⋮ ✶┆what was supposed to be a sweet movie night between friends turns into… something else entirely.
⋮ ✶┆ 𝒻. black reader x best friend!michael j. | smut mdni. aphrodisiac. loss of control. marathon sex. he’s technically drugged : everyone is consenting. marking. softdom!mike?. dry humping but it’s not dry at all. pining. unprotected sex. p in v. thigh fixation. pussy drunk. just lost in it really. dirty talk. lot of cum. lots of nicknames incl mama cuz I love it. circa 1979. valentines came early. purity police might execute me for this one. wc. 6K
𝓂asterlist
One thing Michael knew to be wary of was taking things from fans. It had been drilled into his brain since he’d been alive to not take things from strangers generally, but since he and his brothers started garnering more attention, the rule became infinitely more important. A matter of his safety at times.
He adored his fans of course, he’d give them any and everything if he could, but he knew the nature of some of them— that they had the capability to be a little dangerous. Just as anyone in the world could be.
And of course he wanted to give everyone a piece of himself, to make each and every person who supported him feel seen and special. Especially if they were pretty.
It wasn’t uncommon for fans to want to gift Michael things to express their adoration. They loved what he did, so when a young woman came backstage to meet the brothers after a concert, a little intricately decorated white box in hand, it wasn’t all that suspicious.
Michael took the box happily, thanking them with that warm and overly bright smile he gave only to women, along with a hug that lasted far longer than just friendly.
You’d noticed the exchange from where you were perched across the room and watched the two interact. The flirting was obvious to anyone with eyes. And she was gorgeous, a fact you were sure hadn’t slipped his mind. Just his type.
The whole exchange made something in the corner of your eye twitch and as if he could feel you staring, Michael’s gaze snapped to yours curiously. You tried to school your features into something unbothered and he raised a brow at you, asking a silent question.
You okay?
You two did that often, spoke to each other without words from across the room.
You ignored him this time, turning your gaze away to look elsewhere, but from the corner of your eye, you noticed him lean in and whisper something to the girl. It was probably due to the sudden noise spike in the room but you’d guessed that probably wasn’t all.
A moment later he excused himself, gathering the box in his hands and trudging through the small crowd of fans, press, and security gathered backstage. A few tried to stop him, grabbing at the sleeves of his outfit for his attention but he eventually made it to you, a sly and overly sweet smile on his face.
He was still all sweaty from the show, curls sticking to his forehead, the sweat and hair product mixed and dripping from his neck.
“What’s that?” you asked, unable to hide your nosyness as he sidled up next to you, placing the box down gingerly. It really was beautiful. You’d never have suspected what was inside.
“It was supposed to be a Valentine’s gift.” he pulled at the ribbon holding the top in place and peered inside. “Why, you jealous?”
Your response was quick. “Not even a little.”
Nestled neatly in the box was a dozen individually wrapped roses, arranged in a small bouquet. It even had little dried flowers and other greenery tucked between each rose, making it look all the more real.
You would have thought they were real if not for the little card inside. You plucked it out holding it up in front of Michael.
“Enticing Eternity Chocolate.” you read aloud flipping it over. You didn’t recognize the name printed— it being some Belgian chocolate brand.
“It’s pretty.” Michael remarked, taking one out, lifting it to his nose to smell it.
“Michael Jackson I know you aren’t about to eat that.” you looked at him like he was crazy, eyes squinted, a disappointed frown marring your features. He could be so careless.
He scoffed, not meeting your eyes before placing the chocolate back down. “No, ‘course not.”
“Liar, you know better than to eat that. God knows what’s in it.” you wrinkled your nose in a way Michael found cute.
“If I were to guess… I’d say milk chocolate, white chocolate, dark chocolate and caramel.” he listed, voice light and playful. He was trying to get that reaction from you that he loved so much. And you took the bait.
You pinched his hip and he jumped a little. “Smartass. Y’know what I mean.”
He leaned over the table, placing a hand right by your hip, eyes looking into yours enticingly. “C’mon try some, they even got your favorite, raspberry crème.” He held the bloom to your lips.
“Nu uh, I’m not eatin’ that Mike.” you crossed your arms, trying to ignore his sudden closeness. He always got close like this, not having a gauge for most peoples personal boundaries. Not that you two really had any.
“What if I fed it to ya’?” he pressed a little closer, his usually bright eyes turning a different shade, still blown wide with the adrenaline of performing. He loved to tease and you knew that. Still didn’t stop the thought of Michael’s fingers in your mouth, melted chocolate dripping off and onto your tongue while he fed it to you.
He seemed to see the moment your mind wandered off because his jaw clenched slightly like he was holding something back.
“Michael! Get back ova here boy, you not done.” the spell was immediately broken by his father’s voice. You both tore your eyes from each others looking back towards Joseph standing a few feet away, patience clearly wearing thin.
“Yes I’m comin’.” Michael spoke respectfully before rolling his gaze back around to you, looking at you as if you could do something to save him from his dad. You wished.
“Lord give me strength.”
You pressed a hand against Michael’s shoulder in a comforting gesture, offering a reassuring smile. “It’ll be over before you know it.”
The smile Michael returned back was much more strained but you appreciated the effort. “See you later? Y’ still comin’ over tonight right?”
“And risk missing movie night? Never.” Michael grinned and turned, offering you a wink before disappearing back into the crowded meet and greet.
What you didn’t know was that tonight for Michael wasn’t supposed to be just an ordinary scheduled movie night. He had a plan.
Tonight was the night he’d confess his feelings for you, and hopefully, ask you to be his girlfriend. You’d been friends since you were babies, with you knowing him since before he was Michael Jackson of the Jackson 5 turned Jackson’s.
You knew that little boy from Gary, who wasn’t often allowed to play outside and who came to school sad about what was going on at home. You’ve been a person, aside from his mom, who he’d come to for comfort for a long time. And that bond you shared only grew with you both.
He didn’t really start noticing the turn his feelings had taken from friendly until his adolescent years. Suddenly things were changing. He was changing, you were changing. Becoming your own beautiful person, and his admiration for you only grew.
He started noticing how much he liked being around you, how much he liked when you touched him, or drew him into a hug.
And if he noticed, it wasn’t long before other boys started noticing too, but thankfully, you didn’t pay them any mind. Didn’t stop Michael from being agitated when you’d smile in some guys face or hang out with other boys.
And that feeling never left as you both creeped into your adult years. He still felt the same about you. Loved what his heart did when he thought about or was near you, which was a lot.
He didn’t have a single clue if you felt the same. He knew you probably better than anyone but you didn’t wear your heart on your sleeve like he did. If you liked someone, it was impossible to tell unless you outright said it. You were honest and blunt like that. And you’d given no indication that you felt anything but friendly.
So this would be a leap for Michael but he figured he waited long enough. And if things didn’t go well… well he didn’t want to think about that.
Today was the perfect day to confess. Mostly because he wouldn’t have anyone in his ear, or yellin’ halfway across the hall. All his brothers and sisters would be out, per his request, and his parents would also be out tonight— a carefully planned date he’d convinced them that they needed. It was almost a dream come true how empty the house was.
He had the snacks already set out on the coffee table, and the disgustingly buttered popcorn you loved so much already made the way you liked.
Last thing he was missing was the ice cream. When he bent to look in the fridge though, the white and gold box shoved to the back caught his eyes. He of course didn’t listen to you when you said to toss it. They were so pretty and someone had given them to him as a gift.
Plus, he was getting the munchies and way too curious. Just one bite wouldn’t hurt and after all, who was Michael to turn down chocolate. He decided to pick the one you probably would’ve liked most.
Dark chocolate with raspberry crème filling. He unwrapped it slowly and brought it to his lips. The first bite he took was, honestly, a little underwhelming. It tasted bitter, like he’d shoved an entire spoon of cocoa powder in his mouth. But for some reason, he kept eating, like it would get better.
The second bite was near addictive. The strong cocoa taste dissipated into something dark, smooth and rich. And when the sharp, vibrant, raspberry flavor mixed in. It was over. He finished the whole thing in seconds. Even went so far as to have another. And another.
He didn’t even care for dark chocolate normally but something about the thing had him licking at his fingers for every last bit of it.
He was about four in and about to have another when the sound of the door opening met his ears and you padded into the kitchen, letting yourself in like you often did.
Your eyes landed on Michael, hunched over the counter, the dim lights of the kitchen shadowing him.
“I swear I told you not to eat those.” you eyed him warily. The way his lips were wrapped firmly around his pointer. He let it go with a pop, like a kid who’d been caught.
“They’re actually really good.”
“Michael my point was you don’t know what’s in that. It could be poisonous or something.” you were exasperated, pinching your nose bridge. Sometimes he reminded you of a bad ass little kid.
“Well, I’ve been eatin’ it and I’m fine. Plus they were wrapped up.” he shrugged and placed the lid back on the box before shoving it back in the fridge.
“How many have you eaten?”
“I don’t know like— three, four ish.”
“Michael!” you threw your hands up.
He moved around the counter and in your direction, hands pressing into your shoulders. “Relax, I’m fine. And if I’m not later, then I got you here with me.”
Despite his words you couldn’t help the knot of worry building in your stomach. Truthfully you wanted to call him a damn fool but you didn’t. Instead you nodded and let him lead you over to the tv, already paused on The Sound of Music. Something you both almost never tired of watching.
You settled on the couch, already falling into your usual routine, passing around snacks, fighting over blankets before you both just decided to share it. You watched Michael and giggled as he playfully sung the melody to My Favorite Things with Julia Andrews. He could never help himself and it was something you always looked forward to.
You didn’t notice anything off with Michael until a few moments later.
He wouldn’t stop adjusting. Every two seconds you’d see from the corner of your eye, he'd raise up and shift, the couch cushions repositioning under his weight.
“You okay?” you turned your head that was pressed into his shoulder, peering up at him. You’d ended up in your normal position after the snacks were gone, tucked into his side with his arm around you.
“Yeah m’good,” he cleared his throat. “It’s just a little warm.” he sounded a little winded. You sat up to press a hand to his forehead feeling for a fever of some type. He did feel warm.
“Maybe take the blanket off of you?” you suggested. He kicked the blanket off but grabbed one of the nearby pillows, sitting it firmly in his lap and holding it. You took the blanket off too even though the house was a little chilly, you tended to run colder.
You thought that would fix it but as the minutes ticked by he just got more antsy and a whole lot warmer. You could feel him practically radiating heat onto your side.
“I think I need to lie down.” he spoke suddenly, voice hoarse.
“Alright, go ahead.” you sat upright clearing space for him. You’d assumed he would lay his head on your lap, like he sometimes did when you watched movies together. But the way he was looking at you, he looked hesitant.
Michael didn’t know what the hell was wrong with him.
It’d started about fifteen minutes into the movie. But it was easy enough to ignore. It felt no more than a stomach ache.
But twenty five more minutes and that dull feeling persisted and grew into a deep and relentless feeling. And then he started to get hard in his sweats. He didn’t even know what the hell to do about it. And you suggesting to remove the blanket had him panicking.
He started noticing more things too. After a certain point he’d locked completely out of the movie, his full attention falling on you. The feeling of your body pressed into his was maddening. More so than usual. Just the feeling of your skin touching his had his whole body on fire.
He felt every breath you took like it was breathed directly into his lungs, his senses honed into whatever reactions you had. And when you took the blanket off, he’d honed in on your newly exposed skin. The way your shorts sat high on your hips, the invitingly plush skin of your thighs. It was all he could think about.
And you seemed none the wiser.
Because if you knew the thoughts circulating in his head, you probably wouldn’t let him near you, let alone lay on you.
You looked so soft. And it wasn’t like it was the first time. And you were offering yourself up. Or that’s what it felt like. Michael knew his body was gonna make the decision before his rational brain could.
He stretched out onto the couch, resting his head on your legs, making an attempt to get comfortable. He thought he was doing a good job at pretending everything was okay.
He was tracing small shapes and patterns on your legs, the movie becoming his personal background noise. His mind drifted to a much dirtier place. A place where he ran his hands up your thighs. Or dipped his hand between your legs. All the way up to your—
He felt your fingers caress up his back and into his hair and it sent a jolt through him. You gently rubbed his scalp through his curls, and he melted into your touch instantly, turning his face deeper into the crease of your thighs, inhaling softly.
“Does that feel good?” your voice was a quiet whisper.
Michael just nodded because he was one slip up from whimpering like a dog into your leg. The same ones that were squeezing together slightly the farther he pressed his face in. This wasn’t a part of your usual routine.
Something about this was nearly euphoric for Michael. Having your skin on his, his face pressed between your legs and your hand in his hair. Your smell was surrounding him and he was in heaven. So much so that he couldn’t control the way his hips started to inconspicuously ground into the couch.
You were starting to get a little worried. You weren’t completely oblivious. It was impossible to not notice his strange behavior. Not to notice the way his nose burrowed into you. His deep inhales. He was so close and you couldn’t help but rub your thighs together against the tension building.
You felt like a pervert for where your head was at. He was just trying to get comfort and here you were thinking less than pure thoughts. Thoughts of his head between your legs in an entirely different way.
Above all else though, you were worried. He was growing hotter by the second.
“Michael?” the sound that left him was completely wrecked. A low whine piercing the air.
“What’s going on with you? You’re so hot.” your voice held a mix of worry and confusion but all he’d heard was ‘you’re so hot’.
You dipped your hand into the back of his t shirt to feel the rest of his skin. He nearly melted at the feeling of your palm on his back. It felt so good to have your hands on him.
“Hn— please—“ he was clutching at the fabric of your shirt, nestling deeper between your thighs which he’d managed to part slightly. He was practically nuzzling his nose right into the apex of your thighs, breathing you in.
“Michael!” your voice seemed to knock him out of it and he shot up quickly kneeling against the couch and panting. He looked like he did after a performance, eyes dilated, hair a mess, and damp with sweat. His breath was coming out in uneven spurts through his nose, eyes flitting around anxiously, his bottom lip tucked between his teeth nervously.
He couldn’t even look at you. He was so fucking hard, it almost hurt and somthing about you was making his control slip faster and faster. He needed you gone before he started grinding up against you like a needy puppy. Or something else he might not regret.
“I— I’m just not feeling too well. I think we need to call it a night.” he tried to keep his voice measured, inching away from you slightly. It almost hurt to do so.
“Hey, I’m not leaving. Especially not if you’re sick. C’mere.” you don’t wait for him to come to you. You just grabbed him and started inspecting his body curiously.
You didn’t see anything visibly worrying and a thought suddenly crossed your mind, “Wait right here.” you got up off the couch and headed for the kitchen and Michael fought the whine crawling up his throat at the loss of contact.
You took the box of roses out the fridge, before removing the lid. You looked around in the box when you noticed another small card tucked away, revealed by the roses Michael had eaten.
You fished it out, eyes scanning over the words.
Aphrodisiac Chocolate. Intended for the one you love. No more than one per person. And a whole list of other side effects.
“What? What’s it say?” Michael asked frantically, already coming into the kitchen fighting the feeling forming in his gut.
“It says uhm…” you trailed off still inspecting the card as if you could will the words to rearrange themselves into something you could comprehend.
He plucked the card from your hands, eyes going wider as they dragged across the words.
“Oh god and I had four.” he sounded absolutely freaked out.
You sighed out exasperated and a little fed up, crossing your arms over your chest. “This is why I told you to listen to me. You can’t just go around eating things that random fan girls give you. It’s not safe and you’re way too trusting. I mean I swear it’s like you don’t even—“
Michael wasn’t even listening to a word of your rambling. It was like his brain kicked completely off and stalled. The only thing he could focus on was the curve of your mouth forming around the words. The plushness of your lips and the high shine gloss coating them, drawing him in.
You snapped in front of his face. “Michael, are you listening?”
He didn’t answer. He barely even heard you over the sound of his pulse thundering in his ears.
He didn’t even have a moment to stop himself before he grabbed at you, shoving you up against the fridge door, crowding your space. He pressed his nose into your neck, taking a deep inhale of your perfume, his hands gripping at your hips.
You couldn’t ignore the elephant in the room anymore. Not when it was pressed against your thigh where he was grinding his hips.
“Please, I need you to help me…it hurts and— my body is so hot.” he was panting in your ear voice strained and barely audible.
Your eyes widened, a mixture of arousal and surprise causing your breath to catch. He was trembling in your arms, barely holding himself up. Clearly the thing had him acting erratic. But he was your best friend. You couldn’t leave him like this.
You swallowed nervously before speaking. “What— what do you need me to do?”
“M’ burning up. Please touch me. Need t’ feel you.” he pleaded, pressing open mouthed kisses over the column of your throat and pressing his face in. The contact had heat pooling between your thighs, even more so when his hand dipped underneath the back of your shirt, dragging over your ribcage.
“Michael— you don’t even know what you’re asking.” you swallowed hard. “You’d only regret it in the end.”
Michael pulled his head from your neck, his lust filled eyes meeting yours and flitting between them. He brought a large palm to cradle the side of your cheek, his thumb smoothing over the spot. The desire welling in his gut still persisted. But he needed you to know.
“I promise you I wouldn’t. I don’t want anyone else but you… but if you don’t want that then I need you to leave. Now.” he inched back away from you, giving you enough room to move away and leave if you wanted.
But you didn’t move.
You stayed firmly planted where he had you in his arms. He didn’t waste another moment, surging forward to claim your lips. It was like he melted into you, pulling you in as if to tuck you into a little corner of his body. His head was still fuzzy but one thing was incredibly clear to him.
He needed to get you upstairs and in his bed now before he tore all your clothes off right in the kitchen.
He detached his lips from yours with great effort, backing up to look into your eyes again. “You’re sure?”
“Yes, yes I’m sure. And very willing please just—“ you let out a surprised yelp when he dipped forward suddenly, picking you up and carrying you over his shoulder. Now Michael wasn’t the biggest man in the world, but his quiet strength shocked you sometimes. He was almost sprinting up the stairs, until he reached his door which he shut before placing you on the bed.
He was on you again. His kiss this time was less frantic, more gentle and soft but still deep and hungry. And the more he kissed you, the more you wanted from him.
You licked at his bottom lip, taking it into your mouth before opening back up. He makes a pleasured sound low in his throat and you start feeling heat coil in your gut.
You angle your body before wrapping your leg around his hip and dragging him down onto you. He immediately starts grinding his hips against yours in slow circles, seeking pleasure, and you moan into his mouth.
You can feel him, hard and insistent rubbing against your cunt through your shorts. And the more you touched him, the warmer your body got. The more arousal started to pool between your legs before it became uncomfortable.
“Michael— please take these off. You’re teasing.” he pulled up, looking down at you sprawled out on his bed. It was like something from a dream.
“Okay, okay y’ want me to take these off honey?” he hummed already reaching for the waistband to your shorts. He slipped them down your legs before tossing them away somewhere.
