can we get an argument between reader and mj and instead of talking about it (like michael wanted) the reader goes out with her friends and michael crashes out when she’s not home until 3 am? make him real strict but caring and worried. (bad era pls)
SILENT NIGHT
f!reader (long term gf reader) / bad era michael
(lowercase INTENDED!) & not proofread !
preview: screaming and non-stop tears taunt michael’s mind as his heart races watching the clock strike 3am and you weren’t back home. he just wanted to know that you were okay. he just wanted to know that you were still his.
A/N: i keep having slight mental blocks bc i’ve been barely sleeping for 3 days due to work 😭 insomnia has been kicking my ass but i also love when i can write something out for yall so idccccc !! hope you enjoy this lil semi angsty one-shot but filled with worried michael looking cuter than ever also. i wanted to make him not asssss strict but still definitely a bit playful! :)
your tears wouldn’t stop falling from your now puffy red eyes. your body felt sore as michael once again tries to reach out for your hands, only to fail miserably when you smack him away from you and wrap yourself with your arms in a tight hug.
self soothing yourself was the best choice you could do before ruining this further down the road by lashing out towards michael more than you should have.
it was past 10 and michael had finally returned home after being out all day in the studio with quincy. you weren’t mad at the fact that he was working, you were mad at the fact that michael actively PREVENTED you from coming to the studio—even if it meant simply bringing him a warm cooked meal from home.
the muffled sounds of the pouring rain from outside drops down slowly on the big windows of the building making you feel relaxed and calmed. your body felt warmed up and fuzzy wise as you grip tighter on the clear plastic bag handle that contained the already cooked hot meal inside packed up nicely for your boyfriend and his team.
it’s been quite some time since you’ve been at michael’s studio. you knew that this new album was dragging michael down with nothing but stress and restless nights. you wanted to do something nice for him while also being able to catch one of the few glances you can get before not seeing him the rest of the day.
slipping out of your own thoughts, you hear a couple of soft dings as you suddenly see the wide silver elevator doors open up. finally arriving to the 8th floor just in time for when they had about a 5-10 minute break.
michael glances upwards towards the crystallized door as he watches your body slowly appear in his vision. he smiles before watching you get inside. “babyy”
michael coos softly, seeing you now smile brightly towards him. his eyes landing soon on the clear bag in your hands he jumps up from the sofa now getting closers towards your body. “c’mere” he pulls you before placing his lips softly amongst yours, savoring your sweet taste and the flavor of your lipgloss on his own mouth.
once he pulls back he licks his lips now taking the bag from your hands and placing it carefully on the small table next to the door. “i thought you should have a taste of home. you’ve barely been in it anyways.”
you felt your voice turn low as michael gives your cheek a slight touch, now cupping it with his soft palm. it’s as if you could feel the blood rushing quickly through your veins and heating up your ears as michael gives you a long exhausted sigh.
“im sorry baby—it’s just been rough.” michael’s head lowers down as you now place your hands over his shoulders soon smoothing them down and into a small massaging movement. your touch instantly calms michael before shutting his eyes momentarily at the feeling.
before you could give him a response, the studio doors open up again to see quincy and a few other team members walk in with cups of coffee in their hold. quincy’s eyes go wide before giving you a soft smile. “well look what angel face walked through these doors today.” your heart thumps as you let go of michael earning a small groan to surpass his lips at the ghost of your hands now lingering on his skin.
“hii quince” you say calling him your favorite nickname before he places the cups of coffee down and gives you a gentle hug. “c’mere more often you too pretty to be hiding from us.” quincy laughs as you shake your head and laugh back at his sudden comment.
“i made you guys some food. hopefully you guys enjoy it! it’s still warm!” you were excited to show the guys your home cooked meal. surprisingly enough, the food was still hot. you made sure that with such gloomy weather, the food wouldn’t feel like eating nothing but stones.
turning around to see michael now sitting back down on the sofa, cup of coffee in hand from another team member, and notepad over his lap— you grab the plastic bag before opening it up to pull out some containers of food.
steam fogging up the once clear containers as you fiddle with the lid soon popping it open with a slight click, the steam rises up hitting quincy’s face as he shuts his eyes momentarily savoring the sudden smell.
“my gosh baby girl that smells delightful! mike you gotta bring your girls food more often to the studio man!” you giggle at his compliment before looking down towards michael once again, now immediately dropping the small smile you had placed upon your lips.
michael wasn’t focusing on a single thing quincy was saying. he went back to work mode as he bites the tip of his ballpoint pen and a stern look— watching the notepad attentively as if it would grow legs and run away from his lap. you now feel a bit saddened at the sudden demeanor switch before feeling a pair of big hands cup your shoulder. quincy looks at you before shaking his head towards michael.
“he’s been like that since the start of production.” he mutters only to your ears as you slump your body down just a bit. “i know…” was the only thing you could respond back as quincy tries to start lightening the mood back up.
he asks for a small portion of food as you agreed instantly grabbing some plastic plates you had brought in your bag for them as well. as your hands tried to hold the container carefully, you feel a slight steam blow out and hitting the pads of your now sensitive fingers
“shit.” you mutter before tipping the container a little bit and accidentally dropping some hot food over michael’s notepad. he winces now standing up as quincy and the rest of the crew stares at michael.
his hands flying down towards his pants as he instantly looks at your horrid face. “oh baby i’m sorry! i didn’t think it—“ michael cuts you off now slamming his dirty notepad on the table beside him. “yeah you DIDN’T think!” he snaps as now quincy begins butting into the conversation. “y’know she didn’t mean to do it on purpose mike.”
your eyes begin to gloss up with tears forming in them as your hands close the container once again, in full embarrassment. “and yet she did. she ruined the lyrics quincy. which is why i tell her to stay home and not come here.” you’ve never seen michael be so pissed off over a small issue. yet now that you’ve seen it— you’re not sure you ever wanted to see it again.
licking your bottom lip as it trembles a little at the sudden sadness now waving into anger, michael grabs the container and slams it over the technology board far away from you and your hold. “get out.” michael wasn’t speaking properly.
his eyes so dark yet so wide as he stares at you with so much anger. you didn’t think he would ever disrespect you, especially after being together for so long and it being in public in-front of other people.
not caring at the glossy look in your eyes, the redness creeping over your cheeks and tinting the tips of your ears, and the red semi-burned fingertips that was now wrapping along your bag to caress them over the material—hoping to soothe down the raging buzz from the heat.
quincy didn’t speak. he just watched attentively now as he hushes the other crew members to leave the studio also. he’s seen both you and michael when you first got together so seeing him disrespect you out loud made him more angry at michael than he’s ever been before.
“fuck. you.” you grit out just as angry as he was as your free pointer finger now slams towards his chest.
he bites his bottom lip at the sudden forceful impact. before you could let him speak another single word towards you, you grab your belongings and turn towards quincy who was giving you a pitiful look.
your lips move in silence muttering a soft “it’s okay” before giving quincy a small side hug, completely now ignoring the man behind you staring at your every move. “y/n honey—“ you shush quincy before shaking your head. next thing you know you’re now walking across from michael and stepping away from the studio with a slam from the door.
as you left back outside in the gloomy weather, quincy was now pushing michael down the sofa giving him a stern look back. “you’re pathetic man.” michael’s eyes go wide as he scoffs at quincy’s use of words. “you—“
quincy cuts him off with a grab of the food you had dropped off and a plastic plate before sitting down across from michael. “you’re an asshole. your girl wanted to bring home cooked food and then you run her off like shit.”
michael’s shoulders slump down the sofa cushions as his eyes never leave quincy’s hands. him spooning a big portion of michael’s favorite food as he shuts his eyes and curses under his breath. he was so stressed out about lyrics, music videos, and events for the new release that he didn’t realize he was pushing you away with hurtful words and lonely nights.
“i really fucked up.” quincy nods at the obvious as michael soon leans over his knees, now grabbing the bag of food away from quincy’s hold and opening the bag. two more smaller containers were shoved in the bag as michael digs through them and pulls them out.
a small sticky note plastering on one of the smaller containers as he picks it off and reads it carefully.
i love and miss you, and hope this makes you feel a bit better. please take care of yourself. i’ll see you at home apple face <3 — love, your dollface.
as michael’s eyes re-read the sticky note over a couple more times he places his hands over his forehead before fisting them and sighing. the note. the nickname. the way you just wanted him to feel better after all the restless nights he had to suffer recently.
michael’s chest felt like it was hurting to breath as he felt his heart thumping rather loudly and at a rapid pace. the only thing he swore he could hear was his heart, quincy’s chews from eating your food, and the sound of your voice cracking as you cursed him out and walked away.
the vivid recall of your glossy eyes and your finger slamming on his chest with so much pain really affected michael more than he thought it would. he wasn’t thinking right and now it costed him your time and your company.
“while you think about how disgusting you acted towards y/n, start prepping for the booth you only have 2 more minutes.” quincy breaks his train of thoughts as he looks up at him still chewing your food.
half the plate being gone as he savored every last bit of it. that should’ve been mines, michael thought before nodding at his words and standing up. as michael now starts walking back into the booth to surround himself with more note stands, microphones, and headsets— he looks down at his now stained paints.
he didn’t care about the stain or the wet spot the food left behind now. fuck, he could be dirty from head to toe and he’ll only care about you. yet the thought of the sudden disrespect took himself by surprise as he shuts his eyes trying to erase your visible distressed self.
he was going to make this better. he NEEDED and WANTED to make this better.
because losing you was something michael wasn’t ready to do, and never would be.
“y/n baby please.” michael continues to beg as his hands collide with his own, practically getting on his knees. your hands still wrapped around your body as the tears that had once fallen now dried up over your cheeks and sides of your neck.
you still couldn’t fathom michael disrespecting you. and at public at that. michael spent a whole hour, pleading and begging as he started to tear up talking about the situation over again.
you tried to listen, you really did— but you only kept repeating one thing and one thing only making michael lose his mind even more.
“you disrespected me in public. stern and rude in-front of people i knew. in-front of people who didn’t. and yet that gave you the confidence to act all high and mighty. right superstar?”
you knew michael hated that name.
superstar.
and he knew you knew it too. yet wasn’t mad at it because instead continued to cry and plead for forgiveness at how horrible things went. you shake your head before hearing a knock on your door. “who’s that?” michael asks still teary eyed as you look back and lean down now grabbing your purse, silently with no response.
michael watches attentively before gasping for air and grabbing your ankle. you watch as his fingers wrap around your ankle, slowly gripping your flesh as michael now sobs over the ground. “please don’t leave me. y/n i’m begging you i swear.”
michael was in full panic mode as he watched you push his hand away from your ankle feeling his touch now burn your own skin with a slight shakiness to it.
“don’t wait for me.” you say giving him his own regular excuse he had given you the last few days before turning around and walking out the door. michael’s teary eyes look pass to see your friend standing at the doorframe with her hands now wrapping your own.
“y/n…” your friend gives michael a stern look before slamming the door shut behind you with full force. michael now left there, alone, on the ground, and shaking— he grips onto his pants before losing himself at the silence now surrounding him.
his mind went to the worst of the worst as he immediately starts imagining you leaving him fully. years of being together and michael lost his mind not taking that to his advantage.
the entire night consisted of michael still kneeling on the ground while watching the door with every time that passes. waiting and waiting and waiting for you to walk through those doors.
as the clock strikes 2, michael is now sitting on the living room sofa with his hands gripping onto his hair like a madman. he had called your phone 4 times the last 2 hours and still received with no response. on one ring, your phone did answer—yet it wasn’t you.
