say anything, closed the distance between them. Her arms wrapped around his neck—careful not to mess up his hair—and she pulled his body against hers.
Michael hugged her back, his hands resting on her waist, and sighed—that sigh of someone who, after hours of preparation and nervousness, finally finds a safe place.
"I missed you," he murmured against her hair.
"It's only been six hours."
"Six hours too many."
She laughed, pulling back just enough to look into his eyes. The dark makeup made them even more expressive, even more impossible to ignore.
"You look different," she said, lightly touching his temple. "Your eyes... more intense."
"It's the character," he explained, a little embarrassed. "The director asked me to wear it... to add more... drama."
"It's working." She pulled him back, but not for an embrace—for a kiss.
It was slow. Deliberate. A kiss that wasn't in a hurry, that didn't care about time or the assistants who would soon come to call him to the set. His mouth was soft, and she felt a smile form against his lips—that shy but happy smile that only she knew.
When they pulled apart, he was more flushed than before.
"You're going to ruin my makeup," he said, but he didn't sound like he was complaining.
"You look good flushed." She ran her thumb over his cheek, wiping away a tiny smudge of lipstick. "It matches the uniform."
He laughed, shaking his head. "You said you brought something?"
"Ah!" Y/N stepped away, picking up the white box on the table. "I did."
She undid the red ribbon with a dramatic tug and opened the lid.
The cake was perfect—layers of fluffy batter, cloud-white whipped cream frosting, and fresh raspberry arranged in a circle on top, forming a kind of red crown. Small white chocolate shavings were sprinkled around the edges.
Michael's eyes widened.
"Raspberry cake with whipped cream," he said, his voice coming out in a near-whisper of wonder.
"I know." Y/N set the box back on the table. "It's to celebrate. Your first day as Captain EO. I couldn't let it pass."
"Y/N..."
"I'm so happy for you, Michael." She walked around the table, approaching him from behind as he still contemplated the cake. "You always talked about doing something with Disney. Ever since I've known you. And now... now you're here. You made it."
He ran a finger along the edge of the cake, picking up some whipped cream, and brought it to his mouth. His eyes closed for a second, savoring it. A small white streak remained at the corner of his lip—he didn't even notice.
Y/N watched that white smudge and felt an impulse she had no desire to resist.
She turned to face him, her eyes fixed on that spot on his mouth. Slowly, she took the cake from his hands—carefully, so as not to drop it—and placed it back on the table.
"You have whipped cream on your mouth," she said, her voice lower now.
"Where?"
"Here."
She grabbed the collar of his pristine white uniform and pulled him toward her.
She tilted her head and pressed her lips to his, finding the whipped cream at the corner of his mouth. She removed the frosting with a slow, precise, almost sensual movement. The sweet taste mixed with his—something warm, something that was only Michael.
He let out a low sound against her mouth—surprise, a stifled moan, something in between.
She didn't pull back. Taking advantage that her lips were already there, she deepened the kiss, one hand still firm on his uniform collar, the other rising to touch the back of his neck—careful, but wanting to feel him there, the warm skin beneath her fingers.
Michael's lips responded. Hesitant at first, as if he were still processing what was happening—her cleaning whipped cream off him with her mouth, her kissing him as if she had all the time in the world. Then, he let go. His fingers found her waist and squeezed, pulling her against his chest, the white uniform wrinkling under her touch, his heart beating so fast she could feel it against her own body.
The kiss lasted longer than it should have. Long enough for the whipped cream to disappear completely. Long enough for both of them to lose track of where one ended and the other began.
When she finally pulled away, her eyes were half-closed, her lips slightly swollen, her breathing a little uneven.
Michael's eyes were dark, the eyeliner accentuating the intensity of his gaze even more. His lips were red, glistening—from her.
"There," she murmured, running her thumb over his lower lip in an almost possessive gesture. "No more whipped cream now."
He swallowed hard. "Y/N..."
"Now I have to let you go." She sighed, but the smile that accompanied the sigh wasn't sad. It was a promise. She adjusted his uniform collar, ran her hands over his shoulders, fixed him up. "You still have many recordings ahead."
He still looked dazed. His eyes didn't leave her mouth.
"You're leaving?"