The sight that met him had his lust clouded brain frazzled. The entire crotch of your panties was soaked through, making the outline of your pussy practically visible through the fabric. And if he looked closely enough, he could see the little twitch of your clit peeking through.
“Fuck—“ he could feel the burn worsening. The need to bury himself inside you and fuck you taking over his thoughts like a parasite. But a fixation had him halting a moment, bringing his thumb to draw circles over your clit through the fabric. And he was so pleased when you writhed on the bed, gripping at his wrist, your legs falling shut slightly.
He got up off the bed and quickly shoved his pants off, his boxers following.
He was hard and long but not overly thick, flushed a deep red color from increased blood flow and arousal.
You and Michael were close, but you’d never been this exposed to each other before. You’d both expected to feel self conscious, but were surprised at the absence of shyness or discomfort.
There was really only one thing going through Michael’s head. He gave himself a few experimental strokes and hissed at the sensitivity, small moans slipping past his lips.
Then he brought himself down, kneeling between your legs, before running his tip over the fabric of your panties. He nearly comes from the feeling of your slick soaked panties alone. You’re both moaning every time he nudges against your clit, keeping himself pressed firmly between your legs while he thrusts against you.
“Hah— I — hmm ‘m jus’ gonna do this kay? Not gonna put it in.” but god he wanted to. He was doing this for your benefit. You’d only offered to help him get off. That didn’t require penetrative sex. And maybe it would be enough. Despite the fact that his brain was screaming at him that it wouldn’t. Screaming at him to just slip your panties off and fuck you properly.
“Ohmygod— Mike please!” your cries were desperate as you rut your hips up against his, trying to catch that perfect angle that made your toes curl and your legs tense. It was almost torturous what he was doing.
“Just a little bit more pretty girl okay?” he whined out, mouth coming over yours. He tried to kiss you but just ended up pressing your mouths together while you both panted.
The sounds of frantic breaths, skin meeting and the bedframe creaking were all that could be heard while you both slide against each other, chasing release.
Your shirt was still on and he shucked it up over your breast with the hand that wasn’t holding his dick. As soon as your tits are presented to him, he’s palming them, surging forward to suck a nipple into his mouth.
“Nnn shit— please don’t stop, baby.” your hands were holding the back of his neck, fingers threading into his curls. You could feel the rapid beat of his heart against you when he pressed closer.
“Fuck— you’re so sweet like this y’know. Lettin’ me rub up against you. My sweet girl, always helpin’ me out.” he titled his head up, dark brown eyes peering at you from your chest and you keened at the praise. He felt the spasms from your cunt reacting— wanting so bad to be filled up by him.
“Michael please, need more.” your eyes were wide and glassy looking down at him, begging for more contact, more friction.
“M’sorry mama I don’t wan’ you t’ hate me but… I have an idea.” he pulled back looking down at the mess he’d made on your panties. His white milky precum mixing in with your slick.
He gingerly peels the middle of your panties up, strings of your arousal snapping against the fabric, and slides his dick under the fabric. The feeling of your warm wet heat sliding against his velvety shaft without the barrier was euphoric. Just skin against skin. And now, every time he slid forward his tip would catch right on your clit, pulling a sharp gasp from your lips.
“Oh this is so much better.” his voice cracked slightly on the words, his sharp thrusts drawing out gasps from your lips. He was grinding his dick along your messy and soaked folds, hips moving in that smooth and controlled way only he could.
The slick friction has Michael’s abs tightening and he cums before he can even think about it. Or stop it. He cums a lot, ropes coating over your already dripping sex and naval.
And even though he just came, that feeling still doesn’t go away. If anything it just made him feel worse.
“Mmmngh— ‘m sorry pretty. Can we do it one more time? Jus’ one more time okay?” he begged and begged, voice desperate, already moving to press against you again.
He was much more enthusiastic this time, chasing after his release with fervor, his cum still between your pelvises making him lose momentum and slip over your pussy. You were a mess at this point, hands gripping anywhere they could and moaning out. You knew this wasn’t going to be enough. For either of you.
“Mikey, need you inside please.” he stalled, coming to a complete halt. He knew he wasn’t gonna need much convincing, but still—
“Are y’sure?” he looked manic but needed to make certain it was something you actually wanted.
“Yes, yes please.”
He didn’t need to be told again. He sat up before roughly flipping you over onto your stomach, pulling you to the edge of the bed. His hands gripped at your hips, lifting them up while a hand smoothed down over your back to press you down, chest flush with the mattress.
He brought his dick to your entrance and pressed inside without preamble. He’d had enough teasing and was met with very little resistance, you being worked up and wet enough.
At the first feel of him inside you, you both let out a simultaneous moan. He was in pure ecstasy. And the angle had him hitting a spot deep inside you every time he pressed his hips to yours. He didn’t know if it was the drugs or just you but he felt like he’d finally gotten some relief. So he chased after that feeling.
It was messy and heated, slick sounds from your combined wetness ringing in his ears and spurring him on. Little groans of your name and whimpers were leaving his lips and every time your pussy spasmed and drew him in was like heaven had fell down and relocated between your legs.
He hardly knew what to do with himself. He just watched that little ring coating around your entrance where he was sliding in and out of you.
“Feel good mama, y’like when I’m deep inside you like this? C’mon, tell me how it feels angel.”
“Ss’so good.” you couldn’t frame together a full sentence, drool spilling from the corner of your lip while he fucked you.
Michael was relentless, hips smacking roughly against yours. At some point you couldn’t hold yourself up anymore and collapsed down onto the mattress. And instead of hauling you up, he just followed you down, plastering himself firmly to your back.
“Nu uh please don’t run mama, mm not done yet. Still need this pussy. Gotta take it.” he huffed out into your ear and tightened his hold on you, dragging you into his thrusts. You were thankful when he dipped his hand around your body, reaching to rub tight circles over your clit. Even if he was fucked out of his mind, he wouldn’t forget your pleasure.
You were wailing out, repeated cries of his name and please all stringing together in an indistinguishable mess.
“Pussy so sweet to me, gonna come for me? Yeah she is— you’re so close aren’t you?” he was babbling so much, all of it bringing you closer and closer to the edge until you came with a barely audible cry.
His hips still didn’t stop, he kept the momentum going, fucking you through your orgasm, and when you finally were ready to come back down he still hadn’t stopped. You were feeling the beginnings of overstimulation setting in, your limbs shaking slightly.
Michael finally pulled off you and flipped you back over. He looked apologetic and in a daze as he wrapped your thighs up in his hands, spreading you open and shoving a leg over his shoulder.
You had a feeling of what he was gonna say next. He kissed your ankle sweetly before speaking. “Jus’ one more time okay sweet girl, I promise jus’ one more. Y’can do that right? Doin’ so good for me.”
One more time actually turned into about five more times, Michael bending you into any position his mind could conjure up in his sex induced haze. You’d lost track of just about everything, but around your last time, when things had finally started to tame, it felt different.
It wasn’t frantic and chasing like it had been. He went slow and pressed deep. It was reverent and loving and had you clawing your nails against the slope of his back. He didn’t say much but the message was there in the way he caressed you after, pressing gentle kisses all over you.
The last thing you remember is him whispering something in your ear before your body took the rest that it needed.
You woke the next morning to a harsh sound directly in your ear. Your body felt like it’d been hit by a truck but you managed to turn to be met with a soundly sleeping Michael, mouth open and arm draped over your hip. He was snoring, you realized with a smile. At least he was actually sleeping for once.
You stretched your limbs out as best you could, head pressed into the pillow. You needed to get up, your brain already running scenarios in your head for what you’d do when he got up. A cold fear crashed into you when you thought of what he’d say.
If he’d regret this whole thing. Because you didn’t. It was unexpected, sure but you didn’t regret it. You knew the feelings you had for Michael before this whole thing even happened. Ones you tried to push down because you thought it was the right thing to do.
You decided that you wanted to be up first and at least have clothes on or got in the shower for this conversation. You pried your limbs from under his body, attempting to not wake him up.
You went to pick your clothes up off the floor when you caught sight of your reflection in a mirror near the wall.
“Holy fuck.” you furrowed your brows moving closer. All marred across your skin were deep marks, ranging in color and size. You’d be hard pressed to find a spot untouched.
Michael stirred on the bed lifting up and wiping sleep from his eye. When he saw you across the room he got a deeply embarrassed look on his face. How could he look so innocent after what happened last night?
“I uh— I’m sorry about that. I may have gotten a little carried away.”
You turned to inspect your back and ass, tilting your head at him. “A little carried away? It looks like I got mauled.” you pointed to a bruise on your thigh glaring at him playfully. Truthfully, you weren’t all that upset at all. You enjoyed last night.
“Sorry I was just havin’ too much fun. It was jus’ the drugs in my system.” he’d said it with a shrug like it was no big deal. Your brows drew down immediately.
“So… all of last night, that was just the drugs?” you held your breath, waiting for an answer, eyes staring into his expectantly. You were already planning your emotionally detached response and escape but he seemed to realize how that sounded quickly.
He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Oh goodness no no. I didn’t mean— of course not. I wouldn’t do that to you.” he reassured and you let out the breath you’d been holding.
“I promise you it didn’t mean nothin’ to me.” he said, eyes filled with something you couldn’t put a name to yet. But you believed him and his words eased your mind.
“Okay. These bruises are still crazy though. How am I supposed to hide this Michael?”
Synopsis: Hearing this particular song of your husband's on the radio after years, knowing it was written with you in his mind, you tear up.
Tags: Fluff. Yearning, oh so much of it. I love you repeated a ridiculous amount of times. Ends on a beautiful note.
A/n: Getting back to my roots lol. Written way past midnight and half asleep so apologies if it isn't coherent. I swear, IJCSLY has something addictive in it to make it sound so yearning. This is my love for that track, it's amazing! Hope y'all love it. Thank you for your love and support as always <3
Each time the wind blows, I hear your voice Love —
You know which song it was immediately with the beginning piano notes after the radio jockey announced for a Michael Jackson classic to be played for the season.
Whispers in morning, our love is dawning —
The car drive continues in peace, unaware of your inner turmoil. Returning from your work at the variety show, you were already yearning to rush home into the arms of the man that made the walls feel like one.
The music continues to serenade in the way it was written to be and you know that intimately because each of those lines were borne from the devotion of his relationship with you.
I'm so proud to say 'I love you' —
"I love you," he whispers into your neck, gathering you in his arms. "Have I told you that today?"
You turn around to face him. His brown eyes are open and honest. Smiling, you push the strands of his hair falling to the back. "I don't know, maybe only about five times?"
His lips twitches up. "That sounds too little." Leaning close, he presses his lips to your pulse. "I love you, darlin'."
You indulge him and kiss his forehead, letting your lips linger there. "I love you too, Mike."
However, he doesn't stop. Moving a little up, he kisses your lips chastely. Against them, he whispers again. "I love you, my angel."
Your hands drift down to his neck, holding him close to you. "I love you, baby."
His lips map to your right cheek. "I love you." Then to the spot behind your neck that makes you shiver unconsciously. "I love you."
The three words repeated in his deep cadence make your heart twist, a heavy feel settling inside. Cradling his face, you meet his eyes. "Michael.. baby, I know you love me. So, so much."
His doe eyes stare into yours for a moment before he shakes his head slightly. "I love you so much, darlin', so much that it hurts." With his hand on your wrist, he drags it and places it on his chest, above the steady beat of his heart. "Right here."
Your breath hitches, your fingers curling tight into the fabric of his shirt. "Baby..."
His eyes never leave yours, like he's hoping you could step inside his mind to see a glimpse of how it looks like. "I've never been so scared of losin' anything in my life." Tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ear, he continues. "And then you came."
His thumb brushes the top of your hand that's against his chest. "You're like my wish that came true, right when I needed," he says, a fond smile at you.
With a hand to the back of his head, you rest your forehead on to his. "The answer to all my prayers." Your own words pour out devoted. "All of them nights, and I've you now."
"Then tell me, baby." His eyes flutter shut, his legs tangling with yours beneath the sheets. "How can I ever stop loving you?"
You are stunned at that. You know when you got together with him, the relationship that first bloomed as his publicist while searching for a breakthrough in the industry slowly turning in shapes and leading right to the moment you are in at present, this was going to be the one for you. With the passing years and a diamond ring sitting on your left hand, you know there won't be anybody else in your life other than him.
But this felt beyond that, something that even heavens fall short in presence to explain.
He pushes ahead even at your silence. Rubbing his nose with yours, he says with a level of reverence that strips you of all your defense. "For all my days, you are the only one I want to wake up next to." The intimate bubble expands when he opens his eyes, his lashes brushing yours. "How am I meant to live without your love, sweetheart?"
I just can't stop loving you, and if I stop —
The memories of that night several years ago cuts short as the car comes to a halt in front of the iron gates of the ranch. Paying hastily, you throw open the car door immediately and move as fast as you can to the house, past the tracks and rides.
Your heart continues in the staccato it has been since you heard the song.
You've to see Michael at once.
Halting a staff at work, you ask, "Where's Michael?"
She smiles politely with a knowing look. "Mr. Jackson is by the gardens —"
And you're already sprinting in that direction.
How many times have you told him you loved him like he did that night?
Even when your lungs burn at exertion, your feet refuse to still until the Michael comes at your sight.
Sitting under the Giving Tree, he has his notepad on his knees when your footsteps makes him look up.
A blinding smile emerges on his face at once. "Darlin'—!"
You didn't think twice before throwing yourself at him, although a little mindful of his notes. Wrapping your hands tight around his neck, you try to get your words out past your labored breathing. "I love you, Michael." You press your forehead to his shoulder, the tears that you've held back since I Just Can't Stop Loving You played finally finding its release. "I love you so, so much, baby."
You shake your head. "I can't even imagine being without you —"
And it clicks.
The pause that night. The depth behind his eyes which made you wonder about his thoughts. The same shake of his head that you made now.
Some feelings exceed words at times. Even the biggest of vocabulary you can grab for in your head doesn't fit what you're carrying in your heart.
You feel his hand running down your back calmingly. "Breathe first, my love." He presses the side of his head to yours. "We have all the time in the world."
You take long and deep inhales until breathing stops feeling difficult. Michael notices the change and pulls you to sit on his lap, still on the grass.
The amber of his eyes glint under the evening sunlight. "What happened, baby?" He wipes beneath your eyes with a frown. "Why you cryin'?"
You part your lips, trying for an answer. You end up curling yourself in his arms, your head on his shoulder. "Missed you so much today."
He murmurs. "What made my lady miss me?"
You debate whether or not to tell him and the truth flows freer. "Heard your song in the radio on my way back home." You pick at the overgrown grasses, keeping your hands busy. "I Just Can't Stop Loving You, they played."
Behind you, Michael's eyes widen in understanding. "That makes more sense," he says to himself. He tries to lighten the mood by ribbing you. "It's been years and you still think about it?"
How can you not think about it?
Your hand shakes when you take one of Michael's hands in yours — watching as his expression morphs from teasing to one of his reserved, intense stares — and press it to your racing heart.
"As long as this beats," you tell him, draping your legs over his and caressing his face with your other hand, "I can never be with anybody else but you. Never."
Michael stares at you for a beat too long before slowly bending enough for his lips to meet yours in a sweet kiss.
"I can never stop loving you," he says your name with unequivocal devotion. "'Cause if I stop, what will I ever do, girl?"
You give a quiet laugh and kiss him again, this time being more aware of the feel of his lips and the settlement of his palm on your waist.
Michael doesn't prolong but pulls away with a peck. You don't protest at that.
You shift enough to sit between Michael's legs, your back pressed to his chest and his hand possessive on your waist.
The winds blowing over the ranch carry your whispered confession. "I love you, Michael."
You feel the fond press of his lips on your shoulder through the soft fabric of your shirt. "I love you too, darlin'. Much, much more than what I can say."
The cool breeze continues to blow past the ranch.
You have all that you need in this world with Michael's arms around you.
End notes: Thank you for reading! If there's any errors I take responsibility cause not proof read and I've to wake up in four more hours send help —
Edit: okay so reading back 6 hours later I think it came out better than i expected??
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ synopsis: it is the first of february, 1980, one week before studio 54 closes its doors for good. dragged along to the disco by her best friend for her twenty-first birthday, a singer for a rising post-punk band spends the evening wishing she were anywhere else. slipping out early to make her way to her favourite underground goth club, she catches a glimpse of michael jackson, sharing a wholesome conversation about the subculture she’s grown to love and be a major figure in.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ wc: 7k… its long sorry yall i got carried away
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ content: probably switches from past to present tense sorry im too lazy to fix it, infamous silk shirt mj even tho it doesnt fit the era SORRRYYY, goth reader, no mention of y/n, reader hates the bee gees, reader is a singer in a real band called the slits... oopsieee, reader is mentioned to have dark/black hair once i think??? unsure, also had curly hair in mind but i dont think it’s explicitly stated, there’s like one pov switch, nervous michael, alcohol consumption, slowburn and pure FLUFF!!!
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ first fanfic since i was like at least 12 years old which was nearly 8 years ago so i apologize if it’s a bit corny… i hope u have fun reading though >.< i loved writing this
you had always disliked disco. and you had never expressed that distaste quietly.
you disliked how there was usually glitter everywhere — your body, hands, hair, even sometimes finding its way, annoyingly, into your mouth whenever you tried to loosen up and sing along to the music. you disliked the disorienting, mirrored walls, how the room multiplied itself until you couldn’t find the edge of anything. and you especially disliked the way everyone seemed determined to look exactly like everyone else, the crowd flooding itself with satin, sequins, and enough gold to blind a small country.
but, worst of all, you hated that you were spending your friday night inside the biggest disco in new york: studio 54.
not that it would be around much longer. it was the first day of february in 1980, and the place was shutting down in a week after the geniuses running it—steve rubell and ian schrager—were convicted of tax evasion.
as far as you were concerned, it couldn’t happen soon enough. good riddance to the whole damn circus.
you stood with your arm leaning against the bar, casually sipping your drink. you were not drunk enough for this. your best friend—who seemed to be the complete opposite in terms of both style and personality—was eagerly waving her hand at the bartender for another round of shots, mindlessly swaying her hips to whatever song bled through the speakers behind her. she turned toward you when she noticed how still you’ve been, and over-exaggerates the roll of her eyes,
“this is my twenty-first birthday,” she shouted with punctuation over the music, quickly snatching the shot she had ordered from the server before it slid off the counter. “you promised me you’d have fun!”