“the hell do you want mike?” he hears your friend shout amongst loud music as he winces at the idea of you living your life out on the town. “is y/n there?” he’s now nibbling on his fingernails anxiously waiting for your friend to respond or give you the phone, instead the call hangs up directly towards his face.
michael’s lips part at the sudden hang up before receiving a text from your friend again.
“you fucked up. fix yourself jackson.” before your phone goes back to do not disturb. that was at 12am. now at 3, michael had completely lost it. he has called your phone 6 more times all still leading to your voicemail.
your friend decided to be petty and block him so he couldn’t reach her either. his phone gripping tightly in his hold with an exhausted and worried look, he suddenly hears the front door crack open with a squeak. michael immediately jumps up from the sofa before running towards the door.
his smile falters as he sees you stumbling through the door with your pair of heels off your feet and wrapped around your finger. “y/n dollface..” you look up to see him standing in-front of you.
hands reaching out to get ahold of you as you smile and trip on him. michael lets a gasp to escape his lips as he holds you in his arms. your body feeling absurdly limp as he hoists you upwards to face him better. “dollface…”
you shush him as you shake your head. “you don’t get to call me that right now michael.” his heart felt like breaking into pieces as his brows furrow with a saddening expression.
“ma baby im so so sorry.” michael’s voice slightly cracks as he softly places one hand on your hip with such gentleness, he was afraid you would slip away and go. “don’t leave me i promise i’ll take more breaks and be better.”
your brows scrunch up—immediately confused. “michael…” you question as you watch him closely. his eyes were dark as his nose was bloody red.
your vision passes michael and towards the living room. glasses on the ground, pillows scattered, phone thrown across the room, and tissues crumpled up and cornered on the ground. now your eyes go back with a worried expression displaying across your face.
your hand lifts up wobbly towards michael due to the drinks from a few hours ago catching up to you. your fingers softly touch his cheek as he sighs feeling your warm hand touch his face. “i wasn’t going to leave you… did you—?” michael goes stiff before nodding slightly at your words.
you didn’t expect for him to think you were breaking UP with him??? all you wanted was to go out and clear your head with your friend about everything. you didn’t expect for him to take it so hard. “i’m sorry. i’m sorry.” he repeats under his breath as you lift his chin up.
his eyes looks into yours as you push yourself up and softly place your lips upon his. michael reacts a bit weirdly at the intense taste of vodka on your lips and breath. yet ignores it completely—pushing it to the side to kiss you better. as he cups your face deepening you into him, you pull away to face him again.
“i forgive you. don’t do it again tho. if you’re stress—please talk to me baby.” he instantly nods as you give him a small smile forgivingly until….
“also vodka? really y/n.” you flinch at his once again strict tone as you sigh and rub your temples gently. “either that or gin” you mess with him as he widens his eyes at you.
michael crosses his arms with a pouty look of disapproval and disbelief. he wanted to be mad. you knew he didn’t like strong alcohol as it has worse effects (according to him) yet still had done it anyways. “y/n.”
you kiss his cheek quickly before dropping your heels towards the ground. “let’s talk tomorrow! goodnightttt” you sing-song through the hallway as michael swings his hands up agitated while continuing to yell your name.
yet the smile soon flaunting over his lips said otherwise to his verbal response as michael follows you along to your bedroom where he can hold you tightly for the rest of the day.
pairing: michael jackson x fem!reader (jackie’s wife)
era: late 70s/otw
wc: 1.8k
summary: after a long day of cooking and hosting the family gathering, your feet are killing you. jackie is too busy drinking with his friends to help, so his sweet, shy younger brother michael offers to rub your sore feet.
warnings /tags: ⚠️
infidelity(?), brother-in-law trope, age-gap (reader is slightly older), loads of sexual tension, heavy pining, reader is jackie’s neglected wife :(, mj is whipped, hes soooo sweet and shy
Hayvenhurst was full of warmth and noise. Laughter spilled from the living room where Jackie and his friends were drinking, talking loud, and enjoying the night. You had spent the entire day in the kitchen — cooking, cleaning, making sure everyone had full plates and smiles on their faces. Your feet ached terribly from the heels you’d worn since early afternoon. Every step sent a sharp throb through your arches, and by evening you were walking with an obvious wobble.
Your ankles ached so badly it felt like the bones themselves were sore, and every step down the hallway came with a little wobble you were trying very hard to hide.
You paused near the archway to the den, gripping the wall for a second.
Jackie sat sprawled on the couch with two of his friends, drink in hand, laughing loud enough to shake the room.
"Baby," you called softly.
He glanced over distractedly. "Yeah?"
"My feet are killing me."
"Mhm."
You stared at him.
He took another sip.
One of his friends started telling another story and Jackie immediately turned back toward him, already halfway into another laugh.
You stood there for a second longer than you should have.
Then quietly:
"Never mind." The words came out small.
You forced a small smile, blinking back the familiar ache in your chest. You were his wife. You took care of the home, the food, the family… but nights like this made you feel invisible.
You turned away before he could notice the disappointment on your face, carefully stepping back into the hallway.
The house suddenly felt too warm.
Too loud.
Slipping into one of the back rooms off the corridor — one of the guest rooms everyone used for throwing coats and purses during parties — you shut the door halfway behind you.
Finally, silence.
You sat at the edge of the bed with a tired sigh and peeled one heel off.
“Oh, thank God…”
"Y/N…?"
The voice startled you.
Michael stood near the hallway, watching you with those big, gentle eyes. He looked so handsome in his patterned shirt, curls framing his face. At twenty-two, he still had that sweet, almost boyish shyness about him. You were twenty-six — four years older — but right now you felt small and tired.
"My feet are trying to kill me," you admitted dramatically.
His brows lifted sympathetically. "You been on 'em all day."
"Mhm. Cooking, cleaning, hosting…" You rubbed your ankle carefully. "Trying to look cute while suffering."
That made him laugh softly. God, that laugh.
Michael glanced toward the hallway before stepping inside and closing the door just a little more.
"You want ice or somethin'?"
"I want new feet."
He smiled again, shy and crooked.
"…I could massage 'em for you."
You blinked.
"What?"
His ears immediately started turning pink.
"I mean— only if you want. Momma used to make us rub her feet after church all the time," he rushed out nervously. "I'm good at it."
Your heart melted at how sincere he sounded. "Michael, you don't have to—"
"I want to," he said quickly, then looked down, embarrassed. "Please? You've been taking care of all of us all day. You deserve to rest."
"You wanna massage your brother's wife's feet?"
Now he looked flustered.
"I-I just don't like seeing you hurtin' ."
You softened immediately.
"Well…" You leaned back slightly against the bedframe. "That's the sweetest offer I've gotten all night."
Michael hesitated before sitting carefully at the edge of the bed near your legs.
Even then, he looked like he was waiting for permission. You extended your foot toward him slowly.
"There," you teased softly. "Be a gentleman."
His fingers wrapped around your ankle carefully.
And Lord.
The first press of his thumbs into the arch of your foot nearly made you melt straight into the mattress.
"Ohhh," you breathed. "Michael."
He looked up instantly, worried. "Too hard?"
"No, not hard enough." You chuckled.
He blushed deeply, focusing intently on your foot as if it were the most important thing in the world. "You've been on your feet all day," he murmured softly. "Cooking such delicious meals, attending to everybody… You do so much, Y/N. Jackie's lucky to have you. We are lucky to have you."
His words hit something tender inside you. You leaned back, watching him through glassy eyes. Michael was always like this with you — sweet, attentive, never too busy. His hands moved with such care, massaging each toe, then your ankle, then slowly up to your calf. Every movement was respectful, but full of quiet affection.
He handled you like something precious.
"You're really good at this," you murmured.
His shy smile returned.
"Told you."
"You treat all your little girlfriends like this?"
The second the words left your mouth, Michael nearly choked on air.
"What?!"
You laughed.
"Oh, don't act innocent."
"I am innocent!"
"That pretty face says otherwise."
His entire face flushed deeper, a rich, warm brown that made his cheeks and ears glow. He ducked his head, focusing hard on your foot like it was the only thing keeping him from disappearing.
"I— I don't have any girlfriends," he mumbled, voice quiet and shy. His thumbs kept working in those slow, perfect circles, melting the ache from your arch. "You know that."
You smiled softly, watching him. "Mhm. Sure don't look like it when you're blushing like that, Mikey."
He let out a nervous little laugh and gently switched to your other foot, cradling it with both hands as if it might break. The tenderness in his touch made your chest tighten. Jackie hadn’t even looked at you properly when you asked him, but here was his little brother — on the edge of the bed, completely focused on making you feel better.
"You're too sweet," you murmured, watching him with soft eyes.
His gaze flickered up to meet yours for just a second before dropping back down to your foot, suddenly shy again. "I just wanna help," he said quietly.
"And you always do." Your voice softened without meaning to. "You always notice things."
That made him go quiet. His fingers slowed against your ankle as a thoughtful look settled over his face. "You notice everybody too," he murmured after a moment.
"Not everybody deserves it," you replied, the words slipping out heavier than you intended.
Michael’s brows lifted faintly, but he didn’t push. Instead, he studied you for a long second before speaking again, his voice gentle. "You sound tired."
"I am tired."
"No, I mean…" He hesitated, thumbs still moving in slow, soothing circles. "Not just tonight."
The gentleness in his tone nearly undid you. You looked at him — this beautiful, shy boy sitting at your feet like it was the most natural thing in the world. Jackie’s younger brother, only twenty-two, and somehow already kinder than most grown men you knew. Without thinking, you reached over and brushed a stray curl away from his forehead.
Michael froze completely. His hands stopped moving, breath catching in his throat at the light touch. There it was again — that quiet tension, that dangerous little spark that had been living underneath every glance the two of you had shared lately.
"You get nervous so easy," you whispered with a small smile.
He swallowed hard. "You make me nervous."
Your heart skipped. "Oh?"
Michael let out a soft, embarrassed laugh, the sound barely above a breath. "You know you do." He ducked his head with the shyest grin imaginable when you gently pressed him. "You're pretty," he finally admitted, simple and honest.
The sincerity of it made warmth bloom instantly in your chest. Not flashy or rehearsed — just pure. You laughed softly and leaned back against the pillows. "That's your big answer?"
"It's true," he said, cheeks still flushed.
"And that makes you nervous?"
"A little." He finally looked up at you, those warm brown eyes helpless and far too sincere. "A lot."
Lord, he was adorable. You bit back your smile before it grew too obvious. "You're adorable," you murmured.
Michael groaned quietly, hiding his face for a second behind one hand. "Don't call me adorable."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm grown," he protested, though the deep blush spreading across his face completely betrayed him.
"You're blushing like crazy right now."
"I can't help that!" he laughed, embarrassed but clearly pleased.
You laughed too, the sound quieter this time, full of affection. His hands eventually returned to your calf, his careful thumbs easing the deep soreness from the muscle there. The relief drew a soft sigh from your lips, your eyes fluttering for a moment.
"Mmm," you breathed. "I might steal you from your girlfriends, y'know."
Michael nearly dropped your foot. "Y/N—"
"I'm kidding," you said with a soft laugh, though the way he looked at you made you wonder how much you actually meant it.
Still, he looked flustered — and maybe just a little pleased.
"You shouldn't say stuff like that," he mumbled, ears turning pink again.
"Why?" you teased gently. "Scared I'll corrupt you?"
He smiled shyly to himself, clearly at a loss. "I just… I dunno what to say back."
"You don't gotta say anything."
The room grew quieter after that, filled only with the muffled sounds of the party downstairs, the soft drag of his thumbs against your skin, and the steady rhythm of your breathing. Then Michael spoke again, almost too quietly to hear.
