.ೃ࿔*:･ 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓌𝒶𝓎 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓈𝑒𝑒 𝓂𝑒
୨ৎ painting each other sounded easy until you remembered you had no idea what you were doing and michael was annoyingly good at it. ☆彡 otw!michaeljackson x fem!reader my last fic for a while, hope you guys like it even though i hate it 🥴
AUGUST 14, 1979
you had been convinced that painting each other would be easy. that was the first mistake. you had said it so confidently too, sitting beside michael on the floor of your living room with two blank canvases leaned against the coffee table, a pile of paint tubes between you, and the kind of excitement that made you feel like you were about to create something unforgettable. it sounded romantic in your head. it sounded like one of those quiet little moments couples talked about years later, the kind where you both laughed about how messy the paint got and how you ended up with tiny streaks of colour everywhere. the problem was that you had actually didn't think about the fact that painting was, well, painting. you needed skill. you needed patience. you needed some idea of what you were doing. and apparently you had remembered that part. "this is going to be beautiful," you had said, smiling proudly as you picked up a paintbrush. michael had looked at you with that amused little smile of his, the one where he already knew something you did not. "you sound very sure about that," he said, tilting his head slightly. "because i am sure," you replied. "how hard can it be?" he laughed softly, and somehow that should have been your warning.
he was already engrossed, his brow furrowed in concentration, a faint smile playing on his lips as he meticulously mixed a shade of brown. the way his fingers moved, sure and deliberate, was mesmerizing. you tried to emulate his focus, to push away the self-doubt that threatened to creep in. you’d decided on a simple portrait, hoping to capture the essence of him, the light in his eyes, the curve of his smile. but every brushstroke felt clumsy, tentative. you’d accidentally smudged a section, your heart sinking.
“oh, no, i’ve ruined it already,” you muttered, more to yourself than to him. you stare at the smudged section like it’s a personal betrayal, your brush frozen mid‑air, your confidence evaporating faster than the water in the paint cup. michael glances up at you immediately, because he always hears the shift in your voice, always notices the tiny tremors of frustration you try to hide. his eyes soften, the corners crinkling with that warm, familiar amusement that never feels mocking, just tender. “what happened over there?” he asks, leaning slightly to the side as if he might peek, and you block the canvas with your entire arm like you’re protecting state secrets. “don’t look,” you warn, your voice dramatic and miserable, “i messed it up.” he laughs under his breath, that soft little sound that always makes your chest loosen, and he shakes his head as he dips his brush into the blue again. “you didn’t mess anything up,” he says, “you just started.”
but you groan anyway, because the smudge is awful, a weird little blob that looks nothing like the softness in his eyes you were trying to capture. you slump forward, elbows on your knees, staring at the canvas like it personally offended you. “i swear it looked fine in my head,” you mutter, “why is painting so hard?” michael hums thoughtfully, tapping his brush lightly against the rim of the palette. “maybe,” he says, “because you said ‘how hard can it be’ like you were tempting fate.” you glare at him, but he only grins wider, his eyes sparkling with that teasing sweetness that makes you want to throw a paintbrush at him and kiss him at the same time.
you force yourself to focus again, lifting your brush with renewed determination, even though your hand still feels clumsy and unsure. you glance at him from the corner of your eye, watching the way he tilts his head slightly as he studies you, the way his lashes cast soft shadows on his cheeks, the way his lips curve into a tiny smile whenever he catches you looking back. he’s supposed to be painting you, but he keeps pausing, keeps watching you instead, and it makes your stomach flutter in that warm, dizzy way you can never quite control. “stop staring at me,” you mutter, trying to sound annoyed even though you’re smiling. “i’m painting you,” he replies, “i have to stare.” you roll your eyes, dipping your brush into a lighter shade, trying to fix the smudge with careful strokes. it doesn’t fix. it gets worse. you freeze, horrified. “michael,” you whisper, “i think i made it uglier again.” he bites his lip to keep from laughing, but you see the way his shoulders shake, the way his eyes sparkle with barely contained amusement. “let me see,” he says softly, reaching out like he might gently pull the canvas toward him, and you yank it back instantly, clutching it to your chest. “no,” you say, “you can’t see it until it’s done. i refuse to let you witness this disaster in its early stages.” he laughs fully now, the sound warm and bright, filling the room like sunlight spilling through the windows. “you’re such a goof,” he says.
