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[whitelionspirit]

This is a multifandom account currently I am accepting One Piece requests

One Piece arc I am in:

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Bnha: All caught up.

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[wonkafluffbutt]

Who Is This?

Thriller!Michael Jackson x fem!reader

Tags: Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Phone Calls, Identity Porn, No Smut, No Pepsi Accident, Mutual Pining

Summary: One night you receive an accidental phone call that somehow morphs into a friendship between two lonely people trying to navigate life at the top of their respective careers. You find comfort in each other and despite never meeting in person you become each other’s best friend, until you find yourself slowly falling in love with the charming, charismatic man on the other side of the phone line and you start to hope for maybe something more.

You spend your career following celebrities and reporting on every hint of gossip you can find. It never occurs to you that Michael, the musician with the soft-spoken voice and kind heart you spend hours talking to every night, could also be the most famous celebrity there is.

Michael wants to keep it that way. Wants a friend who likes him for who he is, not what he means to the world and who can know his heart without suffering the price of his fame.

It’s inevitable that you would find out one day. You spend half of your day pestering him for information professionally and the other half doing the same socially. There’s only so many things to say before it all starts to overlap.

Total wc ~101k

Link Below!!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/86901346/chapters/230062266

[thrillerhaze]

i haven’t been very active with my posting, but i wanted to come on here and say the shit that is going on in the michael fandom right now especially on mjblr is absolutely fucking disgusting. the horrible racist comments from anons i’ve been seeing on amazing black writers is genuinely so fucking disgusting i don’t know who these people think they are but they deserve to rot in hell. do not call yourself a michael fan if you condone or do these actions. michael would have NEVER wanted this. michael is a black man. i think these people forget that they are supporting a black man. seeing all this hate makes me not even wanna be in this fandom anymore because it’s genuinely horrible. it breaks my heart seeing all these amazing black writers get hate anons for writing for A BLACK MAN…??? the irony of that. this is one of the most if not the most toxic fandom i have ever been in. if you are one of those hate anons reading this GO TO HELL!!! get a fucking life. what you are doing is so sick and pathetic. there’s honestly so much more that i have to say but im gonna cut it short here. i just wanna give a shout out to all the amazing black writers holding it down on mjblr. ♡

[pinkplantprincess]

MJ wearing a scrunchie is very important to me 💫

[whitelionspirit]

Does omegaverse interest people?

Yes

No

Maybe

Voting ended onAug 2

[spideybadd]

Forbidden attraction

Michael Jackson x Lisa Marie Presley x fem!reader.

Summary: A casual encounter sparks new feelings and unearths those thought long dead, leaving you caught in the middle of the most mediatic couple of the moment.

Tags: NSFW, threesome, eventual smut.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

"In my opinion, I don't think I have the image for making rock music. In fact, I don't even want to make rock music." The studio's dim lighting lent the room an intimate atmosphere, the sound engineers had stepped out for some fresh air after Michael asked for a break, leaving you alone in the studio with him. He was sitting in a chair beside you, having turned to face you directly, listening with the utmost attention. "They've been stifling me too much on this album, Mike."

You two had been working on some songs for your album for about three weeks now. You didn't see each other every day, only when Michael's schedule allowed. The label kept rejecting the songs because of their own demands. You took a sip from your water bottle. "I'm going to rebel."

"Is that so? And tell me how you plan to do it." Michael looked at you with a raised eyebrow, leaning his body toward your chair.You rolled your eyes, looking away from him and the way he looked—which stirred up a strange feeling you’d been carrying around for weeks. "You'll see it when I get kicked off this label."

Michael let out a soft laugh.

"Doll, you know that’s impossible. You’re practically the biggest income source for the joint venture you’re part of." Michael got up from his chair and moved closer to you, pretending to adjust something on the central console in front of you. "You're practically their favorite," he said. You looked up at him—given your seated position—and asked with a pout, "You think so?" He studied you and gave a nod before tucking a lock of hair behind your ear, a habit that had once made you uncomfortable, due to the thought that he was a married man bridging the distance, but now, you are used to it, and you can't help but feel nervous when that happens.