"You deserve somebody takin' care of you."
The words settled heavy and warm between you. You glanced toward the door for half a second, listening to the distant sound of Jackie's loud laughter, then looked back at Michael — at the softness in his face, the care in his hands, the way he sat so close without ever crossing a line.
"Yeah," you whispered sadly. "Maybe I do."
For a moment, neither of you moved. The air felt too warm, too aware. Your hand still rested lightly near his shoulder while his fingers curved gently around your ankle. Then, from the hallway, Marlon's voice rang out.
"MIKE!"
Michael blinked hard, like he’d been pulled from a dream. He called back, voice cracking just slightly, before looking at you with an apologetic expression.
“I should probably…”
"Probably," you agreed softly.
But neither of you moved right away. His hands lingered against your leg for one extra heartbeat, and your fingers brushed lightly against his wrist. The look he gave you in that moment — shy, affectionate, and full of quiet wanting — nearly made your stomach flip.
"You feel better?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper.
You smiled at him, eyes holding his deliberately. "Much. Lucky girl your future girlfriend's gonna be."
Michael laughed nervously and stood up too quickly, nearly stumbling as he headed for the door.
❛ bad era!michael jackson 𝑥 𝑓!reader ❜ ╱ requested.ᐟ after months of shameless flirting backstage, michael finally breaks while his makeup artist gets a little too close for comfort.
ⓘ no warnings just michael being the chronic flirt that he is, giggly confessions, very fluffy c:
the dressing room buzzed softly with pre-show chaos.
racks of glittering stage outfits lined the walls, assistants moved in and out carrying clipboards and coffee, and somewhere down the hallway somebody was testing audio loud enough to shake the mirrors.
but michael sat perfectly still in the makeup chair right in front of you. well... mostly still.
“quit moving,” you mumbled, one hand lightly holding his jaw while the other dabbed foundation beneath his eye.
“i ain’t movin’,” he defended quietly, though the grin tugging at his lips immediately gave him away.
you narrowed your eyes. “you literally just did.”
“maybe you’re distractin’ me.”
your breath caught for half a second, there he goes again.
for the past few months, the tension between you and michael had become almost unbearable. lingering stares in mirrors while you fixed his makeup. his hands brushing your waist when he squeezed past you backstage. quiet little compliments muttered under his breath that made your stomach flip every single time.
and the worst part? he knew exactly what he was doing.
“you flirt with everybody that does your makeup?” you teased, dipping the sponge back into the compact.
michael tilted his head slightly so he could look up at you through his lashes.
“just the pretty ones.”
you nearly dropped the sponge from his smugness.
“michael—”
“what?” he smiled innocently. “s’true.”
lord help you.
you tried focusing again, stepping between his knees to blend makeup near his cheekbones properly, but that only made things worse. from this close you could smell his cologne mixed with hairspray and powder, his warm hands resting against the arms of the chair just inches from your thighs.
he looked up at you again—big mistake.
“you got real pretty eyes,” he murmured softly.
you froze mid-application. “michael.”
“hm?”
“you have got to stop talking.”
his lips twitched. “why?”
because your heart was about to explode, that’s why.
instead, you sighed dramatically and continued blending his makeup. “because you’re making my job difficult.”
“seems like you’re doin’ just fine to me.”
you shot him a look, but he only smiled wider & cocky. suddenly very cocky.
the room had thankfully emptied out for a few minutes, leaving only the soft hum of vanity lights around the mirror and the distant muffled soundcheck from outside.
you leaned in closer to fix a tiny spot near the corner of his mouth.
and michael’s hands suddenly landed on your waist. your entire body stilled.
“…michael.” you whispered in a stern tone.
“sorry,” he said quietly, but he didn’t move them. if anything, his thumbs rubbed lightly against your sides.
you swallowed hard, trying desperately to focus while his face sat inches from yours now. “you’re really testin’ me today.”
“maybe i want to.”
your eyes snapped to his immediately and that stupid pretty smile was gone now. this felt different, he looked nervous yet so serious.
his voice dropped softer. “you ever gonna tell me you like me back?”
your brain short-circuited entirely. you shook your head like you didn't fully compute the words that just came out of his mouth, “what?”
“c’mon,” he laughed shyly, ducking his head for a second. “i see the way you look at me.”
“michael—” you intercepted.
“and every time i flirt with you, you get all flustered.” he grinned again, quieter this time. “it’s cute.”
you had never seen this man so brave—especially not off stage. “you are unbelievable.”
“is that a yes or no?”
you stared at him for a long moment before finally setting the makeup sponge down on the vanity counter.
“you’re lucky you’re so pretty.”
his eyes widened slightly. “that means yes?”
“that means,” you smiled, leaning down just enough for your noses to brush, “you’ve been making my job very hard for months.” your voice got lower, almost under a whisper now.
michael let out the softest, prettiest laugh you’d ever heard. and then his hands pulled you closer.
the kiss started shy, hesitant at first and almost giggly. your stomach became littered with butterflies.
his curls brushed against your forehead while one of your hands instinctively grabbed the collar of his stage shirt to steady yourself, both of you smiling so much the kiss barely worked at first.
“finally,” he whispered against your lips.
before either of you could say another word—a loud knock suddenly hit the dressing room door.
“five minutes, mike!”
the two of you jumped apart so fast it was almost embarrassing.
michael looked at you, you looked at michael.
then both of you immediately burst into laughter while he hid his flushed face in his hands. “i cannot believe i just kissed my makeup artist before a show,” he groaned dramatically.
you smirked, grabbing your sponge again. “sit back down, superstar. your contour’s still unfinished.”
┊ ♡ ﹒ byi : female reader, drug use (mdma), sex tape filming, established relationship, light smut (nothing too nuts), slight foot fetish if you squint, shy and giggly michael, teeth rotting fluff, pretty short.
In 1988, everything carried that hazy nostalgia you only ever find in old photographs, worn magazines, and forgotten music videos. Gold lamplight pooled across mirrored furniture and half-open suitcases, catching in the slow curl of cigarette smoke drifting toward the ceiling, where it dissolved into the cool air. Somewhere in the suite, a radio played low through blown out speakers, all synths and velvet basslines melting into the warm nighttime hum of Los Angeles outside the balcony doors. The curtains breathed every time the wind came in.
Michael had been fussing with this damn camera for nearly twenty minutes now, and (Name) was beginning to think he’d forgotten why he turned it on in the first place.
She was sitting pretty, crisscross applesauce near the center of the mattress in a tiny silk robe the color of baby pink, one side slipping lazily off her shoulder every few seconds no matter how often she adjusted it. The sheets beneath her were cool against her legs, tangled from where they’d already been sprawled across them for the better part of an hour talking about nothing. In front of her sat a mirrored compact and a credit card she’d taken from Michael’s wallet despite his extremely dramatic objections.
“Lovey,” she called at last, voice dragging a little. Her manicured fingers were adorned with french tips, dancing delicately across the surface of the mirror. She carefully chopped the small, clear crystals of MDMA into fine powdered lines using his card. Her nails tapped lightly against the glass as she worked, the soft click click sound filling the room. “What are you doing over there.” She finally looks over at him.
“I’m fixing it,” Michael said immediately, soon followed by a soft click from the camera and another adjustment. He stepped back, frowned at it and leaned in again.
(Name) let out a quiet breath through her nose, half amused but still affectionate. “You’ve been fixing it.”
“No, no, hold on,” he muttered for the thousandth time, crouched in front of the camcorder with deep concentration furrowing his face. “This angle is—terrible.”
“It’s pointed at the bed.” Her brows pinch together as she comes up from inhaling a line, pinching her nose.
“It’s crooked.”
“Oh, it’s not art then?” She smiles to herself a little.
Michael shot her a look over his shoulder. “You’re makin’ fun of me.”
She was, a little. “You’re just being a Virgo, baby.”
“Ah,” He waves her off and she giggles at him.
“Just bring it over,” she said eventually, as if it was obvious.
Michael looked up. “Bring what over?”
“That thing. The camera.”
He hesitated for half a second then gave into her orders (like he always did), crossing the room with it still slightly tilted in his hands like he was trying to decide if he trusted her judgment or not. The red light blinked on as he lifted it again, turning it toward her.
“Oh,” he said, voice shifting instantly into something lighter. “So this is what you’ve been doing.”
She glanced up at him, camera catching her mid expression and Michael’s grin appeared before she even fully understood what he was doing.
“Mm,” he murmured, angling the lens slightly like he was framing her on purpose now. “Bad girl.” The words were teasing of course, no real judgement behind his tone.
Her mouth twitched upward. “Don’t start with me.”
“Bad girl,” he repeated, softer now. She looked away, smiling despite herself but then she looks back up at him through her lashes. And though it was a minxy little look, there was also something shy in it. Truthfully, one of Michael’s favorite things about her were her eyes. They were always so big, syrupy and expressive—Michael liked that it was nearly impossible for her to hide herself from him because he could read and see the nuance in her eyes. She wore her heart on her sleeve and Michael found it beautiful, especially in a world that could be particularly cruel to him with hidden agendas and masks.
“I just.. it makes me feel good,” she said quietly, though.. she wasn’t sure why she was admitting it to the camera.
Michael stopped moving for just a second, his eyes softening as he looks at the viewfinder. The camera stayed pointed at her, red light steady and the room suddenly quieter but it had nothing to do with sound.
“Yeah?” he said gently and she nodded once.
Michael’s expression changed, then very softly— “You’re so beautiful.” He reaches down and cups her face to which she wastes very little time snuggling up to his big palm.
The warmth of his palm envelops her face like her own little sanctuary, and without hesitation, she melts into it—nuzzling against his calloused skin with a devotion. Her lips brush feather light kisses along the lines of his hand: one on the base of his thumb, another on the soft dip between fingers. Each kiss is slow, tender—she’s memorizing him.
Her eyes flutter open then wide and bright as morning light through water and she looks up at him with playful submission. A small smile tugs at her lips as she whispers:
“Direct me, angelface.” There’s a little humor in her voice but also trust—a complete surrender to whatever scene he wants next.
His brows lifted slightly. “Direct you?”
“Yes,” she said, tilting her head. “You’re the filmmaker, aren’t you?”
That made something flicker in his expression. Pride, maybe. Or the way he got when something fun suddenly became a challenge he actually wanted to excel at. So he adjusted his grip on the camera again.
“Okay,” he said carefully and she smiled a little wider, watching him settle into it.
“That’s better,” she murmured. “Now what do I do, director?”
The way she said it made his mouth twitch and Michael lifted the camera a fraction, focusing in on her like he was trying to decide how serious he was allowed to be about this.
“Don’t move,” he said at first.
Then, after a second, softer: “Actually.. just look at me.”
(Name) held his gaze and the camera stayed steady now. And Michael, for all his earlier fussing and adjusting, didn’t seem interested in fixing anything anymore.
“I want to remember this beauty, forever and ever” He said quietly, almost wonderingly, “—like a famous painting from the Renaissance people stand in front of for hours on end..”
Michael exhaled quietly, his hand still cradling her face like he couldn’t bring himself to let go of the moment. “My beautiful fiancée..”
She went very still for a second, the words had landed somewhere too soft to handle and her face broke into that shy little smile again, the kind that never quite knew where to settle. She let out a tiny laugh through her nose, half a breath and half disbelief—she didn’t trust herself to react properly without falling apart a little.
“I’m gonna cry,” she said, but it came out bright and giggly, because she was already halfway there, just overwhelmed in the prettiest way.