“i promised i’d come,” you said, watching the gold, dancing swarm of sweaty people sprawl across the floor. “not that i’d have fun. i'm making a huge effort just by being here.”
it wasn’t a lie that you had made an effort—not because studio 54 deserved it, but because your best friend of years was finally of legal drinking age and had threatened bodily harm if you showed up looking like you were attending a funeral.
so, you compromised. but naturally, your dress had to be black.
well, to be fair, you’d tried purple first. you’d held the dress up to the light and decided it would clash too obviously against all the gold sequins around you—in truth, it was your best friend who’d insisted on the phone, but the reasoning had still felt valid. which left you with your only other option: black. not the purple lace dress that reached your ankles, wine-dark and dramatic. instead, a sleeveless sequined number that skimmed your body and caught every stray beam of light in the club. silver stars glittered across the fabric scattering bright reflections each time you shifted your weight, while a fringe hem swayed around your thighs with every step. it was undeniably disco in your opinion, but in the way a midnight sky would be.
you’d paired it with sheer black stockings dusted in silver shimmer and metallic heels that clicked sharply loud against the dance floor. layers and layers of your signature, thrifted silver jewelry gleamed at your throat and wrists, a couple dainty rings you’d found deep in your drawers wrapped around your fingers that were painted black at the nailbeds. the combination was just unconventional enough that you felt like you had not entirely lost yourself to the environment. like a small, private rebellion nobody around you would understand.
as you scanned the dance floor, most of the women looked as though they stepped directly out of a champagne advertisement you’d see on the subway home. you took some comfort in the contrast, that you, in comparison, looked like a celestial omen. the sequins caught the light, but the black itself caught nothing. reflected nothing. it just absorbed everything around it.
your friend nudges you out of your people-watching stupor.
“you’ve literally been here for forty minutes and you’ve barely sung a word! you haven't even swayed those hips yet!” she complains, bumping her hip drunkenly into yours, the movement sending her drink sloshing. “shit!” she mutters, slamming the glass down and miserably attempting to dab the stain of her liquid gold, bell-bottomed jumpsuit.
you watched with an amusing grin. “forty minutes in here is practically a lifetime for me.”
she rolled her eyes as she lifted her gaze back up to you, her glitter-dusted face full of irritation. you held her gaze for a small moment before looking back at the crowd. donna summer started blasting through the speakers and the people below the spinning lights looked like a living organism—a single, pulsating thing made of bodies. somewhere behind you, someone screams at a celebrity sighting.
it was, by your count, the fifth one of the evening.
you turned back to your friend. she was already staring into your dark, kohl-lined eyes with a determined expression.
“you’re staying with me for one more hour,” she announces, sassily placing a hand on her hip. “and let me up some glitter on your eyes, girl.”
you groaned.
she narrowed her eyes and pulled her lips tight in annoyance. you hated upsetting her; she was the birthday girl after all.
“thirty minutes.”
“forty-five.”
you paused. considered it for maybe three seconds, looking away across the crowd.
then you tilt your head toward her. “fine,” you sigh in defeat.
she grabs your wrist immediately and bee-lines for the restroom with the single-minded focus of someone who has won. your hair bounces as she pulls you aggressively through the mob, and you accidentally shoulder-check a young man in the process. you look back and flash an apologetic smile, though you lose him in the crowd before you can see whether it lands.
you already decided, in that embarrassing instant, that you would not be staying for the promised forty-five minutes.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
michaels pov:
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
michael wasn’t paying much attention to his surroundings when the collision happened.
bill was standing beside him, maintaining a careful distance from the individual representing some label who had been trying to talk to michael all evening. on bill's other side, a photographer hovers with the casual, practiced patience of someone who does this for a living, waiting for the right candid of the man of the hour. meanwhile, Q is talking at michael about the potential of a new album and how they should start working soon, his voice steady and persistent above the music like something that cannot be turned off.
then, without warning—breaking michael out of his dissociation entirely—someone crashes into his shoulder.
he stumbles back half a step.
he whips his head toward them, and for a brief moment catches a woman looking back over her shoulder.
a small, toothy smile.
it was sweet. apologetic.
before he could say anything—do anything—she was gone—another head lost in the horde of sweat and music.
and yet, his eyes find her again without any particular effort.
at first, it was simply because she looked different. in a room built entirely from gold—gold dresses, gold jumpsuits, gold jewelry, gold light reflecting off every mirrored surface—she was, somehow, covered in black. but it wasn’t the depressing black of funerals or overcast mornings. it was the gorgeous black that comes from staring at the midnight sky and finally catching a shooting star in the distance. soft, yet entirely mysterious. the sleeveless dress shimmers wherever light finds it, silver stars scattered across the fabric like a constellation sewn directly into the colour he’d just been imagining. every movement sends the fringe around her thighs swaying like calm, ocean waves, catching flashes of light from the disco ball before disappearing back into the shadows.
michael looks away, a slight blush grazing the apple of his cheeks. a small, surprised smile follows quickly behind it.
he wipes the expression off his face when he remembers he isn’t alone.
Q is still talking. michael nods and says something probably completely unrelated to whatever Q was conversing over.
as the night wears on, michael finds himself noticing her again and again.
she should blend in, but she doesn’t—not even a little bit. his eyes start to locate her naturally, without any real decision behind it. across the dance floor with her friend, who is clearly her complete opposite in every visible way. near the bar, attempting to get drunk enough to make the evening tolerable. then catching her standing off to the side when that strategy fails, watching her friend dance with a stranger, shifting her weight slowly from hip to hip as she waits for a song she actually recognizes to come on.
every time he spots her, she looks completely unimpressed. unfazed by the spectacle surrounding her, lacking the awe that most people carry into this room—the same room that is creating history for new york; the history people will talk about for decades.
and somehow, that only makes her more interesting.
he starts catching himself searching for her without meaning to. scanning for the glimpse of black sequins, the flash of silver jewelry among all the gold bangles. he hopes to make short eye contact with those dark eyes lined in black or capture that rare smile that, whenever it finally appears, never once looks forced.
it was completely ridiculous.
the room was filled to the brim with celebrities, models, musicians, and socialites. the kind of network any other person would be falling over themselves to access. and yet, michael’s attention keeps drifting back to the same mysterious woman who looks like she would rather be somewhere else entirely.
sometime later, michael could feel both himself and bill beginning to choke beneath the constant, sustained attention of the room. but as the night deepens, the crowd grows drunker, and the frenzy around michael’s presence finally starts to burn itself out—most people returning to grinding against one another, more interested in the blaring music than in him. when enough of that tension dissolved, he manages to convince bill to wait while he crossed the room to grab them both a drink.
while he leaned patiently at the bar, he naturally glanced toward the different exits out of long-held habit. through the shifting crowd, he watches her quietly slip through the side entrance.
no announcement. no dramatics.
just gone, like the wind had taken her.
michael watched the door swing shut behind her. for reasons he can’t quite explain, the rest of studio 54 instantly shifted into an empty feeling, a little too loud for all the wrong reasons. after a very short moment of consideration, he circles his head around to make sure nobody is watching, and then crosses the room toward that same heavy door like a teenager trying to sneak past curfew.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
your pov:
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
you break your promise at twenty-seven minutes.
you tell yourself that’s close enough.
the cold manhattan air hits your face the second the door swings shut behind you, and something in your chest immediately loosens. you close your eyes and breathe it in—the diesel and winter cold, the distant sound of a cab horn somewhere down the block, the blissful, merciful silence where the bee gees used to cling onto. your ears still ring, but you would rather have that than barry gibb’s voice for a single second longer.
when you open your eyes, you are already thinking about where you want to go.
the club you actually want to be at sits several blocks away. a smaller, darker venue—the underground and hidden kind where nobody cares if you dressed like you woke up at eight in the evening and reached for attire similar to a vampire with a deep personal attachment to edgar allan poe.
in all, your kind of people.
you start walking with a pep in your step.
by the time you arrive, you can already hear your band’s music booming through the walls. i heard it through the grapevine has become something of a fan favourite within the scene, and the familiar bassline pulls the natural frown you’ve been wearing for hours into something warmer.
“escaped studio 54 again?” the bouncer says, cutting through your euphoria.
“you say that like i was there voluntarily.”
he laughs and waves you inside.
the room glows red and violet beneath the low lights. smoke curls lazily through the air without any particular scent—just atmosphere. the dancefloor pulses with the classic darker sounds you’ve grown familiar with.
you practically exhale in relief, letting your shoulders drop from the tension you hadn’t noticed you were carrying.
the bass travels up through your heels. it vibrates into your knees, your hips, your sternum. you let it possess you, clicking across the floor and stepping into the crowd, and within minutes the rhythm has taken over and you stop having to think about where your body is going. despite being dressed for the disco, you don’t feel picked apart here. everyone welcomes you with open arms and the rhythmic pulse of their feet and the room feels like coming home the longer you stay on that floor.
you have spent years in places like this. years packed shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers dressed entirely in black, passing cigarettes around out back, arguing passionately about which cure album is definitively the best one.
for the first time all evening, you weren’t counting down the minutes until you could leave. if anything, it was the opposite—you’re aware of every minute as it passes, wishing to stop time and stay here vibrating in the bass of the synths and the sharp cracks of different drumming sequences. it all merges together in your ears and keeps a constant movement through your hips and your head, and you mouth along to the lyrics without even realizing.
you’d almost forgotten that studio 54 even existed.
keyword: almost.
a strange feeling rises at the back of your neck. the particular kind that lifts your baby hairs due to the unmistakable sensation of someone’s eyes on you for longer than feels incidental.
you try to shake it off. people stare—you are part of the slits, a rising band in a scene you’ve been attached to since you were a teenager, and you still come to small venues like this one like you were just another face in the crowd. it’s nothing.
yet, the feeling doesn't leave. it sits there and refuses to dissolve, persistent and almost suffocating in its specificity. the stare was not the casual, drifting kind you get when slightly recognized in a public space. it was deliberate, focused, and it killed your euphoric vibe entirely. curiosity replaces it before you can stop it.
your hands limply drop to your hips. you go still.
you look over your shoulder.
and it is as if you have looked directly into medusa’s eyes and turned into cold stone where you stand.
michael jackson is standing near one of the support pillars, looking entirely out of place among the sea of leather jackets and ripped fishnets. the silk shirt he wore caught the red lights in a way it was never designed to—ivory and unbuttoned just enough at the collar, the kind of thing that belonged under disco lights; not dark, gothic ones. dark, high-waisted trousers and shoes polished to a mirror sheen completed the picture: studio 54, head to toe, dropped without warning into entirely the wrong club. and yet, somehow, he still managed to look like he belonged—though, maybe that was just his undeniable charisma, because if you didn’t know who he was, he would look like someone had plucked a celebrity from the wrong movie and dropped him into this one.
you blink.
he is still there.
you blink twice more, slowly, like a person testing the reliability of their own eyes.
he hasn’t moved.
when he lifts his head and catches you staring at him like he was an invasive species, his eyes immediately dart back down to his boots.
your mouth falls open at the reality of it all.
you are trying to compose yourself, but the effort is not going particularly well, because the absurdity of what you are looking at doesn’t get less absurd the longer you contemplate it. it is completely ridiculous; not because there is anything wrong with him, but for the very opposite reason. michael jackson is one of your favourite artists, full stop, outside your usual genres and existing in a separate category altogether.
back in 1977, you’d stumbled across the jacksons on the carol burnett show while your mother sat in front of the television with a glass of wine and a plate of crackers balanced on her knee. dancing machine had blared through the small tv set, and he’d become a simple admiration ever since. his voice, his dancing, his stage presence—impossible to ignore in that way where you can't even try.
then off the wall came out.
the album practically lived on your turntable for the better part of three months now. you consider it one of the greatest vocal performances you have ever heard. the synthesizers, keyboards, strings, guitars, drums, percussion—every element fit together so effortlessly that it left you completely speechless on first listen, and continued to do so on every subsequent one. more evenings than you’d care to admit were spent sitting in your apartment, watching the record spin as you worked up lyrics for your own band, convincing yourself that your preoccupation with the album was purely musical.
which, admittedly, had been true.
at least until a random december night, when the rock with you music video popped up on tv for a re-run.
you’d watched it once and spent an embarrassingly long time afterward staring at the television with a completely glazed expression. you taped it immediately after, so you could watch it again whenever you wanted—which was, it turned out, more frequently than you had anticipated. since then, what had been a clean, honest respect for his craft evolved into something significantly less professional and considerably more humiliating.
a crush.
a ridiculous, inconvenient, deeply unfortunate crush on a man who exists so far outside your orbit that the very concept earns a hearty laugh when it has the audacity to cross your mind.
he was one of the biggest musicians in the world, and you were playing clubs and scribbling lyrics in a small apartment you can barely afford rent for.
musically, professionally, and in just about every other measurable way, he belongs to an entirely different universe from yours.
and yet,
that same man is standing twenty feet away from you in a goth club.
his dark curls shift with every small movement, bouncing gently under the coloured lights. the silk shirt and bell-bottoms belong very firmly in a place that isn’t this, but his posture has a quality of ease in it that makes the discrepancy seem beside the point.
a laugh escapes you before you can rein it in. soft at first, then louder, because the absurdity of the entire situation catches you all at once, and the magical drinks in your bloodstream gives it permission to become audible. your feet carry you toward him before your brain has the opportunity to stage an intervention.
with every step you close between you, the nervous energy underneath his sudden surface confidence becomes more visible. his gaze flickers across the room before returning to you, pulled back like it has no real choice. he shifts his weight and straightens his shoulders, his hands searching for something to hold onto but they come up empty, leaving his fingers to toy absentmindedly with the fabric of his pant leg—lightly rubbing the crease, a small, repetitive motion, something to anchor himself.
when you finally stop in front of him, neither of you seem particularly eager to speak first. his eyes meet yours for a moment before awkwardly sliding away, returning a beat later like they’d only left out of obligation.
you break the stare-down with a quick shake of your head, realizing you’ve been standing there like a monument. you lift both hands and spread them apart in simple disbelief, shaking them.
“okay,” you begin slowly, voice carrying a studied calmness. “i know i’m not drunk enough for this now that i've come to my senses and know that you’re real.”
the laugh that escapes him is immediate and completely natural, catching him off guard as though he’d been holding himself very carefully in place and the sound surprised even him. his eyes slightly widen and he covers his mouth out of habit.
“that’s exactly what i thought when i got here.”
your mouth still hasn’t closed from the shock. your eyes haven’t either.
you gesture broadly toward the room—the leather jackets worn soft with age, the ladders of fishnets disappearing beneath heavy boots, the smoke curling lazily through the low lights until it swallows people’s ankles and makes them look like they’re floating.
“michael,” you say slowly, his name slipping from your mouth so casually catches him off guard. then you turn your head toward him. “look around.”
his gaze wanders across the room with genuine, unguarded curiosity. he takes in the dark clothes, the dramatic makeup, the battered, large shoes paired with chunky jewelry in every muted colour. nobody around him seems particularly concerned with his presence. nobody is screaming, nobody is shoving a napkin to sign in his face—a few people glance his way and offer a polite nod of acknowledgement, a greeting, before returning to their conversations, their drinks, each other.
you watch intently as he registers these small moments, one after another. you catch the exact second his shoulders loosen.
you tilt your head and look at him with something playful and quiet in your expression. “you belong to studio 54.”
a smile appears on his face at the acknowledgement. he glances down at his silk shirt and bell-bottoms in wry agreement, and when his eyes meet yours again without fully lifting his head, he lets out a short, easy chuckle.
but then something crosses his face—a flash of recollection—and his eyes widen with it. the smile that follows is wider than the last one.
“you were at studio 54.”
“yeah, against my will,” you say, raising your eyebrows. you meant to make it sound obvious.
“against your will? really?” he repeats.
you scoff with a reluctant smile. you point vaguely toward the ceiling in reference to the music still carrying faintly above you. “three consecutive bee gees songs. why would i want to be there on purpose?”
his face immediately scrunches. “okay, that’s fair.”
you smile despite yourself, genuinely grateful he agreed. a comfortable beat of silence settles between you then, filled only by the music pulsing through the floorboards beneath your feet and the distant clinks of glasses from the bar. the crowd moves in shifting shadows around you, unbothered.
then you become very aware of how long you’ve been looking at him, and you glance away quickly. the decision is entirely self-preservation, because every time your eyes meet his, you are reminded all over again that the michael jackson in front of you is very real. not trapped behind a television screen or spinning under the blue and green lights of your favourite music video.
he was real. unfortunately, inconveniently, stubbornly real.
so, you redirect your attention to the crowd and watch a woman with teased, dyed-black hair twirl dramatically beneath the crimson lights. somewhere nearby, someone is attempting to light a cigarette while dancing, which earns a quiet laugh from you.
anything is better than looking at those stupidly pretty doe eyes.
“you looked miserable.”
your head snaps back toward him so fast that your dangling earrings brush against your neck, catching a violet beam before swinging wildly into place.
“i did not!” the offense in your exclaim comes out far stronger than intended.
michael immediately bites down on a smile, “but you did.”
“michael,”
he looks entirely too pleased with himself, the expression deliberately subtle—just enough of a curve at the corner of his mouth, just enough light remaining in his eyes to tell you that he knows he’s struck a nerve and is enjoying it thoroughly.
you hold his gaze and try to look unconvinced. you try harder not to think about how obvious your feelings about studio 54 had apparently been. harder still not to think about your best friend—whether she’d noticed too, the guilt settling faintly at the edges.
despite having very little faith in your own defense, you insist, “i absolutely did not look miserable.” unfortunately, the confidence evaporates from your mouth somewhere in the middle of the sentence.
michael catches the wobble immediately. his smile widens delightfully. you have clearly never been much of an actress.
“you know,” he starts, something amused threading beneath the words, “you crossed your arms during three different songs.”
you stare at him in bewilderment. behind his shoulder, a burst of laughter erupts from somewhere in the crowd. a person brushes past carrying two drinks sloshing dangerously close to the rim. none of it feels particularly noticeable against the fact that michael jackson apparently has catalogued your body language from two hours ago with the kind of attention most people reserve for things that actually matter to them.
“that proves nothing.” the words come out too quickly. judging by how his smile deepens, he clocks it.
“i think it proves you weren’t having a good time.” he says it with quiet, settled confidence, leaning in slightly as he continues teasing.
you open your mouth with the full intention of delivering a witty comeback that will make him regret sounding so certain of himself. nothing comes. you close your mouth into a straight line because, in reality, he was right. you had spent most of your evening counting ceiling lights and wondering how long it would take for your best friend to get drunk enough to pay no mind to your absence.
you settle for a weak but immediate defense. “or maybe i was just cold.”
his gaze drops briefly to your bare shoulders—at fault from the sleeveless construction of your silver-starred dress—before travelling unhurriedly back upward, taking in your relaxed posture. your hand rests comfortably against your hip. everything about you communicates ease, comfort, and most importantly, warmth.
this club was significantly smaller than studio 54 in every sense. there was no humidity. no suffocating press of body heat from every direction. if you’re trying to convince him that you were cold, the evidence is thoroughly not on your side.
his eyes eventually find yours again. he says nothing, because the look itself says everything.
a soft and brief laugh slips from him, accompanied by the slightest shake of his head, and the expression is so gently, unambiguously victorious that you immediately regret giving him the opening.