you shake your head, dipping your brush into a calmer shade, something warm and safe, and you try another stroke, your hand steadier now. he doesn’t tease you for it. he doesn’t say anything at all. he just watches, his expression softening in that way he does when he’s proud of you for reasons he never explains. you glance at him again, catching the way he’s studying your face with that quiet concentration, his brush hovering above his palette like he forgot he was supposed to be painting. “you’re supposed to be working,” you murmur, and he smiles without looking away. “i am,” he says, “you’re my reference.” you try to act unimpressed, but your cheeks warm anyway, and you turn back to your canvas, pretending to focus even though you can feel his gaze like sunlight on your skin. the silence stretches again, soft and easy, broken only by the faint sound of bristles touching canvas and the quiet rhythm of your breaths syncing without meaning to. you make another stroke, then pause, tilting your head as you try to decide if it looks right. it doesn’t. but it’s not awful either. you let out a tiny breath, almost a laugh, and michael’s eyes flicker with curiosity. “better?” he asks, his voice low and warm. “maybe,” you say, and he smiles like that’s enough.
you take another breath, steadying your hand even though your nerves feel like they’re doing somersaults, and you try to add a tiny detail to the corner of his hair, something subtle, something that might save the disaster you’ve created. it does not save anything. it somehow makes the smudge look like it has grown a mind of it's own, like it’s mocking you for ever thinking you could paint a human being. you stare at it, horrified, and your voice comes out small and dramatic at the same time. “michael,” you whisper, “i hope you don’t hate me after you see this.” he freezes mid stroke, his brush hovering above his palette, and then he bursts into laughter so loud and warm that it fills the entire room, bouncing off the walls and wrapping around you like a blanket. he laughs with his whole body, shoulders shaking, head tilting back slightly, eyes crinkling in that way that always makes your chest ache with something soft and steady. “hate you?” he repeats, still laughing, “that’s the funniest thing you’ve said all day.” you try to glare at him, but you’re already smiling, already melting under the sound of his laughter. “i’m serious,” you insist, clutching your canvas like it’s a fragile secret, “you’re going to see this and think i don’t love you at all.” he wiped the smear of paint from his thumb onto his jeans, still smiling, still shaking his head at you like you’re the most ridiculous and adorable thing he’s ever seen. “nothing you paint could ever make me hate you,” he says softly, and the sincerity in his voice makes your stomach flip in that warm, dizzy way that always catches you off guard. you try to hide your face behind your canvas, but he leans slightly to the side, trying to peek, and you pull it back instantly, clutching it tighter. “stop trying to look,” you say, your voice muffled behind the canvas, “you’re not allowed to see it until it’s finished. i’m still trying to make it look like you and not… whatever this is.” he laughs again, softer this time, the sound warm and fond, and he dips his brush into a new shade, something gentle and golden. “you’re adorable,” he murmurs, and you pretend not to hear it even though your cheeks heat instantly.