Her fingers tightened lightly around his wrist as she stayed tucked into his hand, still looking up at him like she couldn’t quite believe he meant it. And that’s why she fell in love with him, she’s never felt safer with any man in her entire life like this. It took a lot of conditioning and unlearning hurt from the past to truly let this man into her heart.
“Show your ring..” He ushers softly.
She lifted her hand slowly, shy about it because she was still getting used to the idea that it was hers to show.
Michael caught it gently before it could drift too far, his fingers wrapping around hers with instinctive steadiness and guiding it into the light without thinking. The camera tilted slightly as he adjusted his grip.
The rock caught immediately, even in the low glow of the room, it threw back a pretty brilliance—five carat natural diamond princess cut.
“Gimme..” (Name) makes grabby hands at the camera.
Michael handed her the camera without much hesitation. The moment it was in her hands, she turned it over and settled back into the bed. The lamp light caught the silk of the sheets and her robe riding up her thighs through the viewfinder when she lifted it.
Michael was still standing near the edge of the bed, watching her. Cautious. Curious. A little suspicious.
She tilted it up toward him. “Oh. My. Gosh,” she said slowly, dragging it out just enough to make him immediately react. “Who’s this pretty boy?”
That did it instantly. Michael’s whole face changed:
“No—don’t start that,” he said, giggling but it came out shy and uneven.
He lifted a hand immediately, half covering his face like it could somehow block the camera from seeing him properly, shoulders drawing in as he turned slightly away out of pure instinct.
“Stop,” he added, softer now, still laughing under his breath.
“Stop? Why stop?” She raises her feet, sliding them up his thighs and massaging his crotch through the fabric of his silk pajama pants. Michael lets out a shaky breath behind a smile, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Oh, you like that, Mikey?” She whispered as her matching french set slid down his chest to the silk waistband of his pajamas. She massaged him slowly, feeling him twitch and swell under her touch as she brushed over the silk covered head.
“You’re a tease..” Michael says, his voice is too sweet to put into words—he’s blushing but who knows if it's from the camera or his arousal. (Name) drops her feet and beckons him over.
“Come ’mere..” Her voice is dripping like honey. “Show the camera how good you fuck me..”
Michael crawled up her body like a predator, his pajama pants already discarded as he camera caught every muscle ripple as he moved between her spread thighs. His abs were tight, his chest bare and defined. He was such a beautiful sight crawling up her body like this, his hard cock dragging along her inner thigh as he went.
This tape is supposed to be for his and her eyes only.. right?
loverboy!michael jackson x reader headcanons (thriller era???)
Backstory: Michael being the perfect boyfriend
Warning: none!!!
౨ৎ——-౨ৎ——-౨ৎ——-౨ৎ ——-౨ৎ ——-౨ৎ
𝙣𝙤𝙬 𝙥𝙡𝙖𝙮𝙞𝙣𝙜 "𝙇𝙚𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙃𝙤𝙢𝙚"- 𝘾𝙝𝙞𝙡𝙙𝙞𝙨𝙝 𝙂𝙖𝙢𝙗𝙞𝙣𝙤 (11)
You're the only girl that I have ever wanted
loverboy!michael who can go hours just staring at you
he could go days just thinking about you
you walk into the Jackson’s household and he immediately hops up from his spot on the couch
“I was just thinking about you!” Michael exclaims, rushing over to you.
“You’re always thinking about her Mike,” Marlon says.
Every other girl is trying to be you
loverboy!michael who would rather gouge his eyes out then entertain another woman
his grip getting tighter on your hand when you two aren’t the only ones in the room
My mama says that I should write you letters
loverboy!michael who was planning on asking you out on a date, ran to his mother begging for advice and the perfect way to ask a lady
palms and neck sweating from the idea of you saying no and laughing in his face
But I think you're with other dudes
loverboy!michael who goes over and behind to make sure he never loses you
annoyed with anyone who tries to flirt with you
Take my hand, you'll like it
loverboy!michael who has a tight grip on your hands as the two of you dance to the Stevie Wonder vinyl
after a long day in the studio and filming music videos, he wants to do nothing more but spend his time with his favorite girl
You don't even have to call
loverboy!michael hears you complain about how muddy the ground is so he immediately offers to pick you up.
“It’s sooooo muddy,” You complain, crossing your arms.
“I’ll carry you across!” He says eagerly, picking and tossing you over his shoulder. Moving swiftly across the mud puddles.
Yes I've had some alcohol, I'm sorry
loverboy!michael who after a few drinks, drunk calls you confessing his love for you, forgetting that he already has.
Take my hand
loverboy!michael who is always eager to try new things with you, even things that he was terrified about, if spent with you, then it's worth it.
"Ain’t you scared of dogs?" Randy asks Michael.
"If Y/N likes them then I love them," Michael tells Randy, earning an eye roll from his younger brother
Jermaine fakes cough and clears his throat "Whipped."
You don't even have to call
loverboy!michael who is always quick to your defense. You don’t like the song on the radio? He’ll change it. You dont like tomatoes? It’s no longer allowed in the house.
After waiting in a long line to get you your beverage, he finally comes back and hands it to you.
“You’re the best, thank you!” You tell him, landing a kiss on his cheek.
“Of course lovie,” He tells you. He looks at you as you stare back up at him. “What’s wrong?” He asks, sensing something is wrong. He always knows when something is wrong.
“Straw?” You question.
“Darn,” He mutters. “I’ll be back,” He says. He runs back to the cafe and joins the long line that’s outside the door.
“Oh hey you! You’re back again,” the cashier tells Michael. “What would you like to order?” He asks.
“Oh, uh, just a straw,” Michael tells the young cashier. The cashier gives him a weird look, and passes him the straw.
“That all?” The cashier asks.
“Yes, my girlfriend doesn’t like drinking her drinks without a straw.” Michael tells the young cashier.
“So you got back in line…just for a straw?” The cashier questions.
“Well yes,” Michael answers
You're somewhere out there after all
loverboy!michael who dreamed and prayed for a girl like you to come into his life
loverboy!michael who is shocked that you gave him the time of the day, promising to himself that he’d never lose you
⋮ ⌗ ┆ summary: what happens when someone who has spent his whole life controlled finally has to choose who gets authority over his future?
⋮ ⌗ ┆ SMUT 🔞, submissive coded michael, pregnancy / unplanned pregnancy, fear of disclosure / secrecy in relationships, guilt, lying by omission (?), high interpersonal conflict in a domestic setting, intense verbal confrontation / shouting, j*e jackson, anxiety, angst.
⋮ ⌗ ┆ part one here!
The apartment had grown so quiet that she could hear the faint ticking of the clock above her stove, it blended with the low hum of the refrigerator in the next room and the television murmuring. Michael hadn’t moved from his place in her lap in what felt like forever. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling, unblinking—but she knew he wasn’t actually looking at anything. Whatever was happening behind those eyes, his mind was somewhere else entirely. Somewhere back at Hayvenhurst. Somewhere standing in the doorway of his bedroom with his father looking at him like he was still fifteen years old instead of a grown man making his family millions. Her fingers continued their slow path through his curls before drifting lower to trace the shell of his ear, a habit she’d developed months ago after realizing it usually made him melt into a smile. Tonight it earned her almost nothing.
The contrast was jarring because less than half an hour ago he’d arrived at her apartment looking like a man being chased by his own thoughts. He had barely made it through the front door before pulling off his sunglasses and throwing them onto the coffee table. His jacket had followed seconds later, landing carelessly across the arm of her couch where it still sat now, half sliding toward the floor. He’d accepted a glass of water from her, taken exactly one sip then abandoned it entirely. After that came the pacing. Endless pacing. Across the living room. Through the small hallway. Back again. Hands in his hair. Hands on his hips. Hands moving every time he spoke. He hadn’t even seemed aware he was doing it. The frustration had been rolling off him in waves, making him restless in a way she rarely saw. Michael wasn’t naturally confrontational. If anything, he tended to avoid conflict until it cornered him. So when something upset him enough to make him pace, she knew it had unsettled him deeply.
Now all that franticness seemed to have collapsed inward. She’d seen it happen before, Michael never stayed angry for long but hurt lasted much longer. Anger burned hot and quickly in him before giving way to something quieter and infinitely sadder. He’d withdraw into himself piece by piece until he seemed distant even while sitting inches away. It wasn’t cold like he was punishing her nor was it him shutting people out intentionally. If anything, it felt more like watching somebody disappear underwater. He was still there. She could see him, but reaching him became harder the deeper he sank.
She hated it because she knew exactly where it came from. People looked at Michael and saw a confident young man. They saw stardom. Adoration. They saw screaming crowds and magazine covers and gold records hanging on walls. What they didn’t see was how quickly he retreated when somebody he loved wounded him. They didn’t see the flashes of uncertainty, the pressure and uncomfort that appeared whenever his father was involved. The way a single comment from Joe could undo an entire weeks worth of confidence. The way Michael still carried himself around that man with the cautiousness of a son instead of the certainty of a grown man. Sometimes she wanted to shake him and remind him who he was. Remind him that millions of people adored him, remind him that he didn’t need permission anymore. But it wasn't that simple. Family never was.
Her fingers slipped back into his curls, scratching lightly against his scalp and usually he would lean into it without thinking. Usually his eyes would close and a smile would tug at the corner of his mouth. Tonight there was only the smallest reaction, his eyelids fluttered briefly before settling again. The tension was still there though, it sat in the line of his shoulders and in the slight crease between his brows. In the way his jaw occasionally tightened before relaxing again. Even lying there in her lap, safe and far away from home, he looked like part of him was still standing in that conversation.
For a while she simply watched him. The television cast shifting colors across his face. Blue. White. Gold. They slid across his skin like reflections on water, constantly changing while he remained perfectly still beneath them. Looking at him now, it was hard to reconcile him with the version that had stormed into her apartment earlier. That version had been restless movement and angry frustration. This version looked exhausted—exhausted in a way that settled behind the eyes.
Finally she spoke, her voice quiet enough that it barely disturbed the room around them.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Michael didn't answer.
His gaze never left the ceiling, but she felt the smallest shift beneath her fingertips. A swallow and a breath that caught for half a second before continuing normally. Tiny things. The kind of things most people wouldn’t notice. But she noticed them because she knew him. Because despite how absent he looked right now, she knew he had heard every word. The problem wasn‘t that Michael didn’t want to answer, he was still trying to untangle feelings he’d been carrying since long before he ever knocked on her door tonight.
The silence lingered long enough that she eventually stopped waiting for one. At first she’d thought he was simply choosing his words carefully, turning them over the way he always did whenever a conversation wandered somewhere uncomfortable. But after another minute passed, she realized he wasn’t searching for the right response at all. He was somewhere else entirely. His eyes remained fixed on the ceiling.
Her fingers continued moving through his hair for another few moments before slowing to a stop. There wasn’t much else she could do. She couldn’t solve whatever war was taking place inside his head, and she knew him well enough by now to understand that forcing him to talk would only make him withdraw further. Michael spoke when he was ready. Sometimes that meant minutes. Sometimes hours. Sometimes he would disappear into his thoughts entirely only to bring something up three days later as if no time had passed at all. She glanced toward the dark windows across the room, then toward the clock in the kitchen, realizing how late it had become. The apartment had taken on that strange after midnight stillness where everything felt like a liminal space.
“You don’t have to talk about it tonight,” she said softly, letting her hand rest against his curls instead of continuing to play with them. “We can just go to bed.”
For the first time in several minutes, Michael moved. His eyes finally left the ceiling, drifting somewhere toward the television before falling away again. Eventually he nodded once, the movement small and reluctant and she had the distinct impression that he wasn’t agreeing because he felt better. He was agreeing because he was tired. Not physically tired either, emotionally exhausted.