“don’t.” you stifle, but despite the warning, a reluctant smile is already tugging at the corner of your mouth.
he keeps prying anyway, visibly encouraged by the warmth steadily climbing your cheeks. “you rolled your eyes as well,”
a groan escapes you before you can stop it. you drag both hands over your face, partly to hide the embarrassment and partly because you already know whatever observation comes next is going to be annoyingly accurate. “when did i do that?” the question comes out muffled through your palms.
“at least twice,” michael says. his smile is bright now—wide enough that he looks far less like one of the biggest musicians in the world and far more like someone having the time of his life teasing a woman he finds genuinely interesting.
and quite pretty up close.
your hands drop. “yeah, okay,” you point accusingly at him, refusing to surrender just yet. “allegedly.”
his grin only grows, “once during the bee gees, duh.”
you roll your eyes instinctively. “okay sure but it’s the bee gees–” the defense dies in your mouth as the realization arrives all at once. your mouth snaps shut.
he stares back at you.
the crowd continues moving around you, completely indifferent to the epiphany washing over you in slow, mortifying waves. a familiar bassline rolls through the speakers and barely registers.
your hand flies to your mouth and you mutter, “oh my god.”
the reaction is immediate—michael’s expression shifts entirely. “what?” he says quickly, his eyes darting briefly toward the crowd, then behind him toward the entrance. genuine concern settles over his face and his body tenses, as though bracing for someone crazy to have recognized him. “what happened?
the words come out before you can catch them in your throat.
“you were actually watching me.”
the words settle between you like glass just shattered.
or at least, that’s what it felt like to michael.
michael’s gaze abandons yours completely, finding the bar instead, fixing itself on the rows of bottles glowing amber in the low light and the bartender polishing glasses with far more precision than the task requires. he stares at these things like they are the most interesting things in the room.
and, just like that, the tables turn entirely.
warmth blooms in your chest. a smile creeps across your mouth, slow and irresistible. all evening you have been the one fighting not to embarrass yourself, keeping everything carefully managed. and now michael looks like he would genuinely rather be standing anywhere else in new york than beneath your knowing, unhurried stare.
“you were, huh?”
his shoulders lift slightly—not quite a shrug, but something closer to a surrender.
one hand disappears behind his neck, rubbing it sheepishly. a quiet laugh escapes him, accompanied by a small shake of his head, and the gesture is so unguarded and self-aware that something in your heart softens unexpectedly. “maybe a little,” he admits, still not quite meeting your eyes.
“a little?”
michael winces. “okay… maybe more than a little.”
a genuine laugh flees from your mouth. you shake your head, lifting a hand to your mouth as it softens into something quieter. but the smile refuses to leave. it sits stubbornly across your face and warms your cheeks the same colour as the crimson lights that occasionally hits your faces.
whatever nervousness had been sitting in his expression seems to dissolve at the sight of it. when he finally looks at you again, what replaces it is pure, open, curiosity.
“i just…” he began, his voice trailing off. he glances away for a moment, chewing thoughtfully on the inside of his cheek as he searches for the right words. he clicks his tongue, “you just looked different.”
one of your eyebrows lifts, “good different?”
“good different.” the answer stumbles out with a trace of urgency, expeditious in the way of someone who cannot bear the possibility of being misunderstood on this particular point.
your smile widens at the reaction.
his gaze moves over you once more; slower this time. not the kind of look that feels intrusive at all, but the king that belongs to someone trying to piece together a puzzle they have been quietly turning over all night.
he takes in the silver jewelry layered at your throat and wrists once more, before drifting upward to the heavy earrings swaying beneath your dark, bouncy hair. they catch the red light each time you shift, flashing briefly before disappearing back into the shadows that frame your face.
then his attention shifts onto your dress.
after an entire evening surrounded by gold sequins and mirrored walls, the black of your dress must have felt like a full stop at the end of a very long, overcrowded sentence. and even here, where he was the one who stuck out and you fit in with the crowd, his eyes would have still found you first.
finally, his eyes find your face.
the sharp lines of makeup framing your eyes, shaping every small expression into something striking. even the slightest lift your brow seems capable of conveying an entire conversation without a word.
“i kept wondering about your style.”
when he looks at you again, there is an openness in his expression that catches you slightly off guard. it is not judgement or confusion. it is the genuine kind of curiosity that forgets to be cautious.
you catch onto it immediately. “you mean the goth thing?”
his eyes brighten. “thats what it’s called?”
you blink.
“wait—you followed me into a goth club and you don’t even know what goth is?”
he blushes immediately, a sheepish yet entirely charming smile crossing his face. “when you say it like that, it sounds crazy…” he anticipates mockery, but you stay quiet instead, watching him with patience, waiting for the next question to leave his lips.
“so… what is it then, exactly?” he broadly gestures toward the environment around him.
you follow his movement and take in the room. the towering silhouettes of teased hair drifting through the haze beneath the violet and blood red lights. smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling, blurring the edges of the crowd until everyone seems to melt into ghosts of each other, despite the mass of dark leather and lace fabric filling the space. you cannot tell, at this point, whether that haze is coming from the smoke machines hidden around the room or from the endless stream of cigarettes passing from hand to hand.
you draw in a slow breath and look back at him.
“well,” you begin, “it started with music.”
michael’s head tilts slightly. he had assumed, without really thinking about it, that goth was something visual first. a fashion trend that sprung up in small underground circles before spreading into something larger. he hadn’t expected music to be the foundation of it all. something that is like a first language to him.
you catch the surprise.
“it came out of the post-punk genre,” you continue. “bands wanted to experiment with darker sounds. wanted to create more atmosphere, delve deeper into your emotions with less concern for what was fitting on the radio.”
your hands begin moving naturally with your words. you point vaguely toward the speakers overhead. “bauhaus is a big one. so is siouxsie and the banshees. joy division, the cure, cocteau twins—i’m sure you've heard of at least one of these, right?” you cock your head and michael nods slowly, listening with a quality of attention that is more focused than you had anticipated.
the subtle acknowledgement earns a grin from you before you keep going.
“most people think goth is all doom and gloom.” the music swells briefly around you while you think up your next works, before fading back beneath your voice. “it’s more about sharing an overlapping set of beliefs—ones that are considered ‘dark’.” you gesture air quotes around the word. “taking things people usually avoid—loneliness, melancholy, isolation, mortality—and exploring them. sitting with them instead of pretending they don’t exist.”
your fingers traced absent patterns through the air as you search for the right words.
“a lot of people end up here because they feel different. or misunderstood. or like they don’t quite fit wherever they’re supposed to fit.” the smile on your face softens then, into something quieter and more personal than you’d intended to share. “so they built something of their own instead.”
you lift your arms and present the venue around you like you were unveiling something.
“and that's this.”
the last words settle profoundly in michael differently than you could know.
he understands that feeling. more than he has ever wanted to admit—more than he has ever said aloud to anyone, ever.
his entire life has been spent surrounded by people. and still, loneliness has been one of the most familiar things he’s ever known. it doesn’t go away with the sold-out arenas, or the television appearances, or the magazine covers, or the screaming fans he truly loves so deploy. his brothers don’t always understand it, nor do his managers, reporters, or executives. most people look at his fame and assume it erases loneliness.
but if anything, it has only made the particular kind he carries more complicated, more specific. most people see michael jackson, but never michael. and the distance between those two names keeps growing with every passing year, month, even minute.
his gaze drifts toward the dance floor again. nobody here seems particularly concerned with appearances. nobody is watching him. for the first time since walking through the door, he is simply another person standing in a crowded room.
and for the first time all night, he understands exactly why you left studio 54 without looking back.
his eyes return to yours with a new softness.
“that actually sounds…” he hesitates.
you wait.
a small, genuine smile appears. “...really nice.”
your expression brightens before he could finish his sentence.
“it is.”
the certainty in your voice pulls another laugh from him, “you sound like you’re recruiting me.”
“maybe i am,” you say, and you nudge his arm with your shoulder in a light and teasing manner, almost carefully, like you’re testing the waters of physical contact with your new friend. the contact is barely anything, a moment’s worth of warmth. yet it travels up his spine before it’s even fully registered.
for a beat, neither of you speak. the silence settles comfortably between you as the music pulses through the floor and the crowd moves around you in shifting, half-lit shadows. neither of you are particularly eager to break it.
the absurdity of the situation hangs there—acknowledged but unspoken—and somehow doesn’t feel strange one bit.
michael isn’t entirely sure when he started noticing that you are absolutely breathtaking.
somewhere during the conversation, attraction had slipped in quietly beside his original admiration for you, so natural in its arrival that he almost missed it until this very moment. he is absolutely drawn to the way your mind works. the way your hands move whenever music comes up, like the words alone aren’t sufficient. the way every opinion seems deeply considered before being delivered with complete, unhurried confidence. there is something entirely refreshing about the way you exist in yourself—like you haven’t once thought about whether it is the right or wrong way to exist.
and when you talk about something you love, your face does something extraordinary. your eyes brighten into an entirely different register. your smile blooms slowly, taking its time, and it changes every other feature when it arrives. even your voice seems lighter on those words, as though they weigh less than the others.
he finds himself wanting to hear more—not because he cares about goth culture as deeply as you do, but because he wants to watch you care about it.
you, on the other hand, are starting to arrive at something equally inconvenient.
for years, michael jackson had existed as an untouchable figure. a photographed face that belonged on an album sleeve. a soothing voice that poured from your living room speakers. a figure trapped behind blurry television screens and magazine covers. someone so distant from your actual life that imagining a real conversation with him would have made you laugh a week ago.
and yet, here, beneath the harsh glow of your favourite underground club, he seems remarkably human. the distance that had always existed between you—the distance that was supposed to always exist between you—has quietly dissolved over the course of a single conversation. you are not entirely sure how to account for it. you are even less sure what to do with the violent butterfly situation currently inhabiting inside your stomach.
“michael.”
both of you turn at the same moment, quickly enough to be almost suspicious—as though the interruption had caught you at something you hadn’t been ready to be caught at yet.
bill stands several feet away with his arms crossed.
he is not visibly annoyed, but there is something in his expression; a knowing quality in his gaze sent straight to michael that sends heat creeping up the back of his neck before he's even fully registered why.
michael lets out a quiet sigh and drops his head like someone who has just been told to go to his room.
“i should probably go,” he mutters under his breath.
you chuckle at the immediate mood drop. “probably.”
bill stays rooted to the spot. neither of you makes any real move. after approximately five seconds of what is fairly transparently a middle-school-crush standoff, he clears his throat loudly enough to carry the specific warning of a man whose patience is particularly not infinite right now.
michael’s head jolts up. he raises both hands in surrender. “okay, okay!” he takes a reluctant step back toward the tall, quietly intolerant presence waiting for him.
then another.
his attention stays on you.
“it was really nice meeting you.” the sincerity in his voice catches you slightly off guard, arriving without any performance behind it. warmth spreads through your chest.
he turns on his heel and starts making full strides toward bill—and then you say it before you’ve decided to.
“wait!”
he stops immediately in his tracks. looks back.
you have already turned toward the bar, moving before your courage has the chance to reconsider. the bartender slides a napkin across the counter without question, apparently able to read the situation from a distance.
you borrow a pen and scribble a small heart in the corner first, letting the ink get to the tip of the ballpoint. then you write your phone number carefully beneath it. your name underneath the digits.
you fold the napkin once.
michael watches you cross back through the crowd toward him, his eyes moving between your face and the folded paper in your hand.
you step forward without explanation and slip it neatly into the chest pocket of his silk shirt. your fingers smooth the fabric once afterward, innocently patting it gently into place—a small, matter-of-fact gesture that is there and then gone before either of you can make anything of it.
the warmth lingers long after the touch itself has ended. it steals the air right out of his lungs and roots him where he stands.
a teasing smile tugs at your mouth. “if you lose that, i’m never forgiving you.” you punctuate it with a single, warning finger.
the smile on his face is so strong he thinks the apples of his cheeks might explode.
“i won’t.”
bill’s hand lands firmly on michael’s shoulder, interrupting the heartwarming moment. “let’s go.”
michael groans dramatically as he’s steered toward the exit. he glances back one final time when he hears you laugh at his theatrics, and lifts a hand in farewell with a sweet smile.
only once the heavy door swings shut behind him does he carefully—but immediately—unfold the napkin. he stands there for a moment beneath the cold february air, just looking at it. then quietly, almost to himself, he whispered your name, like he was trying out the sound of it. like he already knew he would be saying it again for the rest of his life.
and for the first time all evening, michael finds himself eager for the night to end, wishing impatiently for morning to arrive faster than twelve hours from now, counting the hours before he can use what he holds tenderly in his hand.
taglist: @nevergettingl4id @darkgreengrl @miratate @undeadzombiebrainz hopefully this taglist works 👀👀👀
The bathroom still carried the warmth of your shower, the mirrors fogged over in a soft haze while golden afternoon sunlight filtered through the frosted windows of Hayvenhurst.
The room smelled faintly of vanilla lotion and shea butter, your favorite combination, and quiet music drifted lazily from the bedroom radio just beyond the open door.
Sitting comfortably on a towel spread across the tiled floor, one leg stretched out before you, you smoothed a layer of warm wax over your calf with practiced ease, entirely absorbed in what had become just another part of your routine.
RIIP—
You didn’t even notice Michael leaning against the doorway until his voice floated over.
“…Mama?”
You glanced up.
There he was in his favorite red, mickey cardigan, a white button-up underneath and a pair of black pants, damp curls still clinging to his forehead from his own shower.
His arms were folded across his chest as he watched you with the same expression he’d worn when you’d first taught him how to bake cookies—equal parts curiosity and concern.
“What’re you doin’?”
You smiled as you casually ripped off another strip without flinching or even blinking. “Waxing.”
“I know that…” he said, slowly stepping inside. “But…why?”
You blinked once. “…To get rid of hair?”
“But you’re already smooth, baby.”
“Well, I have to maintain that, honey.” You chuckled out, putting another strip of wax on your leg.
“You don’t have to though, your legs…” You looked at Michael and he did an ‘okay’ sign whilst nodding appreciatively.
You giggled at his silliness. “I just prefer to not have leg hair, Michael. I’ve been doing this for years now.”
RIIIP—
“Ohh, okay.” He crouched beside your leg, chin resting on one hand while he watched with genuine fascination.
“So…that stuff just…pulls all the hair out?”
“Mhm.”
“…Every single one?”
“Yep.”
“Doesn’t hurt?”
You paused. “…Baby.”
“What?”
“You know it hurts.”
He frowned dramatically.
“I’ve heard people say that but…” He shrugged confidently. “People exaggerate everything.”
You looked at him. “…Michael.”
“No, really!” he insisted, already smiling. “I mean, people screamed about getting tattoos too.”
“You don’t even have tattoos.” You raised an eyebrow.
“I know, but still.” He puffed out his chest like he was Popeye eating a can of spinach. “I’ve got a high pain tolerance.”
You stared at him with a straight, deadpan look. “Really? Do you?”
“Absolutely.”
“Mikey.”
“I do, (Name).”
“You cried because your tea was too hot.”
“That burned my tongue…!” He blinked his wide eyes and frowned a little.
“You cried because the dentist cleaned your teeth too hard.”
“They were rough….and it still hurts!” He huffed out, holding his cheek.
You couldn’t help but still coo and kiss his cheek, he immediately smiled. Your kisses always were the best cure.
“I still powered through it though mama, didn’t I?”
“Yes you did.”
He pointed dramatically at himself and grinned proudly.
“Then, I can handle pain.”
You stared for several long seconds before setting the wooden spatula down, exhaling.
“…You really wanna do this?”
“I do.”
“You sure?”
“I am.”
“You can’t get mad at me.”
“I won’t.”
“You promise?”
“I promise.”
“…Okay. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
———————
Michael now sat stiffly on the edge of the bathtub with one pant leg rolled nearly to his thigh while you carefully spread a smooth, even layer of warm wax across his shin.
His expression had changed entirely.
Gone was the fearless performer who had proudly announced his pain tolerance.
In his place sat your very nervous husband whose breathing had become noticeably quicker with every stroke of the wooden applicator.
His fingers gripped the edge of the tub so tightly his knuckles had turned pale. “…It…it’s supposed to be this warm?” he asked quietly.
“Mm-hmm.”
“It feels…strange.”
“That’s normal.”
“…Normal strange?”
“Yes.”
“…Or concerning strange?”
You couldn’t stop smiling. “Normal strange.”
He swallowed hard as you pressed the cloth strip firmly over the wax, smoothing it down several times.
His eyes followed every single movement of your hands. “You’re pressing awful hard.”
“It has to stick.”
“…Does it?”
“Yes.”
“…Maybe…” He laughed nervously. “…Maybe it already stuck enough.”
You ignored him, continuing to smooth the strip with practiced ease.
Michael stared at it in horrified silence before slowly lifting his gaze toward you. “Honey?”
“Yes Michael?”
“…When…when you pull…”
“Mm?”
“…Don’t…” He cleared his throat. “…Don’t pull too hard.”
You blinked. “Michael.”
“…Yeah?”
“That’s literally how the hair comes out.”
His face fell.
“…Oh.”
Silence.
“…Maybe…” he whispered hopefully, “…maybe just…ease it out?”
You burst into laughter.
“I’m serious!” He exclaimed.
“You can’t ease wax off.”
“Why not?”
“Because then it hurts more.”
His eyes widened so dramatically they looked ready to pop out of his head.
“…MORE?”
You nodded.
He immediately began shaking his head.
“No, no, no, no…” he muttered, already trying to slide backward off the tub. “You know what? I’ve thought about it, and body hair is natural. Hair protects us. Hair has feelings probably. We don’t need to do this—“
You gently grabbed his wrist before he could make his escape.
“You promised you’d prove me wrong.”
“I did…”
He looked at you with the expression of a man who had just realized he had signed a legally binding contract without reading it first.
“…Can we renegotiate?”
“No.”
“…Please?”
“No.”
“…What if I do the dishes for a month?”
“No.”
“I’ll organize the pantry.”
“No.”
“I’ll even eat brussels sprouts.”
You smiled sweetly. “No.”
You laughed softly. “Michael, even if you do all that, you can’t just have that strip of wax on your leg forever.”
“I’ll wear pants forever, I don’t like wearing shorts anyway—“
“Michael Joseph Jackson.”
Michael sighed dramatically before squeezing his eyes shut so tightly tiny lines formed around them. “…Okay…” he whispered. “Let’s count, please mama?”
“Okay.” You nodded half-heartedly.
Michael inhaled and exhaled so rapidly like he was performing for Wembley in front of millions.
“One—“
RIIIIP.
The scream that erupted from him was so spectacularly loud that every bird resting peacefully on the roof exploded into the sky at once in a frantic cloud of flapping wings.
Somewhere outside, a squirrel bolted across the yard in terror and all the animals around the home looked at the house in confusion.
Outside, one of the gardeners jumped nearly three feet into the air.
“JESUS CHRIST!”
His hedge clippers lurched sideways and shaved the top off an innocent rose bush. “OH SHIT!”