You held eye contact for a long moment; your lips parted slightly, and his gaze instinctively dropped to them. Their cherry-red hue made them stand out. "I like that shade," he said, almost in a whisper. The breath caught in your lungs, and as if fate were signaling you to snap back due to the incorrect behavior, the sound of the door latch clicking open made you two pull apart.

You tried to focus on the conversation the technicians were having, but you seemed lost in a daydream, your brow slightly furrowed. "Y/N, shall we continue?" one of the men asked, making you react almost automatically and turn back toward the booth.

You forced your mind to work, moments like this were happening more often than usual, and thoughts heavy with guilt kept intruding.

Every now and then, you’d glance through the glass and your eyes would lock with Michael’s, who was already watching you, only leading you to look away almost instantly. You thanked the heavens when Michael’s manager walked in to signal that it was time to leave, exhaling a breath you hadn't realized you were holding.

"Y/N," his soft voice made you look up. "Send this demo, they won't reject this one." You nodded, and he stepped closer to say goodbye with a hug, as had become the routine. His hands wrapped around your waist, squeezing just firmly enough to leave the lingering sensation of his grip imprinted on your mind. He pulled away with a lopsided smile that made you narrow your eyes—almost in anger—before walking out.

You arrived home and immediately went to the phone, dialing the number and waiting calmly with the receiver pressed to your ear.

"Y/N?"

"Lis, hey..."

You heard her shifting position on the other end of the line.

"Sweetie, I was just about to call you; you beat me to it." You let out a laugh. "Yeah, I see that." Lisa was in their king size bed, after putting the kids to sleep and taking a nice shower, she was tucked under the sheets with the TV on low volume. She had been thinking about calling you right when the phone rang. "How was your day at the studio? You were working with Michael today, right?"

Your mind drifted back to what you had just experienced, and you fell silent for a moment, making Lisa wonder what was wrong. "Pretty? You still there?"

Doll.

Sweetie.

Pretty.

Those nicknames had started popping up, at first, you’d freeze for a few seconds trying to process them, but as the days went by, hearing them call you that felt right, so much so that hearing your actual name sometimes felt stranger than the nickname itself. You let out a sigh.

"Yeah, we worked for hours." Lisa detected something odd in your voice. "You don't sound too happy about it."

You swallowed hard at her observation.

"It's not what you think; I'm just so tired... Michael and I have been working so hard, and I'm starting to get frustrated."

"With Michael?"

"No, Lis. With the record label," you said, as if it were obvious. "I'm going crazy with all these lyrics and rhythms in my head; I'm not sleeping well, and nothing I do pleases them."

Your voice sounded exhausted, your words slightly slurred with fatigue. "You should get some rest, pretty. We could go out for lunch if you have some free time tomorrow."

You thought about it; it sounded tempting, and your heart quickened with that familiar rhythm that always surfaced when it came to him. You acted on that feeling and agreed, before saying goodbye and hanging up.

You spent the next morning between the studio and updates from Ana, who was busy taking calls. She came back in just before lunchtime.

"The driver is here to take you; I don't want you getting distracted chatting, Y/N. We need to plan what you're going to say to the executives and investors tomorrow. So i want you here in an hour." You had woken up feeling a rebellious streak—despite the jokes from the day before—but you needed to regain a sense of control over your work. You shared this with Ana, and like a good advisor, she supported the idea of ​​sabotaging the executives' project to prove that you could deliver better results.

You headed out, greeting the people you passed in the hallways with a mix of formality and friendliness. The drive to the restaurant Lisa had chosen was short; once you got out, you put on your cap and sunglasses and walked into the reception area.

"Hello, how can I help you? Do you have a reservation?"

"Um, yes. Under the name Lisa Marie."

The young woman nodded and led you to a fairly secluded table. You spotted the woman waiting for you, when your figure caught her gaze, she flashed a smile that made one appear on your face, too.