"I am." She picked up her jacket from the chair, but before turning completely, she stopped. She looked at him over her shoulder. The smile that formed on her lips was slow, full of secrets. "But we'll really celebrate at home. Tonight."
She paused. Her eyes swept over the white uniform one more time.
"It's going to be a long night, Captain."
The last word came out in a drawn-out whisper, almost a caress. She bit her lower lip, let out a smile that said everything words didn't—and then turned, opened the door, and left.
Michael stood still in the middle of the dressing room.
The uniform was still warm where her body had pressed against it. His lips throbbed. His speech had simply... disappeared.
He brought his hand to his lips. He could still taste her. He could still feel the way she had cleaned off the whipped cream with her mouth, slow, deliberate...
A long night.
He smiled to himself, embarrassed, his face warm, his heart racing.
And he went back to the cake—but now, every bite felt like a prelude.
Michael Jackson × Fem!Reader | wc: 2,9k | The Way You Make Me Feel
1986 — Los Angeles, California
The ceiling fan spun slowly, unable to overcome the September heat that had accumulated inside the rehearsal studio. Y/N sat on the floor, legs crossed, her delicate white cotton dress spread around her. The air smelled of wood, sweat, and reheated coffee.
She held the water bottle with both hands, watching him.
Michael Jackson stood a few feet away, talking animatedly with the choreographer. His hands gestured in the air, drawing invisible movements that only he could see. He wore tight black pants and a loose shirt, his curly hair falling over his eyes. Even disheveled, even sweaty, even repeating the same steps for six hours straight, he looked... electric. As if there was a light inside him that didn't depend on spotlights to shine.
Y/N looked away before anyone could notice.
The rules had been clear from the first day, when she signed the contract to participate in the "The Way You Make Me Feel" music video. The producer had called her into his office and said bluntly: "No insinuations with the artist. No unnecessary approaches. No statements. You're here to work. If something happens, you're out."
She understood. She nodded. She promised herself she would be professional.
The problem was that no one had warned her that Michael Jackson would be so... Michael Jackson.
Not the idol from magazine covers. Not the television phenomenon. But the flesh-and-blood man who showed up to rehearsals with chocolate for everyone, who asked each person's name and remembered it the next day, who listened attentively when someone gave a suggestion, who laughed with a shyness that contrasted with the ferocity of his dancing.
She found herself admiring the way he treated others. How he never raised his voice, even when frustrated. How he said "please" for every adjustment. How he thanked everyone at the end of each rehearsal, looking into each person's eyes.
The admiration came first. Innocent. Harmless.
The problem was when the admiration transformed.
It happened during a late-night rehearsal. Most people had already left. Only Michael, the choreographer, and Y/N remained. She was reviewing a step in the corner, repeating a movement that hadn't come out perfectly.
"You're tilting your hip too much to the left."
She looked up. Michael was beside her, arms crossed, head tilted.
"Excuse me?" she replied, trying to ignore the tightness in her chest.
"No. It's like this." He positioned himself next to her, executed the movement with surgical precision, and then looked at her. "See the difference?"
She saw it. "I can try again."
"Let's do it together."
And then they danced. Side by side. Shoulders almost touching. She could feel the heat radiating from his body, the rhythm of his breathing syncing with hers. When they finished, he smiled.
"That's what I was talking about. Very good."
She smiled shyly and nodded.
"You have talent, Y/N. Keep it up. Let your light shine."
She felt her face warm up. "Thank you."
"You're welcome."
He walked away, but before returning to the center of the studio, he stopped. Turned around. Looked at her for a second longer than necessary.
"You look good in blue," he said. And then he walked away.
Y/N stood still, her heart pounding, her hands cold. It was just a compliment, she told herself. He compliments everyone. It doesn't mean anything.
The following days were an exercise in restraint.
Michael continued being Michael—gentle, respectful, a perfectionist to the bone. But there were moments, small and fleeting, when Y/N could have sworn he was... teasing.
Like on Wednesday, when she arrived early to stretch and found him alone in the studio, warming up his voice with vocal exercises. He stopped when she walked in.
"Good morning."
"Good morning," she replied, spreading her towel on the floor.
"You always arrive early."
"I like having the quiet space before everyone else gets here."