Another gardener dropped his rake.
“What happened?!”
“WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?”
“SOUNDED LIKE A MOUNTAIN GOAT??”
“IN CALIFORNIA??”
Inside, Michael was still screaming.
“AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”
Michael lurched forward, clutching his shin with both hands as though you had just amputated it.
“MY LEG!”
You stared at him, the wax strip still pinched between your fingers.
“Michael.”
“IT’S GONE!”
“It’s still attached.”
“I FELT MY SOUL LEAVE MY BODY!”
“It was one strip.” You were already laughing.
Not loudly.
Not enough for him to hear.
But your shoulders had begun shaking uncontrollably.
“Mama!” he cried. “Don’t laugh!”
“I’m not—” You snorted. “I’m not laughing.”
“You are! What the—you’re smiling!”
He held his perfectly healthy shin as you covered your mouth.
“I can’t believe you let that happen!”
“You asked me to do it. I warned you.”
“I didn’t know!”
“I told you.”
“You didn’t tell me it was gonna feel like SATAN HIMSELF WAS RIPPIN’ MY SKIN OFF.”
“It wasn’t that bad.”
“WASN’T THAT BAD?!”
He looked down at the waxing strip you’d just removed.
His already big eyes grew enormous as he looked at his hair.
“…That’s…” He pointed sadly. “Those were mine.”
“Mhm.”
“They’re gone.”
“Mhm.”
“They died.”
You burst into laughter at his dramatic antics.
He immediately pointed toward the waxing kit sitting peacefully on the counter.
“You.” He narrowed his eyes at it. “…You evil little machine…”
Of course, the kit—being inanimate—didn’t respond.
“You hurt me.”
Another dramatic pause.
“…And you’ve been hurtin’ my wife all this time?!”
He gasped.
“Mama…” Michael looked at you with genuine heartbreak. “…How long you been sufferin’?”
You stared at him. “I’m not suffering.”
“You are!”
“It doesn’t hurt anymore.”
“YES IT DO!”
“It doesn’t.”
“It HAS TO.”
He glared at the innocent container of wax like it had personally insulted him.
“…You oughta be ashamed of yourself!”
He smacked the container off the counter. “I let you into my home, and you hurt me and my wife!”
Then he slowly crawled across the floor, sitting down next to you until his head landed dramatically in your lap. “I’m never trustin’ that thing again.”
Your fingers immediately found his curls, gently scratching his scalp as you just shook your head. “There you go.”
He sniffled.
“My leg still hurts.”
“I know.”
“I think it’s throbbin’.”
“I know.”
“…Can you kiss it?”
You laughed.
“You are soo dramatic.”
“Mama…” He looked up at you with those eyes. Who could say no?
You leaned down and pressed a tiny kiss against the smooth strip on his shin.
“There.”
He sighed happily.
“…Better.”
Several quiet moments passed while your fingers combed gently through his damp curls.
Then—
“…Uhm…honey?”
“Mhm?”
“…Promise me somethin’.”
“What is it?”
“If anybody asks…”
He looked up with watery brown eyes.
“…Tell ’em I fell.”
You smiled softly. “You want me to lie?”
“…Please.”
“‘Thought lying was bad.”
“Just this once, (Name)!” He clasped his hands together.
“You don’t understand baby…my brothers will make fun of me for 20 centuries if they found out about this…” Michael begged.
You just stared at him for the umpteenth time this hour before exhaling.
“But baby, you have a whole smooth perfect strip on your skin, what am I supposed to say? That you fell on a wax strip?”
“Uh…make up something! I’ll just wear long pants for the whole month— just please…cover f’me?” He looked up at you.
You laughed so hard you had to wipe tears from your own eyes.
“Alright.”
He relaxed again as you kissed his temple.
“…Thank you, (Name).”
———————
A week later…
The Jackson brothers had gathered in the living room, talking over coffee while laughter echoed comfortably through Hayvenhurst.
Michael wandered in wearing athletic shorts and long white socks, carrying a bowl of popcorn.
He plopped onto the couch.
Halfway through adjusting one of his socks, his pant leg rode up.
Jackie froze. “Hold up.”
Michael looked up.
“What?”
Tito leaned forward. “…Mike.”
Jermaine narrowed his eyes. “…Is that…”
Marlon pointed. “…Why is there one perfectly smooth rectangle on your leg?”
Silence.
Michael slowly looked down.
“…Oh.”
He immediately tugged the fabric down.
“Nothin’.” His voice went up one octave.
“It ain’t nothin’,” Jackie narrowed his eyes.
Jermaine leaned closer.
“…Mike.”
A pause.
“…Did…”
He whispered dramatically as he looked around before leaning his head close to Michael.
“…Did she wax you?”
The room filled with the brothers fell quiet.
Michael stared at them.
Then sighed.
“…Maybe.”
He closed his eyes, expecting them to clown on him, for them to torment him with this for years at every family gathering but…
Nobody laughed.
Instead—
Jackie slowly nodded. “…Yeah.”
Michael blinked in confusion.
“…Yeah?”
Jackie rolled up his own pant leg.
A suspiciously smooth strip sat on his calf.
“My wife dared me…it hasn’t grown back in months.”
Tito immediately lifted his jeans.
“…Mine said it’d ‘only sting for a second.’”
Jermaine groaned, shuddering.
“They all say that.”
Marlon pointed at himself.
“…Thought it’d be relaxing….that people were just exaggerating…”
Michael gasped. “You too?”
Jackie sighed deeply.
“I screamed.”
Marlon touched his own pant leg.
“Carol counted to three.”
Michael looked hopeful.
“Did she actually count?”
“…No.”
Michael’s face crumpled.
“Mine too.”
Jermaine nodded solemnly.
“That’s how they get you.”
“They all do that?”
“They all do that.”
Michael looked utterly devastated.
“…It’s not just me then?”
“No.”
“You were tricked.”
“I was.”
Jackie placed a comforting hand on Michael’s shoulder. “You survived.”
“I did.”
Marlon wrapped an arm around both of them. “We all survived.”
Jermaine joined the hug.
“Brothers.”
Michael sniffed dramatically.
“…Survivors.”
“Survivors.” They all said in unison.
Meanwhile, you and the other wives just stared at your husbands with straight, deadpan expressions.
You all then looked at each other whilst sipping on your drinks, all of you wore the same look that said—
“Girl. Are they deadass?”
Michael looked over at you from the middle of the hug, lower lip still pouting.
“Mama?” He called to you.
“Yes, baby?”
“…Tell them I was brave.”
You smiled despite yourself, sighing.
“Michael was very brave.”
His chest puffed up immediately.
“You hear that?”
Jermaine nodded with utmost seriousness. “The bravest.”
Jackie wiped away an imaginary tear. “Our little brother.”
Tito solemnly patted his back. “A warrior.”
Marlon squeezed him again. “A true survivor.”
The wives simply exchanged one exhausted look before shaking their heads in perfect unison.
Honestly…men.
.
.
.
Note: This idea came to me when my stupid brother said that waxing wasn’t that bad—that 🥷🏾was deaddd wronggg 😂
He still looks at me like I threw away all his money in a treasure chest into the ocean 😒 what a drama queen 😂
-> Netflix’s Michael Jackson: The Verdict debunked pt 1
-> Netflix’s Michael Jackson: The Verdict debunked pt 2
-> Netflix’s Michael Jackson: The Verdict debunked pt 3
-> Netflix Called Out By Artist
The Chandler Allegations 👇
-> Chandler Allegations pt 1
-> Chandler Allegations pt 2
-> Chandler Allegations pt 3
-> Chandler Allegations pt 4
The Arvizo Allegations 👇
-> Arvizo Allegations pt 1
-> Arvizo Allegations pt 2
-> Arvizo Allegations pt 3
-> Arvizo Allegations pt 4
Did The Description Match? 👇
No, the description did not match. Every verifiable piece of documentation we possess that is public record affirms that it was not a match, despite the continuing media lie and lies from prosecutors. Here are two links where I have proven such.
-> Lauren Weis Is Lying
-> It Was Not A Match!
Who Is Rodney Allen? 👇
-> 90’s Google Archive posts of Rodney Allen admitting to framing Michael Jackson + alleged letters he wrote
-> The Plot To Destroy Michael Jackson | Video proof of Rodney Allen coaching boys
Did The Jury Flip? 👇
No, 10 out of the original 12 that deliberated maintain a Not Guilty verdict, as well as 8 alternates who did not deliberate but sat in on the entire trial. 2 jurors flipped 2 months after the verdict, contradicting their past interviews and original statements made to the media following the verdict. Money was an incentive. I provided sources/evidence in an answered ask.
-> The Jury Did Not Flip!
Did Jackson Possess Child Porn? 👇
Absolutely not! Possession of child pornography is a felony crime, which would have resulted in him being charged with possession, not to mention he would have been convicted. What Michael Jackson did own was art photography books, which I have made numerous at length posts explaining.
-> The photography Books
-> No Child Porn Ever Found!
-> More Photography Books He Had
Miscellaneous Sources 👇
-> Train Station Lie
-> Train Station Lie pt 2
-> More Lies From James Safechuck
-> Thriller Jacket Lie
-> Wade Robson Pretending To Be A Therapist To Grift Money
-> Matt Fiddes Was Never MJ’s Bodyguard, He Is A Liar!
-> Wade Robson Asked To Get Married At Neverland Ranch
Nude Photos of Children? 👇
-> Nude Pictures of Jackson’s Friends
Gifting Jewelry For Sex? 👇
This story was created by Victor Gutierrez and written into his book, which Michael Jackson sued him over (and won), a book proven to be libel which bankrupted Gutierrez.
-> James Safechuck Wedding Rings
Additional Sources/Misc Allegations
💬 1 🔁 2 ❤️ 24 · Post by @dukeofdelirium · 7 images · Hello! Since you seem to be very well versed in everything involving the allegations
A Racist Vendetta 👇
-> Tom Sneddon Was Racist
Did Jackson Have BDSM Porn? 👇
No, Jackson did not have BDSM/Torture porn. This was a lie started in 2016 by tabloids like Radar Online, who edited raid documents and photoshopped books to make it appear as though Jackson owned material he was never written to possess in any search warrant or seizure from 03-05.
"A star can never die. It just turns into a smile and melts back into the cosmic music, the dance of life"
Destiny has a cruel way of making us come to reality, and leaving us without you is that hurtful reality. It pains me, but I know you're at peace now, the one that you deserved for so long, the one that was taken away from you since you were a child. We try to make your legacy a beautiful thing, even when others try to take it down; your memory lives in our minds and hearts. You make the sky sparkle, and now I celebrate you. I love you, applehead.
Michael ran back toward his brothers, his little dress shos kicking up bits of dust as he went. "I asked her!" He announced proudly.
Marlon looked over from where he and jackie were tossing the football. "....and?"
"She said no."
Jackie laughed, "told you."
marlon stopped tossing the ball and looked down at his little brother–michael. He squats down to his level to make direct eye contact with him. "That ain't shy."
Michael frowned, completely confused because he thought the little girl he had just spoken to a few minutes ago was just scared to play with him. "What is it then?" He looked at marlon, completely confused with those big round brown eyes that seemed so curious about any and everything.
"....she got an attitude."
The older brothers burst into laughter, truly laughing at the fact that their younger brother couldn't tell the difference between attitude and shyness, an attitude that you completely definitely did have.
Michael glanced back toward the driveway. You were still standing beside your mother, arms folded so tightly they looked glued together. You were desperately ready to go home even though you just arrived almost 20 minutes ago now.
".....I don't think she mean." Michael looked up at his brothers, he felt like they had the wrong impression of you, well you did look like you woke up on the wrong side of the bed, but still!, he felt as if they had you completely all wrong and he as determined to prove them wrong.
"Nah," jackie said. "She just look mean."
Michael still wasn't convinced. He watched as you absentmindely kicked at a pebble in the driveway, the colorful bobbles in your ponytails bouncing with every little movement.
".....she smiled."
Marlon raised an eyebrow, "she smiled at you?"
"....a little bit."
Jackie laughed. "You done made progress already, lock at you playa." He ruffled michaels short hair, laughing.
Meanwhile, angela and katherine had found themselves in the middle of the backyard, talking as naturally as if they hadn't gone weeks without seeing one another. "I swear," angela laughed, "that child woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning."
Katherine smiled knowingly. "They all have those days."
"Oh, (name)'s been having one since Thursday." Angela said. The woman laughed, "I almost left her home with her daddy."
"And miss seeing all this?" Katherine teased, angela looked around the yard. Women carried bowls covered with embroidered dish towels. Someone had brought sweet potato pie. Another auntie proudly sat down a peach cobbler she'd baked before sunrise.
The potato salad rested beside a mountain of fried chicken. There were pans of baked macaroni and cheese, collard greens seasoned with smoked turkey, cornbread wrapped carefully in clean kitchen towels to keep warm, deviled eggs lined up perfectly on a serving tray, and enough barbecue to feed half of Gary.
"You know these folks don't play bout bringing food," angela said. Katherine laughed, "girl who you tellin'? if somebody show up empty-handed, they'll hear about it."
"Oh, for months." The women shared another laugh.
You ended up wandering only a few feet away before stopping underneath the shade of a large maple tree. You preferred observing. You always had. Children fascinated you. They screamed, ran, fell, got right back up.
Somebody cried because another little boy his toy truck. Two little girls argued over whose jump rope it was. A toddler waddled around with watermelon juice running down his chin.
You watched every bit of it, you had no intention of joining in. You smoothed the front of your dress before carefully sitting on the cool grass. Your ponytails bounced as you settled yourself.
Click. Click. Click.
You absentmindely shook you head just to hear the bobbles clack together. You smiled to yourself.
click–click
Again.
click-click-click
That sound always made you feel happy.
"So....they do make noise."
You looked up.
Michael, the same big headed boy that seemed to find her everywhere. He stood a few feet away, hands tucked behind his back.
You hadn't even heard him walk over.
"....yeah."
"I thought maybe you was makin' it up."
"I wasn't."
He nodded seriously. "I know now that's f'sure."
Silence settled between them.
Michael looked at the grass, then back at you.
".....can I sit?"
You shrugged your shoulders, "I don't care."
He took that as permission and sat down, crossing his legs exactly like you was. Neither child spoke for almost a minute. Neither seemed bothered by it.
Finally, michael pointed toward your hair. "My sister got beads."
"Mhm."
"But yours got them little balls."
"They bobbles."
"Bobbles?" He looked at your hair with those curious wide eyes, like he was trying to remember every detail about you and your hair.
"mhm."
"They funny."
"I like em."
"They loud."
"I know." You shook your head again causing more loud sounds of clicks.
Michaels eyes widened and then suddenly he started laughing. "They soundbite maracas."
You frowned. "....what's that?"
"My daddy got one."
"He let you play with it?"
"....no."
"Oh."
"He say I'll break it."
You nodded, "my momma say that too."
"Bout what?"
".....everything." You shrugged your shoulders.
He giggled. "My daddy don't let us touch nothin."
"my mama neither."
"my brothers still do it."
"My cousins too."
The two children looked at each other, for the first time you gave a real smile. Not a tiny one. Not an almost-smile, an actual smile. And michael felt like he just made one of the biggest accomplishments in the world.
He smiled back, "I knew you wasn't mean." He said with a soft chuckle
And before you could argue, a loud voice rang across the yard. "Kids!" Every child turned. One of Katherine's sisters stood on the porch with both hands on her hips. "Wash them hands!" A chorus of groans rose from the yard.
"Awww!", "we just did!", "I ain't dirty!"
"I don't care!" She called back. "Everybody wash up before you touch this food." The children scattered toward the outdoor water spigot, forming a crooked line.
Michael stood. "Come on."
"I already washed mine."
"You still gotta wash em again."
"...why?"
"Cause grown-ups say so."
You sighed dramatically. "They always say so."
Michael nodded with all the seriousness a five-year old could muster. "They sure do." For the first time since arriving, you didn't mind following someone.
You quietly fell into step beside him, the colorful bobbles in your hair clicking softly as the two little children walked toward the water pump together, still strangers. But no longer quite as distant as they had been an hour before.
The line at the water spigot stretched almost halfway across the backyard. Children of all ages shuffled impatiently in the summer heat, each waiting for their turn while the older cousins fussed at the younger ones for trying to skip ahead.
A teenage girl standing nearby rolled her eyes, gently grabbing two little boys by the shoulders. "Now yall know better than that, everybody gon get their hands washed before they eat."
The boys grumbled under their breath but finally settled down. You stood quietly near the end of the line, watching everything around her. This family was so.....loud. Not in a bad way, just loud.
Everybody seemed to be talking over one another. Somebody was laughing so hard they had bent over holding their stomach. One of the aunties was fanning herself with a church fan while teasing another woman about burning her cornbread last Sunday. The uncles crowded around the grill, arguing over whether the ribs needed another few minutes.
It was busy, it was warm, it felt happy.
Michael noticed you looking around. He stepped a little closer, folding his small hands behind his back. "You ain't gotta stand all the way back there."
"I dont?"
He shook his head. "Nuh-uh." He pointed farther up the line. "My cousin keeps everybody in line."
You followed his finger toward an older girl, maybe twelve or thirteen, who had somehow managed to organize nearly twenty children without raising her voice.
"Oh."
Michael smiled. "She's nice, I promise."
You slowly nodded, ".....your family's big."
"It is."
"How many people live here?"
He tilted his head as if he had never really counted before. "Well..." He started holding up fingers. "Me....jackie.....tito.....Jermaine.....marlon." He paused. "And my mom and joseph, that's it." He smiled, looking at you.
You blinked, "Oh." You stared at him for a moment before quietly saying, "That's a lot....that's nice do you have sisters?"
He smiled proudly, "I got rebbie and latoya." You counted on your finger silently, ".....that's a lotta people."
Michael giggled. "It is."
"Do yall all sleep here?"
"Mhm." He nodded.
"All of yall?"
"Mhm." he nodded again proudly.
Your eyes grew wider. "......where?"
Michael laughed so hard he almost forgot to answer. "In that house."
"I know that." You couldn't help but to smile. "I mean....where?"
He scratched his head. "We share."
"You don't got your own room?"
"No."
"I got my own room."
Michael looked genuinely impressed. ".....really?"
"Mhm." You nodded. "My barbie bed in there too."
"You lucky."
"Yeah...." For some reason, that made both of them laugh.
By the time they had washed their hands and made their way toward the food tables, you weren't hiding behind angela anymore. You walked beside michael almost naturally now. And angela noticed immediately.
She gently nudged katherine with her elbow. "Look." Katherine followed her gaze. The two little ones had stopped talking for a second while deciding what they wanted to eat.
"They're getting along." Angela smiled softly, "I wasn't sure they would." Kaherine just laughed and shrugged her shoulders, "I told you.....children usually figure each other out faster than grown folks."