"Hi, pretty. You look gorgeous." You smiled. "I could say the same about you."

You ordered a few minutes later and focused on a conversation about Lisa's children, how busy Michael had been over the past few weeks, and your own days, until the food arrived.

"I plan to challenge the executives' latest decisions tomorrow."

Lisa looked up, intrigued.

"I’m going to make them accept the songs I prepared, as well as the ones Michael and I have worked on."

"You look determined." Lisa bit her lip, seeing you like that was a turn-on. You wore the same expression you did when answering questions in interviews—unwavering, leaving no room for rebuttal. It was a stark contrast to your everyday demeanor.

"I'll have to seize the moment." A bit of sauce remained at the corner of your mouth. Lisa’s eyes landed on it, and in a movement that seemed to play out in slow motion for you, she wiped the sauce away with her thumb.

"You had some sauce there." With a slightly deeper voice, she spoke while looking directly at you. After that, she brought her finger to her own mouth and cleaned it off. You looked at her, exhaling shakily in response to the gesture, you could see the corner of her mouth fighting not to curl into a smile. "I didn't mean to interrupt, go on."

You remained silent, still watching her; your eyes were trying fixed on hers and your eyebrows had arched ever so slightly, but the nervousness—the same feeling you’d had the day before with Michael—came flooding back. You were lost in thought until Lisa tilted her head. "Hello? Earth to Y/N?"

You lowered your head, regaining your composure.

"I’m going away on a trip to New York for a few days. They’re opening a charity center and invited me. Plus, I have a few things to sort out regarding the new album, so I don't think we'll be able to talk."

And I need to clear my head about the mess of feelings you and your husband stir up in me, you thought.

"Oh." You noticed her lips form a pout. "I’m going to miss your voice. When do you get back?"

You glanced up at the ceiling, thinking.

"I'll be back on Monday."

"Well, once you're back, you can come to Neverland for dinner, the songs will probably have been approved by then."

You smiled at her words, not giving her an answer.

On Wednesday morning, you were sitting in the conference room, patiently listening to what everyone had to say until it was your turn to speak.

"I decided to bring up my usual way of working, which most of you are already familiar with." You glanced at a few faces before continuing. "I received the information that you wanted a rock sound from me. Me, an artist known primarily for R&B. I’ve agreed to do pop, since it’s a genre I can handle, but rock falls outside my market and my artistic identity."

You noticed the head director listening intently, sitting up straight. "I know expanding into new markets is good, but if I abandon my essence, the people who support us will find it strange. That’s why I propose we listen to the concept I’ve spent months preparing; it features the arrangements you asked for, the vision that has driven my album sales, and that 'Jackson touch' I know you’ll love. I also have a few collaborations in mind that you won't be able to turn down." Ana began handing out folders and started playing the tracks. After forty-five minutes of music, a rundown of budgets and schedules from your manager, and a brief visual presentation by the art director, you spoke again.

"I need the creative freedom you’ve always granted me, not a list of demands I refuse to meet."

You could sense the argument unfolding among them; for the most part, the newbies resisted, wanting to prioritize their own interests at the expense of your image. On the other hand, those who had been working with you for a long time began to persuade them, finding the proposals quite promising, plus, having both you and Michael Jackson in the production credits sounded fantastic. In the end, your act of rebellion had a positive outcome, despite a warning from the director that you didn't pay much mind to.

"Call Mr. Jackson and tell him the proposals have been accepted and his part of the work is done," Ana said with a smile. "Remember, we’re leaving early tomorrow."

"Aren't you supposed to be the one making those calls?" you said, staring at her intently.

The silence in the elevator was broken by her. "You do it, it seems he has a soft spot for you," she said, her gaze fixed on you, with a mocking look. The elevator door opened and you stepped out after her.

"Hey, the fuck do you mean by that?"

That was how you found yourself standing by the phone in your loft's study. The call was answered after a few rings.