The process of getting ready for bed unfolded with her turning off the television while Michael sat up slowly, dragging both hands over his face before standing. The apartment immediately felt different without the flickering blue light filling the room; dimmer and more intimate as she carried his abandoned glass into the kitchen and poured the untouched water down the sink. He collected the things he’d scattered around her apartment earlier, sunglasses disappeared into the pocket of his jacket and the jacket itself found its way over the back of a chair instead of remaining half fallen where he’d thrown it. He was functioning on autopilot while the rest of him remained busy with thoughts he hadn’t shared.
A little while later she stood in front of the bathroom mirror brushing her hair. The overhead light casted a warm glow across the small room while the rest of the apartment remained dark behind her. She watched herself in the reflection absentmindedly, working through a stubborn knot near the ends and trying not to think too hard about the evening. About Joe. About Michael. About the way he had looked when he first arrived, pacing her living room like he couldn’t stand being trapped inside his own skin.. it broke her heart. The brush moved steadily through her hair while her thoughts drifted further and further away.
She didn't hear him enter the bathroom. But what she noticed first was the sudden warmth at her back and the feeling of arms wrapping around her waist. Then Michael's reflection appearing beside hers in the mirror.
The brush stopped mid stroke.
For several seconds neither of them spoke. Michael simply stood there with his arms looped around her middle and his chin resting lightly against her shoulder. He wasn’t holding her tightly. If anything, the embrace felt unusually tentative. There was something uncertain about it. Something that made her stomach tighten unexpectedly in a way she didn’t like because? One of Michael’s main love languages was physical touch. Looking at their reflections together, she was struck by how tired he looked. So vulnerable as the anger from earlier had burned itself out completely, leaving behind only whatever hurt had been underneath it the entire time.
His gaze remained fixed on the mirror too. Not looking at himself exactly but not looking at her either. Just staring at the two of them standing there together as if searching for reassurance somewhere inside the image.
When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet enough that she almost missed it.
“Are you mad at me?”
(Name) actually turned slightly in his arms and for a second she just stared at him from over her shoulder. Because of all the things she expected him to say tonight, that hadn’t even crossed her mind.
Michael looked away first. His eyes dropped toward the sink before lifting again and she could see the insecurity beneath the question, genuine worry that he’d brought his problems into her home and made them hers too. That he’d spent the evening pacing and shutting down and disappearing into himself and somehow burdened her in the process. It was such a painfully Michael thing to worry about that her chest physically ached.
”I know I wasn't exactly..” He paused, searching for a word before giving up entirely. “Good company.”
The attempted joke barely survived the trip out of his mouth.
And suddenly she understood that while she’d spent the entire evening worrying about him, Michael had apparently been worrying about her too. About whether she’d finally gotten tired of carrying him through nights like this and about whether one day she might decide the weight of loving him wasn’t worth it anymore.
Even now, after everything that had happened with his father, some part of him was standing here asking permission to fall apart when he never had to worry about that.
“Baby, why would I be mad at you? Ever?”
The question left her mouth almost immediately, carrying more confusion than anything else. She turned in his arms, the movement forcing him to loosen his hold around her waist just enough for her to face him properly. The bathroom suddenly felt very small. Warm light spilled down from above the mirror, washing everything in gold and catching against the tiredness etched into his face. Up close, she could see all the things he probably thought he was hiding. The tension still lingering in his jaw. The faint shadows beneath his eyes. Michael’s gaze dropped almost instantly the moment she looked at him, drifting somewhere toward the floor between the. He genuinely meant the question. He genuinely thought there was a possibility she could be upset with him for needing her.
Her hands rose without thinking, settling firmly against either side of his face. The second he tried to glance away again, she gently but insistently redirected him back toward her.
“Michael.” His eyes flickered away once more and she immediately nudged his chin back toward her again with an expression that said absolutely not. The stubbornness (virgo men) of it almost made her laugh if the moment hadn’t felt so serious. Michael had a habit of avoiding eye contact whenever he felt vulnerable, especially when somebody was saying something he desperately needed to hear.
“Stop it.” Her voice softened, but there was an unmistakable firmness underneath it. Once again, she guided his face back toward hers when his gaze started drifting elsewhere. This time she held it there and by now, he understood she wasn’t giving him another option. For a second he looked sheepish, caught in the act. It would’ve been endearing under different circumstances. Instead, it just made her heart hurt more.
“I will never be upset with you for venting,” she said slowly, making sure he heard every single word. “Or being upset. Or needing me to listen. Or needing me to be there.”
His eyes dropped again. Unbelievable.
Her thumbs pressed lightly against his cheeks, “No.” The word came out harsher than before. “Look at me.”
Michael let out the smallest breath through his nose, somewhere between embarrassment and reluctant obedience, before finally meeting her eyes properly.
“Thank you.” Her words were quiet and affectionate. And somehow that made his expression soften more than anything else had.
“I need you to listen to me right now.” The bathroom had gone completely silent around them. Even the faint hum from the light above the mirror seemed distant compared to the sound of their breathing. Michael remained still beneath her hands now, watching her carefully and for the first time all evening she felt like she actually had his full attention.
“I don't care if you’re upset.” Her thumb brushed across his cheek. “I don’t care if you need to complain.”
Another gentle stroke. “I don't care if you spend three hours pacing holes into my floor because you’re angry.” The corner of his mouth twitched before he could stop it and he saw it immediately.
Good. Because she wanted him present for this.
”I don't care if you come over here and sit on my couch all night without saying a single word.” Her voice softened further. ”What I care about is you standing here wondering if I'm angry because you needed me.”
Because beneath all the fame and success, there was still a large part of Michael that seemed convinced love had to be earned somehow. Through performance. Through achievement. Through being easy to deal with. Through never asking for too much. And every now and then she caught glimpses of it, usually on nights like this.
His throat moved as he swallowed.
“Do you understand me, Michael?” The question hung between them and he nodded immediately.
The response was so quick she almost rolled her eyes. And judging by the flash of embarrassment that crossed his face a second later, he knew exactly what he’d done.
“No.” She gave his cheeks the tiniest squeeze. “No, sir.”
His expression shifted into something dangerously close to a smile. “You don't get to nod your way out of this conversation.” And his smile grew slightly despite his obvious attempt to suppress it.
“Use your words.”
For the first time since he’d arrived at her apartment, something sweeter finally broke through the exhaustion, appearing for only a moment before he ducked his head again out of habit. Immediately one hand slid beneath his chin and guided him right back.
“I hear you.” The corner of her mouth lifted.
The smile that appeared on her face felt genuine at first. Small and warm and effortless in the way smiles always seemed to be around Michael when he let his guard down. For a moment, the heaviness that had settled over the entire evening loosened its grip. Watching him finally crack after her relentless insistence that he look at her, watching the reluctant amusement tug at the corner of his mouth despite how exhausted he was, it felt like she’d managed to pull him back from wherever he’d disappeared to. Enough that she forgot.
For exactly one second.
Then she remembered.
The smile faltered almost immediately. One moment it was there and the next it wasn’t quite as bright. Because the second her mind stopped focusing on Michael, it returned to the thing waiting patiently in the background. The thing she’d spent days avoiding. The thing sitting between her ribs every waking moment. Tell him. The thought arrived so suddenly it almost startled her. Tell him. Her stomach tightened because he was right here. Right in front of her. Standing inches away. Looking at her. Listening to her. Trusting her. If there was ever going to be a moment, surely this was it.
She could practically feel the words pressing against the back of her teeth. They seemed so simple in theory. A single sentence. It would take less than five seconds to say aloud. Michael, I'm pregnant. That was it. No speech required, just the truth. But the second she imagined actually saying it, panic swept through her. Not now. The excuse surfaced immediately. Not now. Her eyes drifted over his face. The tiredness was still there. The remnants of whatever argument he’d had with his father still lingered around the edges of his expression. He’d spent the evening unraveling, asking if she was mad at him for simply needing her. She had just spent the last twenty minutes convincing him he wasn’t a burden. Convincing him it was okay to fall apart sometimes. Convincing him she wasn’t going anywhere. How could she possibly drop something like this into his lap now?
The thought alone made her feel sick. He had just calmed down. Just breathed. Just smiled. And now she was supposed to tell him something that had the potential to change the course of both of their lives forever? No. Tomorrow. Tomorrow made more sense. Tomorrow was better. Tomorrow was responsible. Tomorrow wasn’t standing barefoot in a bathroom after midnight with his father’s voice still haunting the evening. Tomorrow wasn’t while he was exhausted emotionally. Tomorrow wasn’t while she was terrified. The excuses came quickly in her mind. One after another, so quickly they nearly sounded reasonable. And deep down she hated that she recognized them for exactly what they were. Excuses. Because tomorrow would become next week. And next week would become after his next rehearsal. And after that there would be another reason. Another bad day. Another inconvenient moment. Another excuse to keep postponing the inevitable.
Her chest tightened painfully. Fuck. Just tell him. The thought returned again. Louder this time. More insistent. She looked at him, at the warmth in his eyes. At the concern that always seemed to appear whenever something was wrong with her. At the man standing in front of her who had spent the last hour unknowingly proving exactly why she loved him. And suddenly the words felt impossible. Not difficult but fucking impossible. They had lodged themselves somewhere behind her ribs and refused to move.
The silence lasted only a few seconds though, it felt much longer. Michael noticed immediately. Of course he did. The smile he’d been trying to suppress faded slightly as his expression shifted. Concern settled across his face almost at once. She watched his brow furrow, his eyes searching hers. Michael had always been frighteningly observant when it came to her. He missed entire conversations sometimes when he got trapped in his own thoughts, but the second her mood changed even slightly, he noticed.
“What’s the matter?” The question came quietly, gently. Not suspicious but concerned as his hands remained resting against her waist. ”What is it, pretty girl?”
Her heart dropped straight into her stomach. For one terrible moment, she thought she was actually going to do it. The words surged forward. So close she could practically hear them. Michael, I'm... Instead she froze. Completely. The truth hovered there between them, desperate to be spoken and utterly trapped at the same time. So she did the cowardly thing. The easy thing. The thing she'd been doing for days.
She smiled.
Or at least she tried to and it wasn't nearly as convincing this time. Her hand drifted slowly, settling against the side of his neck. Her thumb brushed lightly against his skin while she desperately searched for something to say. Anything to redirect him. Anything that would keep him from asking another question.
“Nothing.” The lie came out softer than she intended—she could have believed herself. Her throat felt tight as she swallowed hard, then forced another smile. “I just..” Her voice nearly cracked and she hated that. Hated how emotional she’d become lately. The affection in her eyes was real, though. That part wasn’t a lie. Not even a little. She looked at him for another second before gently smoothing a curl away from his forehead.
“I just love you.” For the first time all night, it occurred to her that loving him and telling him the truth might soon become the exact same thing.
“I can tell you’re thinkin’ about somethin’ though, baby..” He says, but it never really gets to settle because she shifts and that gaze she’s giving him changes the entire shape of the moment before it can become any spoken language. Her hands are still on him, still warm at his neck but something in her attention to him.. Michael notices it immediately, even if he can’t define what he’s noticing yet—or maybe he can and he’s pretending not to for the sake of being a good boyfriend.
His sentence starts to form and then fractures halfway through. “You can tell me anythin—” he begins, but it breaks apart before it can become anything stable as she comes closer, closing the space between them by pressing her breasts up against his chest. The conversation he was attempting to hold onto doesn’t go away, but it does loses structure as his mind has to reset around her presence.