you don’t know how long you’ve been hunched over your canvas, adding tiny strokes that probably don’t matter, adjusting colours that probably don’t help, trying to fix details that probably can’t be saved. you’re so deep in it that you forget michael exists for a moment, your whole world narrowed down to the stubborn curve of his jawline that refuses to look like anything but a confused blob. you mutter something under your breath, something dramatic and miserable, and you hear him laugh softly beside you, that warm little sound that always makes your chest loosen. he’s already done. you can feel it. he hasn’t said it, but you can sense the stillness in him, the way he’s no longer moving his brush, the way he’s just sitting there quietly. you glance at him from the corner of your eye and your heart stutters. he’s watching you. not impatiently. not bored. just watching you with that soft, in love, admiring expression that makes your stomach flip and your breath catch. his canvas is leaned against his knee, finished, waiting, but he doesn’t rush you. he doesn’t tease you. he just waits, his eyes warm and steady, like he could sit there forever if it meant watching you try. you feel your cheeks warm, your chest tightening with something sweet and overwhelming, and you try to focus again, adding one last stroke, then another, then a tiny highlight that probably doesn’t do anything but makes you feel like you’re doing something important. you tilt your head, studying it, and michael smiles softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “take your time,” he says, and you melt instantly, your heart turning into something warm and ridiculous. you add one final touch, a tiny line that feels like a signature even though it’s not, and you sit back, exhaling dramatically. “okay,” you say, “i think i’m done. i think it’s as good as it’s ever going to get.” he smiles, gentle and proud, and he shifts his canvas slightly, holding it upright. “ready?” he asks softly. you nod, clutching yours like it’s a fragile secret, and you both turn them around at the same time.
you gasp. loudly. embarrassingly loudly. michael’s painting is beautiful. it’s soft and warm and somehow captures you in a way you didn’t even know you looked, like he painted the way he sees you, not the way you see yourself. the colours blend perfectly, the lines are gentle, the expression is tender, and you stare at it like it’s magic. “michael,” you breathe, “what is this. how did you do this. how did you paint me like i’m… like i’m…” he laughs softly, his cheeks warming, his eyes sparkling with that shy pride he gets when he does something well without meaning to. “like i love you,” he says quietly, and your heart flips so hard you almost drop your canvas.
then he looks at yours.
he tries. he really tries. he tries so hard not to laugh, but the moment his eyes land on your painting, his lips twitch, his shoulders shake, and he lets out the warmest, loudest laugh you’ve ever heard. you groan, covering your face with your hands. “don’t laugh,” you whine, “i tried so hard.” he laughs harder, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye, his voice warm and breathless. “i’m sorry,” he says, “i’m sorry, i’m not laughing at you, i’m laughing because it’s adorable. it looks like me if i lived in a cartoon.” you gasp dramatically, snatching your canvas back. “it does not,” you insist, he laughs again, softer this time, and he reaches out, gently pulling your canvas closer so he can look at it properly. “i love it,” he says, sincere now, his voice warm and steady. “i really do. it’s perfect because you made it.” you stare at him, your chest tightening, your heart melting, and you feel something warm and ridiculous bloom inside you.
you both sign your paintings, your names messy and crooked on the corners, and you exchange them like they’re gifts, like they’re something precious. he holds yours carefully, like it’s fragile, like it’s priceless, and you hold his like you’re afraid to breathe too hard near it. he leans closer, his shoulder brushing yours, his voice soft and warm. “we should hang them,” he says, “side by side.” you laugh, shaking your head. “people will think you’re the artist and i’m the child who tried to help.” he smiles, leaning in just a little more, his eyes soft and glowing. “i don’t care what anyone thinks,” he says quietly, “i just want yours next to mine.” you smile, soft and warm.
you lean your head against his shoulder, your canvas resting in your lap, his resting in his, and the room feels quiet and golden, filled with the soft smell of paint and the warmth of his laughter still lingering in the air. he turns his head slightly, brushing his cheek against your hair, and his voice comes out in a whisper that feels like sunlight. “this was perfect,” he says. you smile, closing your eyes for a moment, letting the warmth settle in your chest. “it was,” you whisper back, “even if mine looks like you survived a tornado.” he laughs softly, nudging you gently. “i love my tornado portrait,” he says, “and i love you.” you smile, your heart glowing, and you whisper back, soft and certain. “i love you too.”
and the two paintings sit on your laps, messy and beautiful in their own ways, just like the two of you.
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this is so ass i'm so sorry guys, i just wanted to give you guys something before i leave for my holidays 🙂↕️🙂↕️ ILY ALL 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