He nodded, thoughtful. "Me too." A pause. "We could share."
She risked a glance. He looked serious. "Share what?"
"The quiet space." He smiled—that small, sideways smile she had learned to recognize. "If you don't mind my company."
"Sure, I don't mind."
"Great." He sat down on the floor, at a respectful distance. "Then we can be quiet together."
She laughed, despite herself. "Does that even make sense?"
"None at all." He shrugged. "But I like the sound of it."
Hours passed. She was at the snack table, preparing her drink—a little sugar, plenty of cream—when he appeared beside her.
"You can't taste the coffee that way."
"I don't like the taste of coffee. I like what comes with it."
"The sugar and the cream?"
"The temperature. The ritual. The excuse to stand still for five minutes."
He watched her for a moment, his brown eyes scanning her face with a slowness she felt like a physical touch. And then he laughed.
"You're funny. Interesting," he said.
"Interesting?"
"Interesting." He said smiling and walked away.
Rules, she repeated mentally. Rules, rules, rules.
And the hardest moment came on the twelfth day of rehearsals. They were reviewing the scene in the video where Michael would chase her character down the street. The choreography required him to catch up to her, spin her around, and get very, very close to her face.
"Closer," the choreographer instructed. "I want it to look like he's going to kiss her, but he doesn't. It's tension. It's desire. It's everything that doesn't happen."
Michael stepped closer. His face was just inches from hers. She could smell him—something woody, clean, that she would forever associate with him.
"Are you okay?" he asked, low enough that only she could hear.
"I'm fine," she lied.
He held her gaze for one second. Two. Three.
"Y/N."
"Yes?"
"You're shaking."
She was. Small shivers ran down her arms, but not from cold.
"It's just the weather. It's cold.," she said.
He didn't believe her. She knew he didn't believe her. But he only nodded, stepped back, and the scene continued.
That night, Y/N lay in bed and stared at the ceiling for hours. What was happening to her? It wasn't just physical attraction—though there was that too, yes, a desire she swallowed whenever he smiled or tilted his head that certain way. It was more. It was the way he saw her. The way he listened when she spoke. The way he seemed genuinely interested in what she had to say, even when it had nothing to do with dancing or music.
Nonsense, she told herself. He's like that with everyone. It's part of his charm. Don't fool yourself.
She fought to listen to her reason. But her heart only knew that when he was around, the air felt lighter. And when he wasn't, the studio seemed empty.
The wrap party arrived like a sigh after weeks of exhaustion.
The event hall was located on the outskirts of the city, surrounded by dense forest and a lake so calm it reflected the sky like a mirror. String lights were hung between the trees, creating a tunnel of tiny yellow stars that guided guests to the entrance. Inside, long tables covered with white cloths, wildflowers in glass vases, and soft music playing from strategically placed speakers.
Everyone was lighter. The rehearsals had ended. The recordings were finished. The music video was ready—and this night was meant to celebrate.
Y/N wore a dark blue silk dress that fell just above her knees. Her hair was pinned in a low, loose bun, a few strands falling across her face. Small pearl earrings—her grandmother's favorites, which she wore on special occasions.
Michael was in the corner of the hall, surrounded by some of the crew. He wore a black dress shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, dark pants. His hair was longer than at the start of rehearsals, falling in loose curls over his forehead. He laughed at something someone said, his head thrown back.
She looked away. She poured herself some juice. She feigned casual disinterest.
But when the DJ switched the music to something more danceable, and the hall filled with moving bodies, Y/N allowed herself to relax.
She danced with everyone from the production who had let loose that night. She laughed, spun around, let the sound carry her.
It was during an especially upbeat song that she felt it. An earring came loose.
The movement was so quick she barely noticed it. She just felt less weight on her ear, and when she raised her hand to touch it, she confirmed it: the pearl was no longer there.
Oh, no.
She looked at the floor, but the hall was too dark, too crowded. She started to bend down, but someone pulled her back into the dance.
"Forget it," a friend shouted. "You can look for it later!"
Y/N smiled, but the unease remained. That earring was important.
The party ended around midnight. The guests said their goodbyes in groups, some by car, others waiting for taxis. The hall slowly emptied, the lights dimming, the staff beginning to clear the tables.