The table looked endless to you. You had never seen so much food sitting in one place before. Steam curled from giant aluminum pans. The sweet smell of baked beans mixed with smoky barbecue. Fresh biscuits sat wrapped inside clean towels. Bowls of potato salad, greens, macaroni and cheese, candied yams, fried chicken, sliced tomatoes, corn on the cob, and homemade rolls stretched from one end of the table to the other.
At the very end was dessert. Peach cobbler, sweet potato pie. Banana pudding, pound cake. Angela smiled down at you. "Whatchu want baby?" You looked over at every single dish with complete seriousness.
You pointed. "I want macaroni." Angela spooned a generous helping onto her plate. "And chicken." Another piece added. "Beans."
"(Name)," angela laughed, "let me get around the table."
"Oh." You giggled quietly.
Michael waited patiently beside you while katherine fixed his plate. "You like greens?" He asked. You wrinkled your nose. "....not really."
"I don't either."
"You don't?"
He leaned in slightly as if sharing an important secret. "My daddy make us eat em." You gasped dramatically. "My mama too."
"I hide mine"
Your eyes widened. "...you do?"
He nodded. "Sometimes."
"Where?"
He looked around carefully before whispering, "Under the mashed potatoes."
You burst into laughter. Not a little giggle. A real laugh. One that made angela look over her shoulder. "There she is," angela whispered to katherine. "I've been waiting to hear that laugh all day." Katherine smiled warmly as she watched michael grin proudly, clearly pleased that he'd managed to make you laugh
The two children found a nearby shdy spot beneath the big maple tree where several folding chairs had been set up. Their little legs dangled from the oversized metal chairs as they balanced paper plates carefully in their laps.
For a few moments, they simply aye.
You took a bite of macaroni before sneaking a glance at michael, ".....can I ask you something?"
He looked up immediately. "Yeah."
"Do you always sing?"
He blinked. "What you mean?"
"My mama said your family sings."
His face brightened. "Oh!" He nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah."
You looked at him. "Do you like it?"
"I love it."
"What do you sing?"
"Everything." He shrugged. He smiled sheepishly. "Jospeh makes us practice a lot."
"Do you ever get tired?"
He thought about it honestly. ".....sometimes, but I still like it"
You nodded. "My momma says you're gonna be famous one day."
He looked confused. "....what's famous?"
You blinked. "...I don't know" you said shrugging your shoulders.
The two children looked at each other for a beat before dissolving into laughter again. "I gues grown ups just say stuff," you said.
He nodded in a complete agreement. "They do." You smiled warmly this time, no longer trying to hide it. "I think you're nice."
Michaels cheeks lifted into the biggest grin you'd seen all afternoon. "I think you're nice too."
You looked down at your plate for a second before admitting, a little shyly now, ".....I'm sorry I was mean earlier."
Michael simply shrugged in the forgiving way only little kids sometimes can. "It's okay."
"You still wanted to talk to me though."
"Yeah." He nodded
"....why?"
He answered without hesitation. "Cause you looked lonely."
You looked up at him surprised. Nobody had ever said something like that to her before. You hadn't been lonely at least, you didn't think you had. But somehow, hearing it made something inside you soften.
For the first time that day, the cookout didn't feel like a place you'd been dragged to. It felt like somewhere she might actually enjoy staying.
summary: you had prepared yourself for almost every outcome, except losing your best friend. michael’s rejection leaves more questions than answers, transforming the easy companionship you once shared into unbearable silence. as life on tour goes on, both of you are forced to confront the consequences of a single conversation, proving that sometimes the greatest acts of love can look exactly like heartbreak.
cw: angst, mdni, emotional hurt, unrequited love (not really), miscommunication, rejection, jealousy, pining, pet names, lots of crying, smut, p in v, oral, dirty talk, creampie, eventual happy ending
wc: 5k
Most of the crew had already packed their things and gone to rest for the night. The faint scent of hairspray lingered in the air as Michael sat in front of the mirror, pulling the tape away from his fingers. You packed away your brushes as Michael’s soft voice reached your ears, “You don’t hafta rush, not in any hurry.” You forced a smile despite that knot forming in your stomach. “I know… tonight's show was amazing as usual, Mikey.” Michael turned his head slightly and gave you a crooked smile.
“Couldn’t have done it without you guys.” You smiled softly, that was Michael. He always appreciated the people around him and stayed humble. “Thanks, Mikey.” Silence settled between you guys, which wasn’t unusual. As your friendship grew, you’d gotten comfortable with silence. Some nights you would sit there and talk about anything going on in your lives. And other nights you would say nothing at all, content with each other's presence.
Tonight, though, there was a pit deep in your stomach. The type of butterflies you would get before telling your high school crush, but much more serious. Michael was your boss. Confessing could ruin your whole career, but the time you spent together this past year gave you no doubt that he had feelings for you also. The lingering touches, the late-night talks, the smiles he reserved just for you.
You remember the night you called your friend just to make sure. Of course you wanted a second opinion just in case. You made sure to tell her everything that's happened this past year, and she wholeheartedly agreed with you to take the chance. Worst case, Michael wasn’t the type to fire you over a confession. It would be… awkward, and your heart would be broken, but you’re a big girl. You could get through it…right? You set your makeup bag on the counter and took a deep breath before turning around. Your mouth suddenly felt dry. This was the moment you’d spent weeks rehearsing in your head, but every speech you practiced vanished.
“Michael?”
“Hm?”
“I… need to tell you somethin’.”
He looked up through the mirror and noticed the tremble in your voice, scrunching his eyebrows in worry. He asked, “You ok, beautiful? You’re lookin’ real nervous.” Your stomach erupted in butterflies at the endearment. He had no idea what he did to you. Michael turned in his chair to fully face you. “What’s wrong, hm?”
“Mikey… I’m tired of pretendin’ that I don't feel somethin’ for you.” His eyebrows knitted together. “I love you.” You kept your head down, too nervous and scared to see his reaction. “This past year, the more I got to know you, the more I fell in love with you. You’re such an incredible person…” You finally lifted your gaze, and you expected anything but this. Michael had the most blank expression on his face. The room became impossibly still. His eyes drifted to the door, and seconds passed. His expression softened, but he didn’t smile. Your heart felt like it stopped beating for a second.
Michael looked down at his hands, and when he finally spoke, his voice barely rose above a whisper. “I’m sorry.” You tried searching his face, waiting for him to say anything else. But he wouldn’t even look you in the eye.
“What does that mean? I’m sorry?” He stood up from his chair and avoided your eyes as he gathered his jacket, draped over the back of the chair. “It means exactly as it sounds. I’m sorry, but I don't feel the same way.” Your heart dropped, and your eyes started to sting from the tears gathering in your eyes.
“Mikey… please.”
Michael took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He exhaled slowly, rubbing his hand through his curls. “Why did you have to tell me?” The question felt like a knife digging deeper into your chest as you struggled to find the right words. Your lips started to tremble from you holding back your tears. You had never seen Michael so… cold.
“I couldn’t keep pretendin’. I thought you would have felt the same way.”
“Well, I wish you had kept pretendin’.”
You felt your heartbreak into two. “Why would you say that? You’re not even gonna talk about this with me?” Michael shook his head and didn’t say anything for a sec. Usually the silence between you two was comfortable, but now it felt suffocating.
“Y/N… we both have a job to do. I’m on tour. I don’t have time for this right now. I’m sorry.”
You were so confused. Michael looked pained as he said this, but his words were absolute. Feeling emotionally drained and exhausted, you let out a shaky breath. “That’s all you have to say?” You whispered. “I thought we were closer than that. Michael, you’re treating me like a… stranger.”
His jaw tightened, but he never looked at you. “Please,” he murmured. You studied his face, you couldn’t tell what he was thinking. It seemed like he was trying to mask his emotions, and quite frankly, it pissed you off. Because how dare he treat you like he wasn’t your best friend? This was the same man who used to call you when he couldn’t sleep. The same man who told you his greatest fears. You've fallen asleep on his shoulder more times than you could count. He had become your home. You guys built a bond, but now he can just throw your feelings away like trash. I guess you weren’t as close as you thought you guys were. You understood if he didn’t like you back, but… you weren’t expecting him to be this harsh.
“Please, what?” Your voice cracked as tears streamed down your face. “Please pretend none of this happened?” Fuck… you didn’t want to cry and seem weak. But your heart hurt so bad, you truly loved Michael. He’s one of the nicest people who made you feel seen, at least you thought so.
Michael swallowed hard, as his fingers curled into fists at his side. “Please, don’t make this any harder.” You stared at him, trying to find the man you knew. The one who always found the right words and who never wanted to see you cry. But the man in front of you felt like a stranger.
“Tell me you don’t love me and I’ll forget this ever happened… say it.” His expression faltered for the smallest moment. Michael's lips parted, and his throat bobbed, the silence was deafening.
“I don’t love you.”
The words hit harder than you expected, your chest felt heavy. All you could do was just stare at him, waiting for him to tell you this was all a joke. Waiting for him to pull you into a hug and caress your hair after he said something stupid. But he didn’t. Michael’s eyes were glued to the floor, he couldn’t even look you in the eye. You scoffed and let out a shaky exhale, you couldn’t even comprehend what was happening.
“I’m such a fuckin’ idiot.” You gave a slow nod, swallowing the lump in your throat. Your vision blurred until Michael became nothing more than a dark silhouette standing a few feet away. “I won’t make this harder for you.” As you stepped around him, your shoulder brushed his. You didn’t look back.
After the dressing room door clicked shut behind you, Michael stood frozen until your footsteps disappeared down the hallway. The second you knew you weren’t able to hear him, he slowly slid down in the seat at the mirror. He pressed both of his hands down his face and let out a broken sob. “I'm sorry, please don't hate me,” he whispered into the empty room.
The truth was, he loved you. He loved you so much that he thought pushing you away would protect you. He had watched people he cared about become headlines. Strangers suddenly believed that they knew everything about his life, every person beside him became another story to sell. The thought of you going through that made him feel sick. He should have kept his distance the day you joined tour, he knew that. Instead, you became the person he spent his late nights with. Somewhere along the way… you became home.
୨୧ ───────── ୨୧
It would have been easier if he’d acted like you didn’t exist, that would have made it hurt less. But now and then you would catch him looking out of the corner of your eye. It was never long, but long enough to have made your heart ache. Then came the night he spoke to you for the first time in weeks.
Backstage was a chaotic mess after the show, everyone was ready to get back to the hotel and unwind after a stressful day. As you were walking out of the makeup room, someone bumped into your shoulder, making you spill your makeup bag. “Sorry!” Before you could answer them, they disappeared into the sea of people. “You have got to be kiddin’.” You let out a long breath of frustration and bent down to pick up the fallen items.
“You ok?”
You froze and stopped what you were doing. Of all the people to stop and ask, it had to be him. Hesitating, you slowly looked up. His curls were messy around his face, and sweat still covered his face from the heat of the stage lights. Michael was already kneeling down and carefully gathering the scattered brushes. “You really don’t have to, Michael.” You kept a blank face, not wanting to let him know how much this was affecting you.
“It’s ok,” he murmured, his eyes staying on the floor instead of looking up at you. You weren’t surprised. The silence between you felt heavier than it ever did, even with the busy walkway, people walking by. He reached for the last brush and handed it to you. “Here.”
“Thanks.” You slipped it into your makeup bag without meeting his eyes. Adjusting the strap over your shoulder, you stood up. And for a moment, it looked like Michael wanted to say something, his lips parted, but nothing came out. “Goodnight…” was all he managed before he turned on his heel and walked away.
You felt the sting of tears reach your eyes. Before anyone could see, you quickly rushed into a side room and closed the door. The moment the door clicked shut, the strength you’d spent weeks pretending to have vanished. Your knees gave out beneath you, and you slid down the door until you were sitting on the cold floor.
Squeezing your eyes shut, you wrapped your arms tightly around yourself, trying to soothe all the pain away. “Why?” Your voice was barely audible. You never would have thought heartbreak would feel like this. Your breathing became uneven as you tried to control the pent-up emotions that were about to spill out. A broken sob escaped your lips as you buried your face against your knees. Your chest hurt so bad, it felt impossible that a heart couldn’t actually break. “I hate this,” you whispered between uneven breaths.
୨୧ ───────── ୨୧
Michael stood frozen at the end of the hallway long after you disappeared. He had seen the tears in your eyes, he had seen you try to keep it together, and he had seen you go into the room. He stared at the closed door; every part of him wanted to follow you and comfort you. To tell you the truth. Instead, he lowered his head and walked the other direction. Loving you had never been the hard part, but letting go was.
୨୧ ───────── ୨୧
The next week wasn’t any easier, things just kept getting worse. Every rehearsal ended the same way, Michael and Tatiana stood together near the stage. They were quietly discussing something, while the rest of the crew packed up around them. You stood off the side of the stage, trying to make yourself smaller. Why did you have to torture yourself? It hurt to see them laugh together. Your jaw flexed as you watched her raise her hand and softly touch his arm. She did that a lot. You could tell Michael wasn’t into it, he would always give her the polite smile. So why did it bother you so much?
Why did it feel like someone was slowly twisting a knife deeper into your chest every time you looked their way? You tried to avoid it and bury yourself in work, but it only worked so much. You volunteered for extra touch-ups with the background singers, anything to keep your eyes off of him. But at the end of the day, when your head hit the pillow, there was only one person on your mind. It never worked.
୨୧ ───────── ୨୧
One evening, rehearsals wrapped up just before midnight. The hallway outside Michael’s dressing room was almost empty as you rounded the corner. Just as you walked past, the door to the dressing room opened, and Tatiana stepped out first, laughing softly. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Michael smiled. “See you tomorrow.”
His smile disappeared the second his eyes landed on you. Tatiana glanced between the two of you, feeling the tension, she quickly excused herself. The hallway fell silent as you two stared at each other. You should have walked away and acted as if none of this bothered you. But of course your mouth caught up to you before your brain did.
“So that's why, huh?”
“What?” Michael had the nerve to look confused. A bitter laugh escaped you as you turned to leave. “C’mon, don’t do that,” he called after you. Your hand tightened around the strap of your bag. “Do what, Michael?” He took a slow, cautious step toward you.
“Talk to me, girl.”
You let out a disbelieving scoff as you looked at him. “Talk to you? You haven’t talked to me in over a month.”
“That’s not-”
“No.” Your voice cracked as tears started to fill your eyes. “You don’t get to do this to me and pretend everything’s ok now.” His expression fell as his eyes trailed across your face. “I see you every day, Michael…” You swallowed as you felt yourself start to choke up. “I see you laughing. I see you smiling. I see you spending every second with her. How am I supposed to feel?”
His jaw tightened. “She’s just…”
“I don’t care!” Your voice echoed down the hallway. You hadn’t meant to yell, but once you started, you couldn’t stop. “You pushed me away, and you replaced me.” Your eyes burned, and your vision started to blur, which you were thankful for. Those big doe eyes did something to you, made you weak.
“I didn’t replace you…”
“You did, Michael!” Your voice broke completely, you felt so hopeless. How can he just sit there and say he didn’t separate himself from you? “You asked for another makeup artist and won’t even look at me.” His breathing got heavier, and you saw his lashes glistened before a tear finally spilled over. “You acted like I never mattered.”
“Please, stop…” You watched as a single tear dropped down his cheek. “You know what hurts the most?” For the first time in weeks, you looked him directly in the eyes. “It’s realizing… how easy it was for you to move on.” Michael looked away as his chest rose sharply. “You think this is easy?” His voice was barely a whisper
“You have no idea…” His hands shook as he ran them through his curls. Michael kept his head down for a good second, and when he looked back up, you could see the pain in his eyes. “You think I wanted this? You want to know why?” His voice cracked as more tears slowly slid down his face. “I pushed you away because every single day I woke up terrified.”
“Terrified that one day you’d wake up and realize loving me meant giving up your own life.” All you could do was stare at him in disbelief. “I watched what this world did to the people around me. I couldn’t let it do that to you.” You were unable to speak, not knowing what emotions you were dealing with right now.
“I thought if I made you hate me…” His breathing became uneven as he tried to gather his words. “...you’d have a chance to be happy.” Michael looked up at you with complete heartbreak. “It didn’t work because… I still love you.” Silence stretched between you two as his words hung in the air.
Your chest tightened so hard it hurt. Part of you wanted to run into his arms, the other part was furious. How dare he? You laughed once, wiping your face with the back of your hand. “That’s it?” Michael frowned and looked at you in desperation. “What?”
“You tell me you still love me and expect that to fix everything?”
“Y/N…”
Your voice was quiet this time, too emotionally drained. “So you loved me this entire time… and still decided what was best for me.” His mouth opened, but no words came.
“You never asked me what I wanted.” Tears slipped down your cheeks again as you grasped the front of your shirt. “You decided I’d be happier without you and decided that I couldn’t handle it.” Every word that came out of your mouth made him shrink a little more.
“I would’ve chosen you, Michael.” The words came out choked as you held back your sobs. “I would’ve chosen all of it. The rumors. The cameras. The pressure. Every single ugly part of your life.”
You picked up your bag off the floor and studied him. “I still love you too.” His head snapped up, and his eyes widened. “But right now, I don’t know if that’s enough.” You walked past him, and for a second it looked like he might reach for your hand. He didn’t. The hallway echoed with your footsteps until he couldn’t hear them anymore.
୨୧ ───────── ୨୧
The hotel room felt suffocating as you sat on the edge of the mattress. You hadn’t even bothered to turn on all the lights, only the small lamp beside the bed lit up the room. Your shoes had been kicked off somewhere near the door. You stared blankly at the floor as Michael’s words replayed in your head.
“I still love you.”
A sharp knock echoed through the hotel room. It was nearly one in the morning. Another knock echoed through the silent room. Slowly, you stood and made your way to the door. You opened the door, not even checking the peephole. The second you pulled it open, your breath caught. There stood Michael, his curls were messy, like he’d been running his hands through them for hours. His eyes were swollen and red. He looked exhausted.
At first, neither of you spoke, you simply stared at each other. “Hi,” he whispered. Your grip tightened on the doorknob as you tried to keep your face neutral. “What are you doing here?” He swallowed, and you could see his fingers flexing at his side. “I know you probably don't wanna see me.”
“You think?”
His eyes fell to the floor. “I deserve that.”
“I didn't come because I expect you to forgive me.” He looked up into your eyes, and your breath caught. Those eyes… always had you in a trance. “I came because… I couldn’t let you go to sleep thinking I wasn’t going to fight for you.” You looked away before he could see the shine in your eyes again.
“I spent weeks convincing myself that pushing you away was the right thing.” Michael’s laugh was weak and broken. “Tonight, I realized I never even gave you the chance to decide.” Your heart was beating hard as you looked at his crestfallen expression.
“You were right.” He looked at you again, his eyes were glossy. “I took that choice away from you.” The hallway fell quiet as you thought about his words. “I was so scared of ruining your life that I never stopped to think maybe loving me was a choice you deserved to make yourself.” The tears you’d fought so hard to stop threatened to return. Hearing him admit it made your heart ache even more.