"Hello?" You could recognize Michael's voice despite the feigned tone.

"I see you're finally home. You were leaving Lis all alone," you said softly.

Michael was in his office, a smile appeared almost instantly when he heard your voice.

"Doll, to what do I owe the honor of this call?" He brushed aside your reproach and got straight to the point.

"They accepted our songs." Michael raised his eyebrows. "Seriously? What did you do?"

Your finger toyed with the telephone cord. "I told you I’d rebel. And I think you might be right, I have more control over that record label than I thought."

Hearing your sweet tone, he smiled and leaned back in his chair. "I see, you like having your ego stroked, don't ya?"

You let out a laugh. "You think so?"

Lisa walked into the office carrying a glass of juice, noticing her husband was on the phone, she gave him a look full of curiosity, Michael rolled his chair back and motioned for her to sit on his lap so she could listen in.

"Something tells me I’ll have to keep flattering you if that’s the attitude you’re going to give me." You fell silent, trying to figure out if his tone was flirtatious or if your mind was simply playing the same tricks on you that it had been these past few weeks.

When he didn't get a response, Michael spoke again. "I suppose our work together is finished, then."

"That's right…"

"Don't think you're getting away from us, doll." Lisa nodded in approval. "We'll be waiting for you on Monday, I'll send a driver to pick you up."

With that, he hung up and set the phone on the desk. Lisa ran her fingers along his jawline.

"I think we're closer than expected."

Michael’s hands settled on her waist as he buried his face in his wife’s neck.

"I know we’re making her nervous; she gives me that look of frustration mixed with guilt, and it just makes me want to hold her close."

"I can see it in her eyes, she is exactly where we want her to be."

They reached an unspoken agreement before kissing, taking the heated moment into the bedroom. Meanwhile, there you were, sitting on the dark sofa with a glass of whiskey in hand, swirling it and watching the ice melt into the liquor.

For weeks, guilt had been breathing down your neck. On one hand, there was Michael, placing his hands on your waist as he passed by, moving you with a touch that was agonizingly slow and gentle. He would lean in and speak to you in that voice, the one thousands of fans would kill to hear, you were becoming addicted to his cologne and the feel of his hands on you.

On the other hand, there was Lisa, you’d realized she had a seductive way of speaking, and you felt like a snake drawn to the sound of a flute. You could feel her eyes analyzing your figure whenever you saw each other, lingering for a few seconds on the very spots people usually loved to look at. You were going against all your principles, drawn to a married couple, the same couple that confused you: the woman with whom you shared late-night calls, and the man who charmed you so effortlessly.

You had fallen right into the trap—and deep.

Hiii, thank you to those who have decided to give this story a chance.

Tags: @desireinink

[whitelionspirit]

So the poll ended in a draw 🤣 so I am going to chose to write post 2005 for “Yours, Mine, and Ours” mostly because I have a lot of strong feelings and ideas for that in particular and for the kids to be slightly older. It does expand into 2008ish territory since this is a slow burn but alas happy endings all around and no 2009 sadness. Just to reassure everyone. ✨

[whitelionspirit]

I have started writing the “yours, mine, and ours” fic it’s still in early stage but I am curious if people are interested in a post 2005 era or prior 2005 era. Both sides would deal with heavy angst of two lonely and sad people.

Post 2005

Before 2005

Voting ended onJul 31

[whitelionspirit]

I have started writing the “yours, mine, and ours” fic it’s still in early stage but I am curious if people are interested in a post 2005 era or prior 2005 era. Both sides would deal with heavy angst of two lonely and sad people.

