shut up
pairing: mature era!michael x singer!reader
summary: the paparazzi are mean to michael. reader tells them off. that’s it. that’s the plot.
word count: 1078
author’s note: a quickie in response to this request. (was this a request or just a thought? idk but i love you anon)
i wrote this so fast it was insane so if it flops i’m gonna delete it and pretend it never happened, okay? just play along.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
The red carpet was buzzing with energy. All around you, people milled about - cameras flashing, paparazzi shouting, fans pressing against the velvet ropes, desperate to get a glance at their favorite celebrity.
The noise all faded into the background as you watched the man ahead of you in line.
Michael Jackson.
Despite your own success, you were admittedly a little starstruck when you found yourself standing next to him.
Scratch that. You were a lot starstruck.
You’d tried to play it cool. You’d tried not to say anything at all, but the line for pictures was creeping forward at a snail’s pace, forcing everyone else to make small talk, and you’d blurted out a “hi” before you could stop yourself.
He’d smiled at you, and you forgot the English language for a second. “Hi.”
“You’re Michael Jackson, right?” You’d asked like an idiot.
That had made him laugh. Not out loud—he was too kind for that—but a single, quiet chuckle under his breath.
“Never heard of him.”
Your face had gone the exact same color as the carpet. You should have shut up then, but you’d never been good at knowing when to quit. Before you knew it, you were rambling on about what a big fan you were and how much of an inspiration his music had been to you.
He’d nodded along, polite and gracious even though he’d heard it all before. Then the line had moved forward, and that was it.
Flash forward to now. Now, you were watching him pose for photos, his smile just as dazzling—but maybe not as genuine?—as it had been with you.
The paparazzi were yelling at him louder than anyone else who had gone through the line. It started with the same old chorus of “Look over here!” and “Give us a smile!” but that had only lasted for about ten seconds before the comments turned nasty.
You couldn’t believe the way they were talking to him.
“Michael, is it true that you wanted to make yourself white?”
“What number nose job are you on?”
“Tell us, who is the real father of your kids?”
You saw it then—the dip in his smile, the barely perceptible twitch of his jaw. That was the question that really got to him.
“Shut the fuck up.”
The words came out of your mouth so unexpectedly that for a moment you thought, Who said that?
Then everyone was staring at you, and you realized, Oh. It was you.
But you didn’t back down.
“You want to ask him a question? Why don’t you ask him about having the number one selling album of all time?”
A camera flashed in your face, and the paparazzo who had asked about Michael’s kids started to cut you off, but you gave him a glare that could have frozen hell over. I said shut the fuck up.
“Ask him how it feels to hold the world record for the most Grammys in a single night. Or the most hit songs in a year. That’s what we should be talking about. Not his fucking nose.”
Flash. Flash. Flash. You were going to be all over the tabloids tomorrow morning.
“If you really want to get personal—That’s what you want, right? To get personal?—ask him about being the most philanthropic celebrity in the world. That’s not hyperbole. Look it up in the Guinness Book, asshole.”
You took a deep breath, composing yourself. When you spoke again, your voice was calmer, but no less lethal.
“And if none of that is newsworthy enough for you, then I suggest you pack it up and go home. Because if I hear you disrespect that man one more time, I will personally make sure that you never set foot on a carpet again.”
For a moment, the flashing stopped. You glanced at Michael and saw that he was staring at you slack-jawed, but you couldn’t make out his expression behind his sunglasses. Oh, God. He was going to think you were certifiably insane.
The room was quiet for less than half a second before it erupted into noise—screams of “You go girl!” and “Tell ‘em!” mingling with utter disbelief that you’d just spoken to someone like that in public.
You huffed and stomped across the carpet without pausing for a picture—they’d taken enough of those already—not stopping until you’d reached a quiet corner away from all the noise.
You'd only been alone for a few minutes when you felt a presence behind you, large and imposing despite its average height.
“That was somethin’ else.”
You turned and saw Michael standing there, chewing lazily on a piece of gum and looking at you with an amused gleam in his eyes.
“Oh my God.” You laughed, covering your face with your hands. You could feel your cheeks burning beneath your palms. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”
“It was nice. I liked it.” Michael shrugged off your apology. “Nobody’s ever stood up for me like that before.”
“Well, they should have.” You were getting shy, but the weight of his stare was trapping you in place, and there was nowhere else to look but directly at him.
“Hm. You sure know an awful lot about me.”
It wasn’t a question or an accusation, just an observation, but your face grew even hotter.
“I told you I was a fan. And that’s all public knowledge.” You crossed your arms defensively across your chest, and he laughed.
“I’m not sayin’ that’s a bad thing. I’m just… sayin’.”
“Well… I’m sorry if I crossed a line. I just couldn’t stand to hear them talking to you like that.”
“I’m used to it. But what you just did… I could get used to that too.”
You didn’t have a chance to consider what the hell that was supposed to mean before one of his security people whispered something in his ear, and Michael nodded.
“I’m gonna be in trouble if I don’t get on out there. Maybe I’ll see you around?”
“Yeah, maybe. I’ll bring my boxing gloves to the next carpet just in case you need me to fight somebody for you.”
He laughed again, hearty and warm, and caught you off guard by pulling you in for a hug. “Thank you. I mean it.”
His whisper in your ear sent a tingle down your spine.
You decided right then that you’d like to fight the paparazzi more often.
“Anytime.”
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
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