And she knows that.
She can feel it happening in real time.
(Name) knows exactly what she’s doing, that’s the worst part. Her hands slide down from his neck to his chest, fingers flattening lightly against him before one hand moves higher, to his jaw. Her thumb brushes once along the edge and her touch is gentle, but the intention beneath it is already shifting away from conversation.
She tilts his face toward her.
Michael’s eyes flicker down to her mouth before he can stop them, confusion still present, still trying to hold onto the question he lost. And that small lapse is all it takes for her to lean in. The kiss lands softly at first, her hand staying at his jaw while the other slips lightly up into the hair at the nape of his neck as her fingers curl there while she draws him in.
Michael responds instantly because he always does with her, like instinct has learned her before thought has time to interfere. His hands settle at her waist again, pulling her in closer against him without hesitation. There is no resistance in him, no suspicion, just familiarity taking over where confusion was trying to exist. But the confusion doesn’t vanish. It scatters instead. The question he was holding breaks apart, fragments of it still lingering somewhere behind his eyes, no longer organized enough to become speech.
When she breaks the kiss, it is only enough to breathe but she stays close, forehead almost brushing his for a second before she shifts slightly, her attention drifting lower. Her lips find the line of his jaw first, slower now—this time it feels less like an interruption and more like something she’s sinking into because if she stops now it, would force her back into words she is not ready to say. She kisses there once, then again, each one lingering a little longer than the last.
Michael exhales under it, a sound that catches halfway between thought and reaction. “Hey—” he tries.
Her mouth moves again along his jaw slower now and his head tilts slightly without him fully realizing it, his body responding before his mind can catch up and reassert control. That small shift is enough to undo whatever sentence was trying to form. It breaks cleanly, leaving only sensation where language was trying to exist.
“I—Baby, hoh—” he tries again, softer this time, but it dissolves mid breath. His brow pulls faintly together, not in frustration with her, but with himself. He’s is aware something is slipping but cannot grab it fast enough to pull it back into place. He swallows, attempting to reset, to return to whatever he was asking, but the rhythm between them has already changed. The conversation no longer has a clear edge to land on.
Michael’s hands rested loosely at her waist and she watched him for a moment before a smile slowly tugged at her mouth. ”Let’s play,” she murmured. The words were enough to make his brows raise a bit, faint pinkness touched his cheeks before he could stop it. He was feeling warm.
“Pattycake?” he asked quietly, already knowing exactly what she meant. She nodded once, trying and failing to suppress her smile with a bitten lio. The second he saw it, he let out a small laugh through his nose and dropped his gaze toward the floor.
For a moment, Michael looked almost embarrassed by how easily she’d derailed the entire evening. One hand slid up to rub the back of his neck while he shook his head at her, smiling despite himself. “You’re somethin' else,” he muttered, the words carrying more affection than criticism.
His earlier questions seemed distant now, not forgotten entirely, but pushed to the edges of the room where neither of them wanted to look at them yet. When he finally glanced back up, there was a warmth in his expression that hadn't been there when he’d first arrived. ”Pattycake,” he repeated under his breath with another quiet laugh, he still couldn’t believe that was the name they’d settled on, even after all this time. But he was still too shy to refer to their sex as what it is: fucking. She’s too ”ladylike” and he’s too much of a gentleman.
At some point, he ended up on his back with her naked skin close against him, one arm locked tightly around her waist because letting go had stopped being a consideration altogether. His breathing wasn’t fully steady yet, still a little uneven as sis curls were slightly damp, falling messily against his forehead. His eyes stayed half lidded for a moment before drifting shut again.
He looked completely gone—a sweet angel boy lost in his own pleasure. He deserved this, he deserved his dick getting swallowed up by her perfect pussy. Her thighs tensed as she sank up and down repeatedly, her slick, tight pussy swallowing his pretty dick inch by inch. She rode him with a steady rhythm, the wet heat gripping him tight every time she bottomed out. A frothy ring of white cream gathered at the base of his shaft, growing thicker with each downward thrust as she bounced relentlessly on top of him. She pushes him downward, making him fall back down onto the pillows at the headboard as she steadies herself by planting her hands onto his chest. (Name)’s already managed to cum twice, but now it was his turn.
Michael was so pretty. Such a beautiful man.
She stayed pressed against him as she continued to bounce onto him, feeling the uneven rise and fall of his breathing under her hands. Michael looked completely gone—fucked out already and by then his grip at her waist had loosened, looking up at her through his lashes with lidded eyes.
And her mind started to drift with him.
He deserves this, she thought immediately—it was obvious, it had always been obvious, right? He deserves to be like this. Elated.. warm. Not thinking so hard all the time. Not carrying everything. Her fingers moved through his hair again and the thought softened as it repeated itself, not really structured anymore, just circling.
He deserves this, he deserves this, he deserves to just be here for a minute. He deserves this.
It almost sounded like relief in her head. Almost.
But it kept going anyway, loosening as it spun. He deserves this, she thought it again but slower this time and its more scattered, she was watching the idea from farther away while still holding onto it.
He deserves it after everything tonight, after how tense he was, after the way his whole face changed when he came in. He deserves this and I’m just.. I’m just helping him, I think. I think that’s what this is. Helping him. Keeping him here. Keeping him okay.
The words started to blur into each other a little after that.
Because underneath them, something else kept trying to push through—a quieter thought.
He deserves this.
And I deserve.. what?
The question didn’t fully form, it flickered and broke apart almost as soon as it appeared. She tightened her hold on him slightly without meaning to, like anchoring herself back into something physical would stop her from drifting too far into her own head.
Michael shifted a little against her, still half lost in his pleasure.
He deserves to feel good. He deserves to not be thinking about any of that right now. Not tonight. Not when he finally looks like this. Not when I finally got him here.
And that last part slipped in without her asking for it.
I got him here.
The thought made something twist in her chest—guilty. She felt fucking guilty. She swallowed it down quickly, tucking it behind the other thoughts before it could grow teeth.
He deserves this! She told herself again, pleading with the idea instead of stating it
He deserves this and I can’t ruin it right now. I can’t. Not when he’s finally quiet. Not when he’s finally okay. Not when he’s finally—
Her gaze dropped to him again.
Cum, he’s about to cum.
His hands gripped her hips as she rose off his cock, the wet suction breaking with a soft pop. She leaned forward, lips on his ear and holding his jaw in place while presenting her ass to him, and he immediately reached around them both. With a few rough strokes of his own fist, his dick twitched violently—one thick pulse, then another, shooting hot ropes of cum across her rounded ass cheeks.
“That’s right, baby.. give it to me—” She whispered in his ear, her grip on his jaw tighter as she places kisses on the side of his face. “You have so much of it for me, don’t you?”
“Oh, oh.. baby—” Michael’s moans nearly sound like he’s crying, so tightly wound and high pitched. “So much of it!”
He pumps the last bit of seed out of him and his breathing eventually evened out into something slower, heavier, the kind that came after too much of everything all at once. The tension that had been clinging to him since Hayvenhurst had finally drained away completely, leaving him softened in her arms, his grip at her waist loose but tracing patterns into her skin. She stayed with him in the quiet, feeling the last remnants of his warmth settle into the space between them while the room dimmed into near silence.
Somewhere between her thoughts slowing down and his breathing deepening, sleep took them both without ceremony, pulling them under.
Then.. morning arrived too quickly.
The golden light had barely started to warm the room when hard knocks landed at the door, loud enough to cut straight through the sleep they’d fallen into. More knocks came again, harder this time, followed immediately by a voice that cut through the thin walls of the apartment like it had been waiting there all night.
“MICHAEL!”
She and Michael both stirred at the same time, pulled out of sleep in pieces rather than fully waking at once. For a few seconds, neither of them moved properly, just disoriented in that soft, half dream space where reality hadn’t fully arrived yet. Then another knock hit the door, sharper, more insistent, followed by overlapping voices outside.
“Dad, calm down—”
“Just let him open the door—”
“Joe, stop—”
The brothers were there too.
Michael pushed himself upright slowly, hair messy, eyes still heavy with sleep, confusion immediately giving way to something more alert as the voices outside kept rising. She could feel the shift instantly.
“Michael!” Joe’s voice came again, louder now. “Open this door!”
They both stood, quickly getting dressed before moving down the hallway. Michael glanced back at her once before moving toward the door as she held onto his bicep tightly.
When he opened the front door, Joe stood at the center of it rigid with anger, with his sons behind him trying unsuccessfully to contain the situation, their faces tight with exhaustion.
Joe’s eyes landed on her immediately.
Not Michael, but her.
And whatever restraint he had been holding onto snapped into something cold and direct.
SYN — there’s not a lot of people who can tell michael no. the last person he expects it to be is his new choreographer.
CONTENT — choreographer!reader x bad!michael, not proofread, nothing else rly happens icl
EXTRA EXTRA READ ALL ABOUT IT — i havent written for someone nonfictional in a very long time and this is very poopy butt but i hope u like it
1987
The letter came in on a Monday.
The morning had gone as normally as it could have, and the last thing you expected was to hear from your former mentor again.
You shuffled through the stack of mail at the kitchen table while your tea slowly went cold beside you. There were bills to be paid and a letter from home amongst other junk you almost tossed without reading.
Then you saw the name. You hadn’t seen it in nearly a decade and read over it twice before dropping the remaining letters in your hand onto the counter.
The envelope was thin, your name written across the front in the same sharp handwriting you remembered from rehearsal notes scribbled angrily across studio mirrors and sheet music. Even after all these years, you recognized it instantly.
For a second, you just stared at it.
The last time you’d spoken to him, you’d left your hometown furious, hardly an adult and stubborn enough to believe talent alone could survive without connections. You hadn’t expected him to ever reach out again.
Yet there his letter sat in your hands.
Inside was only a single page.
His position as lead choreographer for Michael Jackson’s upcoming tour had been cut unexpectedly short due to health complications. Rehearsals were already underway in Los Angeles. The production needed someone immediately.
By the end of the afternoon, your entire life had been flipped upside down. A rushed phone call later, and a car service had been arranged in Los Angeles before you’d even had time to process what was happening.
The next thing you knew, you were stepping into a blazing-hot rehearsal studio in LA, a duffel bag still slung over your shoulder and your suitcase being rolled in your hand, staring at the most famous man in the world.
His manager motioned for you to introduce yourself.
Every pair of eyes in the studio turned toward you at once.
Dancers lingered near the mirrors with towels slung around their necks, production crew scattered around the room, pretending to be busy.
“Hi,” you managed, offering a small wave despite the sudden dryness in your throat. You gave your name quickly afterward. “I’m the new choreographer. It’s really nice to meet you.”
A few polite murmurs echoed back.
Then your eyes landed on Michael Jackson.
He stood near the center of the room, one hand resting against his hip, dark curls falling over his forehead.
He looked you over once, a polite smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
You fidgeted with the hem of your shirt, your hand slipping off of the handle of your suitcase.
The manager beside him began talking again, filling the silence with rushed explanations about scheduling conflicts and transitions, but you barely heard him. Michael hadn’t taken his eyes off you once.
“Yeah, uh…” you started, clearing your throat as you finally tore your gaze from his. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
A ripple moved through the room immediately — dancers straightening, crew members exchanging glances, someone muttering finally under their breath.
You turned toward the cassette player near the mirrors just as one of the assistants slid a tape into place with a sharp click.
“From the top, coach?” he asked, hand hovering over the controls.
“Yeah,” you answered automatically.
Before you could reach down again, someone stepped forward and gently took your bags from your hands, pulling them off to the side of the studio. You barely noticed.