Post 2005

Before 2005

Voting ended onJul 31

[softformj]

Caught in the Web (Oneshot)

Spider-Man!Michael Jackson x nurse!reader (Spider-Man AU) Summary: You don't realize your friendly neighbor is the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, only that a masked stranger keeps landing on your fire escape for you to patch up his bruises. You fall in love with a man whose face you've never seen, never knowing he's already the one living right across your hall. Tags: secret identity, strangers to friends to lovers, slow burn, hurt/comfort, tooth-rotting fluff, no smut

The box in your arms is heavier than it looked before and by the time you reach your door on the fifth floor your arms are shaking a little. Your front door is propped open with one of your shoes. Boxes everywhere and a lamp without its shade sitting crooked against the wall of the hallway. You're setting the box down when the door across yours opens. "Moving in?" You look up. A man, maybe your age or a little older, with a camera bag slung over one shoulder like he's on his way out somewhere. And you can instantly tell by his face that he must smile a lot. "That obvious?" you chuckle, nodding at the chaos behind you. He laughs softly. "I mean, the open door and the boxes were a hint." You wipe your hands on your jeans and hold one out, giving your name. "I'm your new neighbor, apparently." "Michael," he says, shaking it. His hand is warm and a little rough and callused. "You need help with any of that?" "I got it. But thank you." You smile. "I'm a nurse, so I promise I lift heavier things than boxes for a living." "Yeah? Where do you work?"

"The hospital a few blocks down. ER, mostly." "Rough hours." "The roughest," you agree. He shifts the camera bag higher on his shoulder. "I'd stay and help but I've got a shoot in twenty minutes. I’m a photographer," he adds. "I'm right here, though." He nods at his door. "If you need anything." "Good to know." He gives you one more smile before he heads for the elevator, and you go back to your box, and that's that. – You don't talk to him again for a week, except for the polite hallway exchanges. Good morning. Long shift? Have a good one. It becomes a rhythm without either of you intending it. You learn his schedule a little by observation. In the mornings he leaves with the camera bag, and in the nights he doesn't seem to be home at all, though you don't think much of it. You're too tired most days to think much of anything. Then one evening you're halfway through making banana bread when you realize you don't have eggs.

You stand in your kitchen holding a bowl of half-mixed batter and stare at the empty carton like it might magically fill itself with eggs again. It's late enough that the corner store is closed, and you're still in your pajama pants, and you think about giving up on the whole thing. Instead you knock on the door across the hall. Michael opens it in a t-shirt and with a pen behind one ear like he'd been in the middle of something. "Hey." "This is going to sound insane," you say, "but do you have eggs? Like, three of them. I made a bad decision and started without checking if I had any." He laughs and steps back so you can see into his kitchen, and it looks almost exactly like yours. Same layout, same cheap cabinets. "Bad decisions I respect," he says, already opening his fridge. "What are you making?" "Banana bread. If it survives." He hands you three eggs carefully. "Bring me some if it survives." "Deal." It survives. So the next morning before work, you knock on his door again, this time with a small container in your hands, and when he opens the door you hold it out before he can say anything. "Payment," you tell him. "As promised." He looks almost surprised, like he hadn't actually expected you to remember. "You didn't have to do that."

"I always pay my debts. Even egg debts." He chuckles and takes the container. "Thank you. This will be my breakfast." "Thank you for the eggs." You don't think much of it after that. But it happens again a few weeks later, because you forget to stock up on eggs again, so you knock on his door, feeling a little sheepish about it this time. He just shakes his head and hands them over before you can even finish your sentence. And the next morning, another container ends up in his hands, cookies this time, and it starts to look like something that might just keep happening. It does keep happening. Lemon cake, brownies, chocolate muffins. It becomes its own kind of routine. He always accepts everything with a big smile and a friendly thank you before he closes the door. But what you don't see is what happens after he’s back inside. Michael sets the container of brownies on his counter, takes one out and eats it standing at the sink, looking out at nothing in particular. It's good. It's always good, whatever you bring. Later that week he adds eggs to his grocery list and buys more than he needs, more than he could reasonably eat in a week even with his appetite. He tells himself it's for the protein. He’s trying to build up muscle after all. –