“I’m not asking you to forgive me tonight… just asking you to let me tell you I’m sorry.” Your hand remained on the door, every instinct screamed to shut it. To protect yourself. But when you looked up at him, he wasn’t the superstar that everyone adored. He was just Michael, the person that you learned was home. After what felt like forever, you stepped aside and let him in. “Thank you,” he whispered. Without another word, he stepped inside.
Michael remained near the door, unsure whether he should sit or continue standing. The distance between you felt impossibly small and unbearably large all at once. You sat on the edge of the bed, and he took that as an invitation. He slowly walked over and sat next to you. You watched as he nervously rubbed his knees with his large palms.
You looked at him for a long moment before speaking again. “When you left… I kept telling myself that if you loved me enough, you’d come back.” Michael’s eyes closed as he grasped his knees. He then took a deep breath and turned to face you. You looked up, and for the first time in a long time, it didn’t hurt to look at his beautiful face. He grasped your hands in his and rubbed his thumbs across the back of your hand. “I know, baby. I was an idiot, and I’ll spend every day showing you how much I love you.”
A tear slipped down your cheek as you slowly lifted your hand to his cheek. “I’m still angry at you,” you whispered. “I know, mama.” He leaned into your touch as his eyes fluttered shut. “But I missed you so much.” His breathing hitched as his eyes darted down to your lips. “You have no idea how much I missed you, every second of the day, my mind was on you. Especially lying in bed at night alone,” he whispered. The confession hung between you too, and finally the silence was comfortable. His eyes searched yours as if asking for permission without saying a word. You answered by closing the distance, your forehead rested gently against his.
Michael’s fingers settled against your side softly. You leaned forward and gently pressed your lips against his. The kiss deepened, a low hum escaped his mouth as your lips parted slightly, letting him taste you. You grew more confident, the kiss grew more confident, more heated. Michael pushed you back onto the bed, his body hovering over yours. He pulled back from the kiss and stared down at you, his eyes soft. You looked up at him, his soft curls framing his face. He looked like an angel. “Is this ok?” He murmured. You nodded breathlessly, “Yes, please, I want all of you, Mikey.”
He groaned as his fingers softly trailed the skin of your ribcage. “I don’t think I can hold back, mama.”
“Then don’t.”
And with that, his hands found the hem of your shirt, tugging it upwards and over your head in one smooth motion. Michael tossed the shirt aside, as his eyes roamed over your exposed breasts. The hunger in his eyes made you clench your legs together, feeling that throb of need. He then leans down and closes his mouth around one of your nipples, warm and wet. His tongue swirls slow circles around it, making you gasp and thread your fingers through his curls. “Oh, Mikey…”
A low moan rumbles in his chest as he sucks gently at first, then with more pressure. His other hand kneads your other bare breast, while he switches to the other nipple, teeth grazing lightly before soothing it with his tongue. Michael then leaned back on his knees and gazed down at your body. “You’re so beautiful, baby.” You couldn’t help the blush that appeared on your face. He grabbed the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head, revealing his broad shoulders and beautiful skin. You took your hand and gently caressed it down his stomach, watching his body shudder. “I could say the same thing about you.”
Michael gave you a crooked smile and hooked his thumbs into his waistband, pulling down his pants and boxers at the same time. His impressive cock sprang free, smacking against his stomach. You couldn’t help but gawk at his size, he was bigger than you expected. He slowly slid off your shorts and raised his eyebrows in surprise at seeing you had no panties on. You smiled shyly and shrugged, “Sometimes it's more comfortable.” He chuckled as he lay on his stomach and settled between your thighs. Michael looked up at you through his eyelashes and smirked, “I’ve been wanting to taste you for a long time now.”
He took his large hands and spread open your thighs. Without hesitation, he leaned in and pressed his mouth against your slick pussy. His tongue swirled over your clit before dipping lower to taste your entrance. “Fuck, Mikey… that’s so good.” You push his head gently toward your pussy. He groaned against your sensitive folds, the vibration sent a jolt of pleasure through your clit. Encouraged by the sounds of your moans, he sucked firmly on your clit, his tongue flicking rapid circles, while one gripped your thigh to keep you spread open. Michael lapped up your wetness eagerly as he felt your thighs start to tremble. Your breathing quickened as his tongue worked faster. His tongue sucked your clit, as his thumb found your entrance, rubbing tight circles. “Mikey… yes, right there.” You feel your release come in a big wave as he greedily drinks up your cum and licks you through your orgasm. He lifts his head, face flushed and slick with your arousal.
“Did you like me eatin’ that pussy, mama?” You nodded, unable to find words. Without pausing, he sits up and aligns his thick cock at your dripping entrance. “You want this cock?” You nodded.
“No, I need your words, baby.”
“Yes, I want it so bad.”
“Good, girl.” He sinks in deep with one smooth thrust, making you cry out. His cock stretches you wide, hitting something deep inside that makes your vision blur. Michael groaned at the tight, wet heat wrapping around him. “Your pussy feels so good around my cock, mama.” He started to move immediately, pulling out almost all the way before slamming back in with a wet slap of flesh on flesh.
His hands grab your hips, tilting you up to take his cock deeper, thrusting hard and fast, making the bed shake slightly. Your eyes rolled in the back of your head as the head of his cock hit that spongy spot deep in your pussy. “You’re so deep, baby.”
“Mhm… you like that?” He glanced down between your bodies, a groan tearing from his throat at the sight of your creamy arousal coating the length of his cock. The visual makes him fuck you harder, his hips snapping against yours. “Fuck, you're creamin’ on this dick, baby.” Your wetness creates obscene squelching sounds with every thrust, your cream turning into a white frothy ring at the base of his cock.
He can feel your walls fluttering around his cock, your breaths coming out ragged. “You gonna cum around this dick?”
“Yes, yes…” You could barely get the words out, the pleasure consuming you. He leans, and buries his face in your neck, as he fucks you harder. Your orgasm reaches the surface as you let go and cum around his cock. “Fuck, yes!” Your fingernails claw at his back as your cream gushes out around his shaft, soaking his cock and balls completely. You feel his hips stutter for a second. “Oh, baby, that feels so good… comin’ on my dick like that.”
“Where do you want this cum?”
“Inside, please!” He groans at your whimpering surrender, his head and eyes rolled back as he finally breaks. A low groan escapes him as ropes of white-hot cum shoot deep inside your pussy. He gives shallow pumps as he fills you to the brim, his cum spilling back out around his cock. Michael slowly pulls out, a wet rush of fluids following. He immediately gathers your trembling body into his arms, pulling you flush against his chest. Pressing soft kisses against your forehead, he asks, “You ok, mama?”
A smile tugged at your lips. “Yes, I’m ok, Mikey,” you whispered. Michael leaned forward, pressing another gentle kiss to your forehead. His eyes closed, a content smile finding a way to his face. “I love you so much,” the words barely louder than a breath. You smiled and cuddled up to his side. “I love you too.”
You guys stayed wrapped in each other's arms, and stayed that way as the outside world faded away. There was nowhere else you wanted to be, and for the first time in a long time, you felt completely at home.
a/n: sorry this took so long guys :( life got a little busy. the ending kinda feels rushed to me but i hope you guys enjoy regardless 🫶🏽
bad era! michael jackson x popular artist! female reader
summary. from the 1970s all the way to the late 80s, michael's answer has been so consistent whenever he was asked about who his favorite artist was—you. michael is not-so-secretly your biggest fan...and when he sees you do a duet with prince out of all people...he can't just be a fan anymore.
tags. romance, comedy, fluff. michael is kinda obssessed with you...jealous michael! too. michael and prince's rivalry!
There were many things the public believed they knew about Michael Jackson.
They knew he was painfully shy during interviews. They knew he always answered carefully, never wanting to hurt anyone's feelings. They knew he adored children, loved animals, and could somehow make an entire stadium scream simply by standing still for five seconds.
There was, however, one thing everyone else seemed to notice long before Michael himself realized he had made it painfully obvious.
He was absolutely, hopelessly, ridiculously fond of you.
Not in the scandalous way the tabloids desperately tried to paint it, nor in the passing admiration celebrities often exchanged through magazines.
No—this was the kind of admiration that quietly settled itself into every answer he gave, every compliment he offered, every conversation where your name somehow managed to appear despite nobody asking about you directly.
It had begun in 1979, shortly after Off the Wall was released.
Michael had only just begun to experience what true artistic freedom felt like. His interviews had become longer, more personal.
Journalists wanted to know everything about him now—not just the music, but his favorite foods, his hobbies, what kind of books he read, whether he wanted to marry someday.
One television host leaned forward in his chair with a grin that suggested he already knew the question would embarrass him.
"So, Michael," he began, folding his cue cards together. "Millions of girls want to know this. What's your type? What kind of woman catches your eye? Who would you wanna ask out?"
Michael, who had been smiling politely only a second earlier, visibly stiffened.
His fingers, which had been folded neatly in his lap, tightened around one another.
"Oh..." A bashful laugh escaped him before he looked down at his loafers, rocking them against the floor. "I... um..."
The audience chuckled softly. The host waited patiently.
Michael rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks already turning pink beneath the studio lights. "I don't really... think about it much."
"Oh, come on." The audience laughed again. "There has to be someone."
Michael bit the inside of his cheek. He really hadn't planned on saying it. It simply... came out.
"I think..." he murmured, a shy smile tugging at the corner of his lips, "someone like (Name)."
The room immediately erupted into delighted laughter, the host raised both eyebrows.
"Oh?"
Michael blinked, suddenly realizing what he'd admitted.
"I just—I mean—she..." He laughed nervously, waving both hands as if trying to erase the sentence from existence. "She's very sweet."
"So it's (Name)?"
"I—I didn't say—"
"You literally just did."
"I mean..." He ducked his head with a grin so embarrassed it became contagious. "She's just... really wonderful."
The interview aired the following week, nobody thought much of it.
Then another interviewer asked six months later.
"If you could take any celebrity out to dinner, who would it be?"
Michael smiled thoughtfully. "Oh..."
He didn't even hesitate this time.
"(Name)."
The interviewer burst into laughter. "So you weren't joking last time?"
Michael looked confused.
"What?"
"You said exactly the same thing in your last interview."
"I did?"
"You don't remember?"
He frowned. "No."
The interviewer held up an old magazine. "'Someone like (Name),' ring any bells?"
Michael stared at the page, then slowly buried his face behind both hands. "Oh no..." The audience howled.
The pattern only became worse. Every interview seemed to circle back to you somehow.
"What female artist inspires you?"
"(Name)."
"Who's your favorite vocalist working today?"
Michael didn't even pretend to think. "(Name)."
"What artist do you think deserves more recognition?"
"Oh, definitely (Name)." His entire expression softened the instant he said your name. "Her voice is... it's just beautiful."
"What makes it beautiful?"
Michael actually sat forward in his chair.
For the first time in the interview, he looked genuinely animated.
"Oh... everything." His eyes lit up with that familiar childlike excitement he always had whenever music became the topic. "It's so... effortless. She doesn't force anything. She lets the melody breathe."
He absentmindedly moved one hand through the air as though conducting invisible notes. "Sometimes singers think louder means better, but she doesn't have to do that. She knows exactly when to hold back. She knows when to whisper. She knows when to let one little note do all the work."
He smiled to himself, almost forgetting there were cameras pointed at him. "Her phrasing is unbelievable. You can hear every emotion in the way she finishes a sentence. Even if she sings something simple, she makes it feel... important."
The interviewer blinked.
"...You've really listened to her albums."
Michael looked surprised by the question. "Well... yes."
"How many times?"
He laughed sheepishly. "I don't know."
"Take a guess."
Michael scratched his eyebrow. "...A lot."
"How many is 'a lot'?"
"I... um..." He looked down with another embarrassed grin. "...I lost count."
It became increasingly difficult for journalists to ignore.
Especially because Michael never complimented you the way celebrities usually complimented one another. His praise was strangely... detailed. As though he'd studied every song you'd ever released.
One afternoon, during the filming of a European television special, a journalist asked, "Have you heard (Name)'s newest duet?"
Michael smiled immediately. "Oh, yes."
"What did you think?"
"I loved it."
"What did you like most?"
Without missing a beat, he answered, "Her harmonies."
The interviewer tilted his head. "Anything else?"
Michael nodded enthusiastically.
"The second verse was incredible. She changed the melody just enough to make it sound fresh without taking attention away from the lyrics. And the little run she does before the final chorus..." He gently snapped his fingers as if replaying the moment in his head.
"That's difficult to do because if you over-sing it, it loses its feeling. She didn't. She made it sound so natural."
The interviewer glanced down at his notes. "...What about her duet partner?"
Michael frowned slightly. "Oh."
He genuinely seemed to have forgotten another person had even been on the record.
"He was..." Michael searched for the right word. "Very good too."
"'Very good?'"
"Yes."
"Anything specific?"
Michael thought for several long seconds.
"...He stayed in key."
The cameraman snorted.
The interviewer had to bite his lip to stop himself from laughing.
Michael looked between them, confused.
"What?"
The more interviews he gave, the harder it became to deny the obvious. He simply loved talking about your music.
Not because he was trying to impress anyone. Not because he expected to meet you. But because whenever someone mentioned your name, his entire demeanor changed.
His shoulders relaxed, his smile became brighter, his voice grew warmer.
He stopped speaking like a carefully rehearsed celebrity and started speaking like someone discussing the artist who genuinely inspired him.
"You know," he said during one radio interview, "I think one of the hardest things in music is making people believe what you're singing. Lots of people have beautiful voices." He shrugged gently. "But not everyone can make you feel like they're telling you the truth."
The radio host nodded. "And (Name) does that?"
Michael smiled to himself. "Every time."
"You've never met her."
"No."
"But you're this confident?"
He nodded without hesitation. "I think you can tell a lot about someone's heart through the way they sing."
The room fell unusually quiet, even the host looked momentarily touched.
Michael noticed the silence and quickly became flustered. "I-I mean..." He laughed awkwardly. "As an artist."
The host couldn't help smiling. "Sure, Michael."
"I did mean artistically."
"Mhm."
"I did."
"If you say so."
Michael covered his face with one hand, laughing into his palm while everyone in the studio joined in.
Back at Hayvenhurst, one evening he was sitting cross-legged on the living room carpet, absentmindedly humming along to your newest single while scribbling lyrics into a notebook.
He didn't even realize he was smiling until Janet quietly walked in, stopped beside the couch, and watched him for nearly a full minute.
Without saying a word, she reached for the remote wanting to watch a show.
Click. The television switched to another channel.
Michael looked up immediately. "...Hey."
Janet innocently shrugged. "What?"
"My song was on."
"Your song?"
"You know what I mean."
She folded her arms, struggling to keep a straight face. "Oh... you mean (Name)'s song."
Michael froze.
Jermaine chose that exact moment to walk into the room carrying a bowl of popcorn.
"What happened?"
Janet pointed toward Michael.
"I changed the channel."
Jermaine looked at his younger brother's expression and immediately burst into laughter. "You interrupted his daily concert."
"I was listening."
"No," Jermaine corrected with a grin. "You were studying."
Michael rolled his eyes, trying very hard not to smile. "I appreciate good music."
Jackie wandered in next, curiosity written all over his face. "What's so funny?"
Jermaine didn't even hesitate. "Janet changed the channel to another, Mike's mad that he can't watch his girlfriend."
Michael's head whipped around so fast his curls bounced. "She is not my girlfriend!"
The room erupted. Janet clutched the couch cushion against her stomach. Jackie pointed at him, laughing in his face.
"You got defensive way too fast."
Jermaine leaned against the wall, wiping tears from his eyes. "That's it."
"What?"
"You've got it bad."
Michael buried his burning face into one of the couch pillows. "I hate all of you."
The room only became louder with laughter.
———————
If there was one thing Michael Jackson believed with his entire heart, it was that fans deserved to be treated with kindness.
He had built his career on that belief.
He knew what it felt like to admire someone from afar, to save magazine clippings, to memorize lyrics, to wait outside venues hoping for just a glimpse of an artist who had unknowingly changed your life.
So perhaps it shouldn't have surprised anyone—not even himself—that when it came to you, he acted almost exactly the same way.
The only difference was that he happened to be Michael Jackson.
And Michael Jackson, despite being one of the most recognizable people on Earth, was convinced that a baseball cap, an oversized brown windbreaker, a pair of thick-framed glasses that magnified his eyes just a little too much, and an obviously fake mustache were enough to render him completely anonymous.
He stood across the street from one of the largest unofficial fan clubs dedicated entirely to your career, adjusting the brim of his cap lower over his face before looking up at the storefront.
Your name stretched proudly across the front window in elegant lettering.
The display windows were filled with framed album covers, imported vinyl records, glossy concert photographs, promotional posters, handwritten lyric books, fan-made scrapbooks, newspaper clippings, cassette tapes, keychains, buttons, oversized tour jackets, and shelves upon shelves of memorabilia that looked as though they'd been lovingly collected over years.
Michael's eyes widened behind his glasses. "...Wow." The word escaped him before he could stop it.
He looked exactly like a child standing outside a toy store on Christmas morning.
After glancing once over each shoulder—as though the FBI were monitoring his movements—he quickly crossed the street and slipped through the front door.
A tiny bell chimed overhead.
Immediately, the scent of old magazines, cardboard record sleeves, and fresh coffee greeted him.
Dozens of fans milled around the shop, quietly chatting while flipping through photo albums or browsing stacks of imported merchandise.
Nobody paid him much attention.
Michael released the breath he'd unknowingly been holding. "See?" he thought proudly. "The disguise works."
It did not.
The young woman working behind the register took exactly one look at him. She blinked. Looked again. Then slowly leaned toward the employee beside her.
"...Is that..."
The second employee glanced over, his shoulders immediately began shaking.
"...That's absolutely Michael Jackson."
Neither of them said anything—Instead, they exchanged amused smiles.
If Michael Jackson wanted to pretend to be an ordinary fan...
Well...
Who were they to ruin his afternoon?
Michael wandered through every aisle with quiet fascination, stopping every few steps to examine another piece of memorabilia with almost reverent care.
He carefully lifted a limited-edition concert booklet from its display stand, smiling to himself as he turned each page with the gentleness usually reserved for priceless museum artifacts.
A wall filled entirely with your magazine covers kept him occupied for nearly fifteen minutes as he studied each photograph, occasionally nodding to himself whenever he found one he particularly liked.
He eventually reached an entire shelf dedicated to your albums.
Every pressing. Every country. Every alternate cover. Every promotional release.
He slowly reached out and ran his fingertips across the collection.
"...They even have the rare Japanese release..."
His voice carried just enough for another customer nearby to hear.
"You noticed that too?"
Michael looked down.
A middle-aged woman smiled warmly at him while holding one of your lyric books against her chest. "The mastering's different," she said. "The vocals sound warmer."
Michael's entire face lit up. "They do!"
"You've listened to it?"