Your attention had already shifted back to Michael.
He moved toward center floor without another word, rolling his shoulders loose as the opening beat played out through the speakers.
The entire atmosphere in the studio changed instantly.
And then the music started.
The first thing you noticed was that he was brilliant.
The second was that he knew it.
You walked across the room, cutting through the dancers getting into formation, and positioning yourself quietly near the mirrors, arms folded loosely across your chest as the routine unfolded in front of you.
At first, all you did was watch.
And it was impossible not to recognize your old mentor’s work buried inside the choreography, stitched neatly beneath Michael’s own instincts and improvisations.
But Michael transformed it into something else entirely.
His signature movements melted into the rhythm effortlessly, every turn and snap landing like second nature instead of choreography. He seemed to exist inside the music, body moving a half-second ahead of every beat.
You understood immediately why nobody challenged him.
Watching him was overwhelming.
The dancers behind him mirrored the routine as best they could, but your eyes kept catching tiny inconsistencies. A shoulder hitting late. A turn rushed too early. Someone in the back line counting instead of listening.
By the time the chorus hit, the issue became obvious.
Everyone was dancing on slightly different timing.
Not enough for an audience to catch immediately. But enough for the performance to feel messy underneath the surface.
Your expression tightened.
Michael spun cleanly through the center formation while the dancers around him lagged behind by fractions of a beat, ruining the impact of the chorus entirely.
You lifted a hand sharply.
“Stop.”
The music cut off mid-count.
The room froze.
A few dancers exchanged nervous looks, breathing hard as silence settled across the studio. Someone near the sound system glanced uncertainly toward Michael before lowering his hand from the controls.
Michael straightened slowly at center floor, chest rising with controlled breaths.
Then he looked at you expectantly.
You stepped forward onto the rehearsal floor.
“The timing’s off,” you said plainly.
One of the dancers frowned immediately. “Whose?”
“All of yours.”
A murmur passed through the dancers at your comment, a few shifting awkwardly under the sudden scrutiny.
You didn’t react to it. Your attention stayed fixed on the formation lines taped across the floor.
“Run it again,” you said. “Just the chorus.”
Nobody moved at first.
Then Michael lifted a hand slightly. “Again from the chorus,” he repeated calmly.
The tension broke instantly.
Dancers hurried back into position while the cassette rewound with a harsh mechanical whir. Michael stepped off center this time instead of taking his place in formation, wiping sweat from the back of his neck before drifting toward you.
You could feel half the room watching the two of you now.
“You saw all that from one run-through?” he asked quietly once he reached your side.
You kept your eyes on the floor marks. “I heard it before I saw it.”
That seemed to interest him.
The music started again.
This time you counted softly under your breath, eyes tracking each dancer carefully.
“Five, six, seven, eight…”
Beside you, Michael hummed the rhythm low enough that only you could hear it, fingers tapping absentmindedly against his thigh in perfect sync with the beat. It should’ve been distracting. Somehow, it wasn’t.
You caught it again immediately.
The chorus hit.
Everybody rushed the transition.
“Stop, stop,” you called, lifting your hand again. “I’ve got it.”
The music cut.
Michael looked over at you before glancing back toward the formation. “What is it?”
You pointed toward him. “Show me that move again. The turn before the chorus.”
Without hesitation, he stepped forward and did it. A sharp pivot, shoulder snap, clean footwork, body hitting the beat with impossible precision.
You watched carefully.
Then it clicked.
“They’re following you too fast,” you said, marking the movement. “They’re anticipating your timing instead of letting the movement land.”
Each word was followed by a movement, the slow repetition of what Michael had just done.
A few backup dancers exchanged confused looks.
You stepped onto the floor, demonstrating more quickly. “Hold for two counts before the transition. Then hit everything sharper. Hard stops. Don’t smooth it out.”
You mimicked the movement again, exaggerating the pause before snapping into the turn.
The visual difference was immediate.
“That way, they compliment what you’re doing.”
You look over at Michael.
A couple dancers nodded instinctively.
Michael tilted his head slightly. “I don’t know,” he said politely. “The pause might slow the energy down.”
And immediately, every dancer in the room went still.
You looked at him evenly.
“Trust me.”
Michael glanced back toward the formation before looking at you again, one eyebrow lifting slightly. “If we stop for two counts, the audience is gonna think somebody missed their cue.”
“They won’t if you hit the move hard enough.”
A tiny smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You sound very confident for someone who got here an hour ago.”
“And you sound very stubborn for someone who hired me.”
A couple dancers choked trying not to laugh.
Michael looked genuinely caught off guard for half a second before letting out a soft breath through his nose. It’s not quite a laugh, but close.
“I didn’t hire you,” he corrected.
“Why am I here then?”
That got an actual laugh out of him this time, quiet and brief as he looked down, shaking his head.
You stepped forward again, gesturing toward the dancers. “Look, right now everybody’s trying to keep up with you instead of matching you. They’re rushing because you move fast naturally.” You pointed toward the chorus formation. “But if they hold for two counts, the audience gets a second to see you before they follow.”
Michael considered that silently.
You softened your tone slightly. “It’ll make everything look bigger.”
He narrowed his eyes a little at that, suspicious now. “You’re manipulating me.”
“A little.”
Another quiet laugh escapes his lips.
The dancers were openly smiling now, shocked enough by the exchange that several had completely forgotten to hide it.
Michael looked back toward the floor again, mentally running through the choreography. You could practically see him testing the counts in his head.
Finally, he sighed dramatically, hand resting against his chest. “Fine.”
You blinked. “Fine?”
“I’m trusting you,” he said, pointing at you accusingly. “But if it looks terrible, we’re going back to the original timing.”
“Fair.”
He shook his head again, still faintly amused, before turning back toward the dancers and clapping his hands once.
“Alright,” he called out. “Let’s take it from the top.”
Michael made his way back to his position, lowering his head when the music started.
The routine rolled forward smoothly, the dancers noticeably more conscious of their timing now.
Then the chorus hit.
And the difference was immediate.
The two-count hold created a sudden tension in the room, the formation freezing just long enough for anticipation to build before the dancers snapped into the transition all at once.
They were in sync.
You glanced sideways instinctively.
Michael’s eyes followed the formation carefully as he slowed down, pausing with his head turned to the mirror, expression unreadable at first. Then, almost unconsciously, he nodded once.
By the time the music cut off, several dancers were already grinning at each other.
“That’s it,” one of them muttered breathlessly.
Michael stayed quiet for another second before finally looking over at you.
You were almost sure he smiled.
The rest of rehearsal went by unmemorably— changing up the last couple counts of eight, switching up formations, and running through the number maybe a couple hundred times.
By the time the final run-through ended, the studio windows had long since turned black with night.
Four hours gone in what felt like twenty minutes.
People filtered out slowly afterward, exhausted, calling tired goodnights over their shoulders while crew members began shutting equipment down for the evening.
Your entire body ached.
Outside, the Los Angeles air hit warmer than expected. You exhaled slowly, digging through your bag for your cigarettes before lighting one between your lips.
The first inhale burned nicely.
You stood there in the glow of the streetlights, suitcase propped beside your leg, waiting for a cab to eventually crawl by.
Then the studio door opened behind you.
You heard the soft click of dress shoes against concrete before his voice drifted over your shoulder.
“You smoke after rehearsal?”
You turned, looking back, being met with Michael’s dark eyes.
“Sometimes.”
We Smoke curled lazily past your face as you lifted the cigarette slightly toward him in offering.
Michael glanced at it before shaking his head gently. “No, thank you.”
His voice was soft enough that it almost disappeared beneath the distant sound of traffic.
You hummed lightly, bringing it back to your lips instead. “Smart man.”
“I try to be.”
Michael shifted his weight slightly, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. “You were good today.”
You exhaled smoke toward the empty street. “You don’t have to flatter me.”
His head dipped slightly as he smiled. “Nobody talks to me like that during rehearsals.”
“Maybe somebody should.”
That made him glance at you again.
A cab rolled past without slowing.
You muttered a quiet curse under your breath, watching it disappear down the street.
Michael followed your gaze. “You’re waiting for a taxi?”
“Well, I don’t exactly know Los Angeles well enough to walk.”
“You haven’t checked into your hotel yet?”
You paused. “…No.”
His expression changed instantly. “They brought you straight from the airport to rehearsal?”
You nodded once, suddenly feeling a little ridiculous about it now that someone had said it out loud.
Michael blinked. “That’s terrible.”
Before you could say anything else, he turned back toward the studio entrance. “Bill!” he called.
A man near the doorway looked up immediately. “Can you call a car for her, please? Make sure she gets to the hotel.”
Bill nodded without hesitation, already heading back inside.
You opened your mouth to protest automatically. “You really don’t have t—”
“I know,” Michael interrupted gently. “I want to.”About ten minutes later, a black town car pulled up beside the curb. Before you could reach for your suitcase, Michael had already grabbed the handle himself, lifting it easily into the trunk while Bill gave the driver directions.
“You know,” you said dryly, watching him close the trunk, “most famous people usually make somebody else do that.”
Michael glanced over his shoulder. “Maybe I’m trying to impress you.”
You snorted before you could stop yourself.
He smiled a little at that.
“I’m joking,” he says, turning his head away from you. “It’s no bother.”
The driver opened the back door for you, and you slid inside, exhaustion finally beginning to settle heavily into your bones. Michael lingered outside the window for a moment as the driver started the engine.
Then he leaned down slightly.
“I’m Michael, by the way.”
You stared at him.
“…I know?”
For a second, he just looked at you with the most unreadable expression imaginable, somewhere between amusement and disbelief.
Then you decided to play along/
“Oh,” you said quickly. You told him your name properly this time.
That seemed to satisfy him.
Michael extended his hand through the open window.
You took it automatically.
His grip was gentle, and you could feel the tape on his fingers against your skin.
“I look forward to working with you,” he said softly.
And despite the exhaustion pulling at every inch of your body, you found yourself smiling a little as the car finally pulled away from the curb.
hai guys!!! im so glad u liked my first fic on this blog.
i am starting to work on a part two, but i am in finals season and am so close to failing my first semester of dental school so it is going to take round 3-4 weeks to get a consistent posting and writing schedule.
nevertheless, thank you sooo much for all the love smooch
SYN — there’s not a lot of people who can tell michael no. the last person he expects it to be is his new choreographer.
CONTENT — choreographer!reader x bad!michael, not proofread, nothing else rly happens icl
EXTRA EXTRA READ ALL ABOUT IT — i havent written for someone nonfictional in a very long time and this is very poopy butt but i hope u like it
1987
The letter came in on a Monday.
The morning had gone as normally as it could have, and the last thing you expected was to hear from your former mentor again.
You shuffled through the stack of mail at the kitchen table while your tea slowly went cold beside you. There were bills to be paid and a letter from home amongst other junk you almost tossed without reading.
Then you saw the name. You hadn’t seen it in nearly a decade and read over it twice before dropping the remaining letters in your hand onto the counter.
The envelope was thin, your name written across the front in the same sharp handwriting you remembered from rehearsal notes scribbled angrily across studio mirrors and sheet music. Even after all these years, you recognized it instantly.
For a second, you just stared at it.
The last time you’d spoken to him, you’d left your hometown furious, hardly an adult and stubborn enough to believe talent alone could survive without connections. You hadn’t expected him to ever reach out again.
Yet there his letter sat in your hands.
Inside was only a single page.
His position as lead choreographer for Michael Jackson’s upcoming tour had been cut unexpectedly short due to health complications. Rehearsals were already underway in Los Angeles. The production needed someone immediately.