Your shift ends at eleven, and by the time you're home your feet feel like they don’t even belong to you anymore. You drop your bag by the door, kick your shoes off, and you're halfway through unbuttoning your scrubs top when something hits the fire escape outside your living room window. You freeze. For one long second your whole body goes cold, trying to make sense of what your ears just heard. Someone's out there. Someone big enough to make the whole frame of the fire escape shudder. You slowly approach your window. There's a man crouched on your fire escape, one hand braced against the railing, head hanging low between his shoulders. There’s dirt and something darker soaked into the red and blue fabric at his side. You know that suit. Everyone in this city knows that suit, you've seen it on the news more times than you can count. Videos of him swinging between buildings or carrying someone out of a fire. Spider-Man. On your fire escape. Bleeding. You don't scream. You don't call out for anyone. You just stand there with your hand still on the top button of your scrubs, and for a second neither of you moves. He lifts his head enough that you catch the white of the mask's eyes. His voice comes out rough and out of breath, barely holding together. "I need help." Your first thought is call the police. Get away from the window, lock it and call the police.

Your second thought, the one that wins, is that he can barely hold himself up and he’s bleeding on your fire escape and somewhere underneath the mask there's a person, and at the end of your day, this is your job. You unlock the window. "Get in before someone sees you," you say, and your voice comes out steady which surprises you. He climbs through slowly, and up close the damage is worse than it looked from behind the window. There's a long gash along his forearm and something about the way he's holding his ribs makes your stomach turn. It’s nothing life-threatening, you think. But deep enough that it needs more than a bandage from a drugstore kit. "Sit," you tell him, nodding at your kitchen chair, already moving for the good first aid kit you keep under the sink, the one with actual suture strips and not just band-aids. "And don't bleed on my couch." He almost laughs, but it turns into a wince. "Wasn't planning on it." You clean the cut on his arm first, quietly and focused. Some distant part of your brain tells you that you should probably be asking questions right now. Who are you. What happened. Why here, why my fire escape out of every window in this city. You don't ask any of it. He watches you work with his mask still on, and when you finally tape the last strip of gauze down he says, "Thank you," quietly. "Don't mention it," you say. "Literally. Don't tell anyone I did this, I'll lose my license."

That gets a real, surprised laugh out of him this time. He stands up and looks steadier now, testing his ribs with one careful hand. "You should still see a doctor tomorrow. Properly." "Yeah," he says, already halfway back out the window. "Maybe." You know he won't. Something tells you he never does. –

The next morning you're locking your door when his opens too. "Morning," Michael says, camera bag over his shoulder, same easy grin as always. He's got a long sleeve shirt on despite the already warm morning air, which strikes you as a little odd for half a second. But the thought is gone before you even lock your door. You smile, say it back, and that's the whole exchange. You don't think about him twice on your walk to the hospital. What you do think about, the whole way there, is Spider-Man. You lie awake some nights thinking about it: why you did what you did, why your hands moved before your brain gave permission. The news doesn't like him much these days, calls him a vigilante like it's an accusation, runs footage of property damage and unauthorized use of force like that's the whole story. You've never quite bought it. Not after the video of him last week pulling a baby out of a building that was in flames, placing her into her mother's arms while the woman sobbed into his shoulder, thanking him over and over. That doesn't look like a criminal to you. It never has. You don't tell anyone what happened on your fire escape. You're not sure you could explain it even if you tried. – He comes back a few nights later with the same quiet knock of his knuckles against your window before you even see him crouched there. This time it's his thigh, a cut deep enough that you have to press harder than you'd like to get the bleeding to slow, and he hisses through his teeth but doesn't pull away. Neither of you says much. You’re just focused on your work and he lets you do your thing, and when you're done he says thank you in that same low voice and disappears back out the window like he was never there at all. It happens again after that. And again. You stop being surprised by the sound on the fire escape and start listening for it instead, some small part of you already awake before your ears even hear anything. One of those nights you're sliding cake-batter into the oven when he arrives, with eggs you borrowed from Michael that same evening. While you're kneeling in front of Spider-Man cleaning a gash along his ribs, you lose track of time completely, wrapped up in making sure he's not about to bleed through your gauze. And then the smell hits you and you swear and bolt for the kitchen. The cake's a little dark around the edges when you pull it out. It’s not ruined. Still edible. But it annoys you to no end. You bring it to Michael's door the next morning anyway, sheepishly holding the container out like an apology. "Fair warning, it’s a little burnt. I got distracted." He takes the container, already lifting the lid to look. "Distracted by what?"