"Oh, dozens of times."
She laughed. "I knew I wasn't imagining it."
For the next hour...they talked.
Then another fan joined them.
Then another and before long, nearly eight people had gathered around one tiny listening station near the back of the shop, passionately discussing your albums with the enthusiasm only genuine fans possessed.
Michael completely forgot he was supposed to be hiding.
He animatedly gestured with his hands while talking about your vocal technique, occasionally humming tiny sections of songs to explain exactly what he meant.
"I think one of my favorite things she does," he said, carefully balancing an unopened vinyl beneath one arm, "is how she never sings exactly the same melody twice during live performances. Most people don't even notice it, but she'll change one note—just one—and suddenly the whole phrase feels brand new."
Several fans nodded immediately. "Exactly!" "I've been saying that!"
"And when she sings softly," Michael continued, becoming more excited with every sentence, "she doesn't lose any emotion. That's really difficult. Usually singers compensate by adding more volume, but she doesn't need to. She trusts the audience enough to lean in and listen."
A younger fan grinned. "You sound like you've analyzed every performance she's ever done."
Michael looked down sheepishly. "...Maybe."
The entire group laughed.
One elderly gentleman folded his arms. "So..."
Michael looked up.
"...what's her best song?"
Michael answered so quickly it was almost startling. The room erupted into another lively debate.
Nobody treated him like the King of Pop. Nobody asked for an autograph. Nobody interrupted him.
For nearly three hours, he wasn't Michael Jackson.
He was simply another person who adored your music as much as everyone else in the room. And strangely...
He loved it.
Eventually, he made his way toward the register carrying what could only be described as an alarming amount of merchandise.
Three oversized shopping baskets overflowed with tour books, imported records, promotional posters, fan-made photo collections, commemorative pins, cassette tapes he already owned, several duplicate albums "just in case," two sweatshirts, four T-shirts, calendars, magazines, and a stack of glossy photographs so tall he had to balance them carefully beneath one arm.
The cashier slowly scanned the mountain of items, sighing through her nose.
"...Big fan?"
Michael nodded with complete sincerity. "The biggest."
"I can tell." After everything had been bagged, she slid the last receipt across the counter before leaning forward ever so slightly. "You know..."
Michael looked up.
"...Your mustache is peeling."
His entire body froze. Slowly...very slowly...he reached up. Sure enough...one corner had come unstuck. Silence.
The cashier blinked, she then spoke dryly. "So... should I make the receipt out to 'Michael Jackson'?"
Michael stared at her for a full three seconds before letting out the most defeated little laugh. "...You knew?"
She looked around the shop. Every single fan looked back at him with identical amused smiles. One of them raised a hand. "We knew the second you walked in."
Another nodded, "The glasses didn't help."
"The mustache made it worse."
Michael covered his face with both hands. "Oh, my goodness..."
The room filled with affectionate laughter, one fan gently nudged his shoulder.
"Don't worry, we weren't going to bother you."
"We figured today..." another added with a grin, "...you deserved to just be one of us."
Michael lowered his hands and his smile softened. "...Thank you."
It was a simple sentence. Quiet. Completely genuine.
The room fell warmly silent for a moment before someone held up one of your newest posters. "So..."
Michael immediately smiled again.
"What about this photoshoot?" The discussion resumed as though nothing had happened. Unfortunately for Michael...
The paparazzi had much sharper eyes than he did, because the next morning, newspaper stands across Los Angeles displayed nearly identical headlines.
MICHAEL JACKSON SPOTTED IN MYSTERIOUS DISGUISE!
KING OF POP VISITS (NAME) FAN CLUB?
SECRET SHOPPING TRIP ENDS WITH ARMS FULL OF MERCHANDISE! KING OF POP OR PRESIDENT OF THE FANCLUB?!
Grainy photographs covered nearly every entertainment section.
One showed Michael standing outside the shop in his oversized coat, awkwardly tugging at the fake mustache that had already begun peeling away.
Another captured him leaving with so many shopping bags that they nearly reached his shoulders, forcing him to peek around them just to see where he was walking.
Perhaps the most humiliating picture of all showed him enthusiastically pointing at one of your posters while speaking to a circle of laughing fans, his hands moving animatedly as though he were giving an academic lecture instead of discussing his favorite artist.
Hayvenhurst was unusually quiet that morning. Michael sat at the breakfast table with the newspaper folded neatly beside his plate.
He hadn't touched it in ten minutes. He was pretending it didn't exist.
Unfortunately...His brothers had eyes.
Jermaine walked into the dining room first, coffee mug in hand. He noticed the newspaper immediately. He stopped. Looked at the front page. Looked at Michael. Looked back at the newspaper.
A grin slowly spread across his face. "Oh..."
Michael kept buttering his toast. "No."
Jermaine hadn't even said anything yet as Jackie wandered in next, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Morning—"
Jermaine silently turned the newspaper toward him. Jackie read the headline. Then doubled over laughing so hard he had to grab the back of a chair to stay upright.
"What?" Tito called from the hallway. Jermaine couldn't answer, he simply pointed. Tito picked up the paper.
Five seconds later, he burst into laughter loud enough to bring Marlon into the room. "What happened?"
Jackie wiped tears from the corners of his eyes. "Our little brother..." He could barely finish the sentence. "...joined a fan club."
Michael sighed deeply. "I did not join a fan club."
Jermaine snorted. "No?"
He tapped one photograph.
"Then why are you buying enough merchandise to open your own museum?"
"I was supporting her."
"You bought four copies of the same album."
"They're different pressings."
"The article says you debated her bridge on track six with strangers for almost an hour."
"They understood what I meant."
"They called you 'Mike' by the end."
Michael muttered something unintelligible into his coffee as his brothers laughed.
From that day forward...an inside joke was born.
Whenever Michael entered a room, one of his brothers would immediately stand up, walk over with exaggerated seriousness, and extend a hand. "Welcome to the fan club."
Michael would groan before reluctantly shaking it.
Jermaine always followed with an overly formal nod. "Our president has arrived."
Marlon would clap dramatically before cackling.
Tito usually added, "Have you paid your membership dues this month?"
And Jackie—who somehow found the joke just as funny every single time—would lean over and ask with the straightest face imaginable, "Any new merchandise releases we should know about, Mike?"
The four of them would dissolve into laughter before Michael even had the chance to defend himself.
"I hate every single one of you," he'd mumble, unable to hide the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
Jermaine would throw an arm around his shoulders, still chuckling.
"No, you don't."
Jackie nodded toward the newspaper still sitting on the table. "You know what the funniest part is?"
Michael sighed. "What?"
Jackie grinned.
"You never denied being her biggest fan."
Michael looked down at the photograph of himself leaving the fan club with his arms full of shopping bags. After a moment, the corner of his mouth lifted into a sheepish smile. "...Because it's true."
———————
The award show itself was spectacular.
Every seat in the auditorium glittered beneath golden lights that swept across the audience like slow-moving stars.
Crystal chandeliers reflected flashes from hundreds of cameras, while orchestral music drifted through the room between commercial breaks.
Conversations filled every corner of the theater as the biggest names in entertainment greeted one another with hugs, laughter, and handshakes.
Backstage was even more chaotic.
Stage managers hurried down hallways with clipboards tucked beneath their arms, assistants rushed costumes from one dressing room to another, makeup artists chased performers for last-minute touch-ups, and producers spoke urgently into headsets while counting down to the next live segment.
Michael had just stepped offstage after delivering one of the most electric performances of the evening. His breathing was still uneven from the choreography, tiny beads of perspiration clung to the curls framing his forehead.
An assistant gently draped a towel around his shoulders while another handed him a bottle of water. "You were incredible, Michael."
"Thank you."
"You can go back to your seat now." He nodded absently, barely listening.
His attention had already drifted somewhere else.
Down the hallway, standing near a cluster of dressing rooms...
Was you.
You were speaking with your manager, one hand wrapped loosely around a cup of tea while the other moved naturally as you laughed at something someone had said.
Even from several yards away, your smile carried easily through the busy corridor, warm enough that people passing by found themselves smiling back without realizing it.
Michael stopped walking. His fingers slowly lowered the water bottle. His shoulders straightened instinctively.
For just a moment, the bustling hallway seemed strangely quiet. He couldn't hear the stage crew anymore.
There was only one thought in his mind.
She's actually here.
Not on a television screen. Not on the cover of an album. Not across an arena.
Right there.
Only a few steps away.
His heartbeat picked up so suddenly that he instinctively pressed a hand against his sweaty chest. "Oh..."
A stagehand walking past noticed where he was looking and smiled to himself before continuing on.
Michael inhaled slowly, he smoothed the front of his blue polo. Ran a nervous hand through the curls at the back of his neck.
Then quietly muttered to himself, "Just say hello."
He took one step—stopped. Shook his head.
"No, that's weird."
Another step.
"What if she's busy?"
He took a third.
"What if she doesn't know who I am?"
An assistant passing by blinked at him. "...Michael." He looked over. "She definitely knows who you are."
"Oh." He laughed softly at himself. "Right."
He felt ridiculous but still...
He started walking again, one careful step after another. Trying very hard not to look like someone walking toward the person he'd admired for nearly a decade.
You happened to glance in his direction, your eyes met for the briefest instant.
You smiled politely.
Michael forgot how to function.
His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. He managed exactly one tiny wave.
You returned it with a smile. The most beautiful smile he's ever seen.
He thought his heart might actually stop. He was close enough now that another few seconds would have been enough.
Enough to introduce himself, enough to tell you how much your music had inspired him, enough to finally have a conversation after years of only speaking about you in interviews and defending your artistry to anyone who would listen.
Then—
A familiar voice called your name.
You turned. Prince appeared from the opposite end of the hallway, already dressed for his upcoming performance.
He greeted you with an easy grin. You smiled back.
One of the producers hurried over. "There you two are!"
He clapped his hands together. "You're on in two minutes."
Michael's smile slowly disappeared.
He watched as Prince naturally fell into step beside you. The two of you exchanged a few words that he couldn't hear before disappearing behind the stage entrance together.
Michael remained exactly where he was, completely still.
His eye twitched.
A dancer from his crew approached cautiously. "...uh..Mike?"
Without taking his eyes off the curtains, Michael answered in an unusually flat, low voice. "They're performing together?"
"I... think so."
"They're doing a duet?"
"...Looks like it."
Michael slowly nodded once. "I see."
The dancer shifted awkwardly.
"You okay?"
Michael smiled. It was the tightest, most painfully forced smile anyone in the room had ever seen.
"I'm wonderful."
"You don't look wonderful."
———————
The moment the lights dimmed, the entire atmosphere of the award show shifted.
The endless chatter that had filled the room softened into anticipation as the stage transformed, the golden glow of the spotlights cutting through the darkness while the audience settled into their seats.
Michael had been expecting another performance—another impressive display from two of the biggest artists in the world, trying to put his jealousy aside—but he was not prepared for the sight that unfolded in front of him.
The opening notes echoed through the venue, smooth and dramatic, and then you stepped onto the stage beside Prince, immediately commanding the attention of everyone watching.
There was a confidence in the way you carried yourself, the kind that came from years of knowing exactly who you were as an artist. You didn't need to demand attention; the room naturally followed you.
Every movement was deliberate, every expression matching the emotion of the song perfectly.
The audience immediately reacted, cheers rising as you began the first verse, your voice filling the arena with a warmth and power that made people instinctively lean closer.
Michael, however, barely moved.
He had been sitting with the composed expression he always wore at award shows, one hand resting against his chin, the other tapping lightly against his armrest.
But the second your voice came through the speakers, that carefully controlled expression disappeared.
His eyes widened slightly, his head tilting forward as if he needed to make sure he was hearing every single note correctly.
He knew your voice better than most people did.
He had spent years listening to your albums, studying the choices you made, admiring the way you could turn a simple lyric into something emotional.
But hearing you live was always different. There was something raw about it that recordings could never completely capture.
He watched you move across the stage, watched the way you connected with the audience, watched the way you shaped every phrase with such effortless control, and despite himself, he found himself smiling.
A genuine smile, the kind he rarely showed in public unless he was truly impressed.
One of the people sitting near him noticed almost immediately.
Michael wasn't watching the performance like a fellow celebrity watching another celebrity. He was watching like a fan.
Then Prince joined in.
At first, Michael tried to remain neutral.
He really did.
Prince was talented. Michael knew that. He respected him as a musician and understood why audiences loved him.
But as soon as the two of you began harmonizing together, Michael's admiration for your part of the performance quickly became something much more complicated.
The two of you moved around each other effortlessly, trading lines back and forth with a chemistry that was impossible to ignore.
Prince played into the performance with his usual confidence, leaning into the dramatic energy of the song, and you responded naturally, smiling as the two of you sang together.
And Michael hated how much the audience loved it.
Not because you weren't incredible—you were.
That was the problem.
You were so incredible that he couldn't even convince himself he was annoyed at the performance itself. His frustration was entirely focused on one person standing beside you.
Prince.
Michael's expression slowly changed. The smile faded. His eyebrows drew together slightly. His fingers, which had been tapping along with the rhythm, stopped. He shifted in his seat.
Then shifted again.
At first, people around him thought he was simply enjoying the performance intensely, but anyone who knew Michael well could see the difference.
His eyes followed every single interaction between you and Prince. Every glance. Every smile. Every moment where the two of you stood closer than necessary.
When Prince stepped toward you during the final section of the song, Michael immediately straightened.
When you laughed at something Prince whispered during the performance, Michael's mouth pressed into a thin line.
And when the final chorus arrived, the entire audience erupted as the music built toward the ending.
The stage lights became brighter.
The crowd was already on their feet.
Then Prince took your hand.
Michael's eyes narrowed.
He watched as Prince spun you gracefully, catching you at exactly the right moment before lowering you into a dramatic dip.
You trusted him completely, your laughter blending with the cheers of the audience as the final note rang through the arena. It was a classic award-show ending—the kind designed to make people scream.
And people did.
Everyone except Michael.
Michael sat frozen, his jaw tightened and his eyes remained locked on the stage.
Then, as Prince held you there for the final pose, he looked out into the audience.
And his eyes landed directly on Michael. For one brief moment, neither of them looked away.
Prince's expression was subtle, but Michael understood immediately.
It was a challenge.
A playful one.
A smug one.
The kind that only made Michael's jealousy worse.
His eyebrows lifted slightly, almost offended.
His lips parted.
Then, barely audible beneath the roaring applause, he muttered to himself, "He's dead."
The person sitting beside him turned sharply.
Michael immediately realized what he had done.
"No, no, I mean—"
He quickly composed himself, forcing his expression back into something polite as the cameras swept across the audience.
"Congratulations to them," he said, much louder.
The problem was...
Nobody believed him.
The people around him exchanged amused looks.
They had heard exactly what he said.
And judging by Michael's expression as he clapped his large hands loudly with a lot of force—he knew they knew.
———————
When it was finally time for the award for Best Male Performer of the Year, the tension in the room had completely changed.
The earlier performances had set the stage, and now the audience waited as the presenter stepped forward with the envelope in hand. The nominees appeared one by one on the massive screens, each name receiving applause from the crowd.
Michael Jackson.
Prince.
Several other legendary performers.
The moment Michael's name appeared, the audience erupted.
He sat calmly, hands folded together, his face unreadable.
But those closest to him could see the tiny hint of confidence in his expression.
The presenter opened the envelope.
"And the winner is..."
The entire room became silent.
Michael leaned back slightly.
"...Michael Jackson!"
The crowd exploded. The applause was immediate and deafening.
Michael paused for a moment, allowing the reaction to wash over him. Then slowly, almost dramatically, he stood from his seat.
And there it was.
That smile.
The one that appeared whenever Michael knew he had something to prove.
He adjusted the front of his jacket, smoothed down his sleeve, and accepted congratulations from those around him before making his way toward the stage.
But as he walked past Prince, he couldn't resist.
He stopped.
Just for a second.
Prince looked up at him.
Michael smiled.
Not a rude smile.
Not openly.
But definitely smug.
The kind of smile that said remember earlier?
Prince's expression immediately hardened.
His jaw tightened.
He knew exactly what Michael was doing.
"You enjoy that too much," Prince muttered quietly.
Michael leaned slightly closer, pretending not to hear.
"What was that?"
Prince stared at him.
"Nothing."
Michael's smile widened.
"That's what I thought."
Then he continued toward the stage.
Prince watched him walk away with an expression of pure irritation.
The cameras didn't catch the quiet exchange.
But everyone close enough to see it were so shocked and knew that they would be sharing this story for years to come.
This was no longer about the award.
———————
Michael reached the microphone holding the award.
He looked down at the trophy in his hands before looking back at the audience, his voice soft and slightly nervous as he began,
"Wow. Thank you. Thank you so much. Um, honestly, I don't know what to say. This is such a great honor because there are so many incredible artists here tonight, so many people who inspire me and continue to push music forward..." He paused as he smiled shyly.
"I want to thank God, my family, especially my fans, everyone who has supported me throughout my career. I wouldn't be standing here without the people who believed in me when I was just a kid who loved to sing and dance. This award means more than I can really explain."
He paused, taking a breath as the applause continued. For a moment, he looked exactly like the shy Michael everyone knew—the humble artist who never wanted to appear too proud of himself. Then his eyes moved toward you in the audience. His expression softened.
"And I also want to say something about tonight's performances. There are moments when you watch someone perform and you remember why you love music in the first place. You remember why you started. And tonight, I had one of those moments watching (Name). She has one of the most incredible voices I've ever heard. The way she feels a song, the way she connects with people, the way she can take a simple melody and turn it into something that stays with you... that's a gift. That's something special."
The audience smiled, immediately understanding where his attention was. Michael's confidence grew as he continued, his shoulders relaxing, his famous playful side beginning to appear.
"And, uh, I also saw her duet tonight." He looked toward Prince who had an unreadable but obviously irritated expression briefly before smiling.
"Very interesting performance. Very entertaining. But I think everyone here knows when someone has a voice that can carry a song, they don't need much help."
Laughter immediately spread through the room. Michael smiled wider. "Sometimes one person just has that magic. And (Name), you definitely have that magic." He lifted the award slightly.
"So next time you want to do a duet, I think you should choose someone who can keep up with you a little better."
The audience erupted in gasps and shock. Michael laughed, now completely comfortable, the shy nerves gone.
"Maybe someone with a little more experience. Maybe someone who knows how to let that incredible voice shine."
He looked directly at you, blowing a kiss between his two fingers before adding with a playful wink, "I'm just saying, I'm available."
The entire theater exploded into laughter and applause.
Michael stepped back from the microphone, smiling proudly as you sat there completely stunned, your cheeks warm and your expression caught somewhere between disbelief and amusement.
You put your hand over your mouth in absolute shock. “What the hell just happened…?”
.
.
.
Note: This came to me in a dream…I channeled it before Prince could 😆🤣 No shade to Prince at all hahaha 😂 Soo much love to you all! 🫶🏽❤️
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