By the end of the afternoon, your entire life had been flipped upside down. A rushed phone call later, and a car service had been arranged in Los Angeles before you’d even had time to process what was happening.
The next thing you knew, you were stepping into a blazing-hot rehearsal studio in LA, a duffel bag still slung over your shoulder and your suitcase being rolled in your hand, staring at the most famous man in the world.
His manager motioned for you to introduce yourself.
Every pair of eyes in the studio turned toward you at once.
Dancers lingered near the mirrors with towels slung around their necks, production crew scattered around the room, pretending to be busy.
“Hi,” you managed, offering a small wave despite the sudden dryness in your throat. You gave your name quickly afterward. “I’m the new choreographer. It’s really nice to meet you.”
A few polite murmurs echoed back.
Then your eyes landed on Michael Jackson.
He stood near the center of the room, one hand resting against his hip, dark curls falling over his forehead.
He looked you over once, a polite smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
You fidgeted with the hem of your shirt, your hand slipping off of the handle of your suitcase.
The manager beside him began talking again, filling the silence with rushed explanations about scheduling conflicts and transitions, but you barely heard him. Michael hadn’t taken his eyes off you once.
“Yeah, uh…” you started, clearing your throat as you finally tore your gaze from his. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
A ripple moved through the room immediately — dancers straightening, crew members exchanging glances, someone muttering finally under their breath.
You turned toward the cassette player near the mirrors just as one of the assistants slid a tape into place with a sharp click.
“From the top, coach?” he asked, hand hovering over the controls.
“Yeah,” you answered automatically.
Before you could reach down again, someone stepped forward and gently took your bags from your hands, pulling them off to the side of the studio. You barely noticed.
Your attention had already shifted back to Michael.
He moved toward center floor without another word, rolling his shoulders loose as the opening beat played out through the speakers.
The entire atmosphere in the studio changed instantly.
And then the music started.
The first thing you noticed was that he was brilliant.
The second was that he knew it.
You walked across the room, cutting through the dancers getting into formation, and positioning yourself quietly near the mirrors, arms folded loosely across your chest as the routine unfolded in front of you.
At first, all you did was watch.
And it was impossible not to recognize your old mentor’s work buried inside the choreography, stitched neatly beneath Michael’s own instincts and improvisations.
But Michael transformed it into something else entirely.
His signature movements melted into the rhythm effortlessly, every turn and snap landing like second nature instead of choreography. He seemed to exist inside the music, body moving a half-second ahead of every beat.
You understood immediately why nobody challenged him.
Watching him was overwhelming.
The dancers behind him mirrored the routine as best they could, but your eyes kept catching tiny inconsistencies. A shoulder hitting late. A turn rushed too early. Someone in the back line counting instead of listening.
By the time the chorus hit, the issue became obvious.
Everyone was dancing on slightly different timing.
Not enough for an audience to catch immediately. But enough for the performance to feel messy underneath the surface.
Your expression tightened.
Michael spun cleanly through the center formation while the dancers around him lagged behind by fractions of a beat, ruining the impact of the chorus entirely.
You lifted a hand sharply.
“Stop.”
The music cut off mid-count.
The room froze.
A few dancers exchanged nervous looks, breathing hard as silence settled across the studio. Someone near the sound system glanced uncertainly toward Michael before lowering his hand from the controls.
Michael straightened slowly at center floor, chest rising with controlled breaths.
Then he looked at you expectantly.
You stepped forward onto the rehearsal floor.
“The timing’s off,” you said plainly.
One of the dancers frowned immediately. “Whose?”
“All of yours.”
A murmur passed through the dancers at your comment, a few shifting awkwardly under the sudden scrutiny.
You didn’t react to it. Your attention stayed fixed on the formation lines taped across the floor.
“Run it again,” you said. “Just the chorus.”
Nobody moved at first.
Then Michael lifted a hand slightly. “Again from the chorus,” he repeated calmly.
The tension broke instantly.
Dancers hurried back into position while the cassette rewound with a harsh mechanical whir. Michael stepped off center this time instead of taking his place in formation, wiping sweat from the back of his neck before drifting toward you.
You could feel half the room watching the two of you now.
“You saw all that from one run-through?” he asked quietly once he reached your side.
You kept your eyes on the floor marks. “I heard it before I saw it.”
That seemed to interest him.
The music started again.
This time you counted softly under your breath, eyes tracking each dancer carefully.
“Five, six, seven, eight…”
Beside you, Michael hummed the rhythm low enough that only you could hear it, fingers tapping absentmindedly against his thigh in perfect sync with the beat. It should’ve been distracting. Somehow, it wasn’t.
You caught it again immediately.
The chorus hit.
Everybody rushed the transition.
“Stop, stop,” you called, lifting your hand again. “I’ve got it.”
The music cut.
Michael looked over at you before glancing back toward the formation. “What is it?”
You pointed toward him. “Show me that move again. The turn before the chorus.”
Without hesitation, he stepped forward and did it. A sharp pivot, shoulder snap, clean footwork, body hitting the beat with impossible precision.
You watched carefully.
Then it clicked.
“They’re following you too fast,” you said, marking the movement. “They’re anticipating your timing instead of letting the movement land.”
Each word was followed by a movement, the slow repetition of what Michael had just done.
A few backup dancers exchanged confused looks.
You stepped onto the floor, demonstrating more quickly. “Hold for two counts before the transition. Then hit everything sharper. Hard stops. Don’t smooth it out.”
You mimicked the movement again, exaggerating the pause before snapping into the turn.
The visual difference was immediate.
“That way, they compliment what you’re doing.”
You look over at Michael.
A couple dancers nodded instinctively.
Michael tilted his head slightly. “I don’t know,” he said politely. “The pause might slow the energy down.”
And immediately, every dancer in the room went still.
You looked at him evenly.
“Trust me.”
Michael glanced back toward the formation before looking at you again, one eyebrow lifting slightly. “If we stop for two counts, the audience is gonna think somebody missed their cue.”
“They won’t if you hit the move hard enough.”
A tiny smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You sound very confident for someone who got here an hour ago.”
“And you sound very stubborn for someone who hired me.”
A couple dancers choked trying not to laugh.
Michael looked genuinely caught off guard for half a second before letting out a soft breath through his nose. It’s not quite a laugh, but close.
“I didn’t hire you,” he corrected.
“Why am I here then?”
That got an actual laugh out of him this time, quiet and brief as he looked down, shaking his head.
You stepped forward again, gesturing toward the dancers. “Look, right now everybody’s trying to keep up with you instead of matching you. They’re rushing because you move fast naturally.” You pointed toward the chorus formation. “But if they hold for two counts, the audience gets a second to see you before they follow.”
Michael considered that silently.
You softened your tone slightly. “It’ll make everything look bigger.”
He narrowed his eyes a little at that, suspicious now. “You’re manipulating me.”
“A little.”
Another quiet laugh escapes his lips.
The dancers were openly smiling now, shocked enough by the exchange that several had completely forgotten to hide it.
Michael looked back toward the floor again, mentally running through the choreography. You could practically see him testing the counts in his head.
Finally, he sighed dramatically, hand resting against his chest. “Fine.”
You blinked. “Fine?”
“I’m trusting you,” he said, pointing at you accusingly. “But if it looks terrible, we’re going back to the original timing.”
“Fair.”
He shook his head again, still faintly amused, before turning back toward the dancers and clapping his hands once.
“Alright,” he called out. “Let’s take it from the top.”
Michael made his way back to his position, lowering his head when the music started.
The routine rolled forward smoothly, the dancers noticeably more conscious of their timing now.
Then the chorus hit.
And the difference was immediate.
The two-count hold created a sudden tension in the room, the formation freezing just long enough for anticipation to build before the dancers snapped into the transition all at once.
They were in sync.
You glanced sideways instinctively.
Michael’s eyes followed the formation carefully as he slowed down, pausing with his head turned to the mirror, expression unreadable at first. Then, almost unconsciously, he nodded once.
By the time the music cut off, several dancers were already grinning at each other.
“That’s it,” one of them muttered breathlessly.
Michael stayed quiet for another second before finally looking over at you.
You were almost sure he smiled.
The rest of rehearsal went by unmemorably— changing up the last couple counts of eight, switching up formations, and running through the number maybe a couple hundred times.
By the time the final run-through ended, the studio windows had long since turned black with night.
Four hours gone in what felt like twenty minutes.
People filtered out slowly afterward, exhausted, calling tired goodnights over their shoulders while crew members began shutting equipment down for the evening.
Your entire body ached.
Outside, the Los Angeles air hit warmer than expected. You exhaled slowly, digging through your bag for your cigarettes before lighting one between your lips.
The first inhale burned nicely.
You stood there in the glow of the streetlights, suitcase propped beside your leg, waiting for a cab to eventually crawl by.
Then the studio door opened behind you.
You heard the soft click of dress shoes against concrete before his voice drifted over your shoulder.
“You smoke after rehearsal?”
You turned, looking back, being met with Michael’s dark eyes.
“Sometimes.”
We Smoke curled lazily past your face as you lifted the cigarette slightly toward him in offering.
Michael glanced at it before shaking his head gently. “No, thank you.”
His voice was soft enough that it almost disappeared beneath the distant sound of traffic.
You hummed lightly, bringing it back to your lips instead. “Smart man.”
“I try to be.”
Michael shifted his weight slightly, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. “You were good today.”
You exhaled smoke toward the empty street. “You don’t have to flatter me.”
His head dipped slightly as he smiled. “Nobody talks to me like that during rehearsals.”
“Maybe somebody should.”
That made him glance at you again.
A cab rolled past without slowing.
You muttered a quiet curse under your breath, watching it disappear down the street.
Michael followed your gaze. “You’re waiting for a taxi?”
“Well, I don’t exactly know Los Angeles well enough to walk.”
“You haven’t checked into your hotel yet?”
You paused. “…No.”
His expression changed instantly. “They brought you straight from the airport to rehearsal?”
You nodded once, suddenly feeling a little ridiculous about it now that someone had said it out loud.
Michael blinked. “That’s terrible.”
Before you could say anything else, he turned back toward the studio entrance. “Bill!” he called.
A man near the doorway looked up immediately. “Can you call a car for her, please? Make sure she gets to the hotel.”
Bill nodded without hesitation, already heading back inside.
You opened your mouth to protest automatically. “You really don’t have t—”
“I know,” Michael interrupted gently. “I want to.”About ten minutes later, a black town car pulled up beside the curb. Before you could reach for your suitcase, Michael had already grabbed the handle himself, lifting it easily into the trunk while Bill gave the driver directions.
“You know,” you said dryly, watching him close the trunk, “most famous people usually make somebody else do that.”
Michael glanced over his shoulder. “Maybe I’m trying to impress you.”
You snorted before you could stop yourself.
He smiled a little at that.
“I’m joking,” he says, turning his head away from you. “It’s no bother.”
The driver opened the back door for you, and you slid inside, exhaustion finally beginning to settle heavily into your bones. Michael lingered outside the window for a moment as the driver started the engine.
Then he leaned down slightly.
“I’m Michael, by the way.”
You stared at him.
“…I know?”
For a second, he just looked at you with the most unreadable expression imaginable, somewhere between amusement and disbelief.
Then you decided to play along/
“Oh,” you said quickly. You told him your name properly this time.
That seemed to satisfy him.
Michael extended his hand through the open window.
You took it automatically.
His grip was gentle, and you could feel the tape on his fingers against your skin.
“I look forward to working with you,” he said softly.
And despite the exhaustion pulling at every inch of your body, you found yourself smiling a little as the car finally pulled away from the curb.
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