Y/N stayed behind. She knelt on the floor, sweeping her hands across the ground, searching for the small pearl that stubbornly refused to appear.
"Lose something?"
She looked up. Michael was standing in front of her, his hands behind his back, his head slightly tilted.
"My earring." She looked back down at the floor. "It fell off while I was dancing."
"This one?"
He brought his hands forward. In his right palm, the small pearl gleamed under the hall's dim light.
The relief was immediate. "You found it!"
"I saw it fall," he said casually. "I was watching."
She didn't ask why he was watching. She stood up, reaching out her hand. "Thank you, Michael. Really."
He didn't hand over the earring.
"You know," he said, playing with the pearl with a delicacy that contrasted with the size of his long fingers, "I could just reach out and give it to you. But where's the fun in that?"
Y/N frowned, but a smile threatened to escape. "What do you mean by that?"
"I mean..." He raised the earring, holding it beside his own head. "...that if you want it back, you'll have to come get it."
"Michael."
"I'm serious."
She rolled her eyes—a gesture she had learned to suppress around him, because he always laughed when she did it. And sure enough, he laughed now.
"This is childish."
"It is. But is it working?"
She took a step forward. He took a step back.
"Closer," he said.
"Michael."
"Closer, Y/N."
She stepped forward again. He didn't step back this time. They stood an arm's length apart. The earring was still in his hand, raised, almost like an offering.
"Closer," he repeated, and his voice was lower now. Calmer. More... something else.
Y/N swallowed hard. "I'm not getting that close."
"Why not?"
Because of the rules. Because of the producers. Because if she got close enough to take that earring, she would be close enough to feel him breathe. And if she felt him breathe, she wouldn't be able to step back.
Rules, she thought. Rules.
"Y/N." His voice was almost a whisper now. "Come closer."
She obeyed.
It wasn't a conscious decision. Her feet moved before her brain could argue. One step. Another. Now they were so close she could see more of his eyelashes—long, dark, curved like a doll's.
The earring was still in his hand, beside his own face.
Their eyes met.
She didn't look away. Neither did he.
Time seemed to stop. The empty hall, the low lights, the distant echo of someone outside closing a car door. Neither of them moved.
And then Michael's eyes drifted down.
They landed on her lips.
She felt her heart race, her blood warm, her reason scream a warning that her ears could no longer hear. But now the earring had lowered. His hand hung at his side. There was no longer an object between them.
Only the distance of a few centimeters.
"Y/N," he murmured.
"Yes?."
"Can I?"
She didn't answer with words. Instead, for a moment—just a moment—her eyes left his and dropped to his mouth. Then back up.
That was all he needed.
But before either of them could do anything, a sound made her flinch. Footsteps.
Y/N turned her head instinctively, looking toward the back door, where a shadow moved.
When she turned back—
Michael's lips were on hers.
The kiss was slow. Deliberate. As if he had rehearsed it in his mind for weeks and could finally execute it. His mouth was soft, and he kissed her with a precision that belied any pretense of shyness—one hand rose to touch her chin, his fingers gently turning her face in the right direction, tilting the angle so they fit perfectly together.
Y/N closed her eyes. For one second, for two, for three, she allowed herself to feel. The warmth of his mouth. His scent. The sound of her own breath mingling with his.
Then the kiss ended as softly as it had begun.
He pulled back just enough for his eyes to meet hers. He was smiling—that small, sideways smile she had come to love so much.
"The earring," he said, and his fingers found her ear with a delicacy that made her shiver. She felt the cold touch of the pearl being put back in place, the care with which he adjusted the clasp.
"There," he murmured.
She still hadn't recovered her speech.
"Michael?" The voice came from outside—his assistant, probably. "Your car is here."
He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he leaned in again, his lips brushing her ear—the very one where he had just replaced the earring.
"You dance the way I like. And you kiss even better."
She held her breath.
He pulled away. Gave her one last look—that look that said so much and promised even more—and then turned, walking toward the door.
Y/N was left alone in the empty hall.
Her hand rose to touch her ear. The earring was there, warm now, as if it had absorbed the heat from his fingers. Her lips still throbbed with the memory of the kiss—too brief, too intense.