"Long story," you say, which isn't a lie at all. It’s just the only part of the truth you're allowed to give him. He eats the whole thing that morning standing at his counter, slightly burned edges and all. He doesn't mind. If anything he minds less than usual, though he couldn't tell you why. – By now you've stopped being surprised by the sound at your window. Some part of you even listens for it, without meaning to, some nights even lying awake expecting the fire escape to rattle. The next time he comes, you don't see any bruises on him. No cut or blood on the fabric, no visible bruise anywhere. "Where are you hurt?" you ask. He hesitates longer than he usually does before letting you touch him. "My face." You go still for half a second before you nod. "Okay. Let me see." He reaches up, and it's slower than you've ever seen him move, as if every inch the mask comes off it pains him. He only lifts it as far as he has to. His lower lip is split open at one corner, dark red drying at the edge, and there are scratches along his chin, nothing above that, nothing you can see of his eyes or the rest of his face at all. You don't ask why he's being so careful about it because you know he doesn’t want to expose his identity. You just reach for the gauze and the antiseptic and get to work. His chin is right there under your fingers, close enough that you can feel the warmth coming off his skin, and you're more careful than you probably need to be, dabbing at the split in his lip. He goes very still while you work, and you can feel the way his breath catches slightly when your fingers brush the corner of his mouth, though neither of you says anything about it. "This is going to sting," you warn him, and he nods with his jaw tight.

It does sting, but he doesn't flinch. It’s just a small tension in his shoulders that eases the moment you pull your hand back. "There," you say. "You'll live." "Good to know," he says, and his voice comes out rougher than usual, which makes your chest do something weird. You're both still closer than you need to be for this. He clears his throat first, breaking the silence. "Thank you." "Don't mention it," you say, same as always. He doesn't leave right away this time. He lingers a few seconds, his mask still lifted just enough to show his mouth, looking like there's something he wants to say and can't find the right words. Then he quickly pulls the mask back down and climbs out into the dark, same as every other night. – That week, one of your coworkers makes a comment about him in the break room, something about how he's a menace, how the city would be better off without a masked stranger taking the law into his own hands. "He saved four people from that apartment fire on Fifth last month," you say, sharper than you mean to. "He risks his life every single night so people like us don't have to lose more patients than we already do." Your coworker raises an eyebrow. "Wow. Someone's a fan."

"I'm not a fan," you snap (though you're not entirely sure that's true anymore). "I just think facts matter." You roll your eyes and go back to your charts, annoyed, and try not to think too hard about why it got so under your skin. – It's well past midnight when you hear him at the window, except it isn't the usual sound. There's no careful knock or soft scrape of him settling onto the fire escape to wait for you to notice. There's just a heavy thud against the glass, and by the time you get there he's already sliding down against the frame. You get the window open fast with shaky hands. Your hands hadn’t shook since your early years in the ER when everything still felt like it might crush you. The mask is torn across his cheek, fabric split in three places, and even through what's left of it you can see blood, more of it than you've ever seen on him. "Hey," you say sharply. "Hey, stay with me." He doesn't answer. His eyes are barely open and unfocused behind the mask and before you can even get a proper hold on him his knees give out completely and he collapses against you with his full weight, nearly taking you down with him. "No, no, no." You don't think. You just move, hooking your arms under his and dragging him, stumbling, toward your bedroom because your couch is too small. He's heavier than you expect, dead weight in the worst way, and by the time you get him onto your bed you're breathing hard and your hands won't stop shaking. You check his pulse first. It’s a little fast, but at least it’s steady. You check his breathing next. It’s a little shallow but overall it’s fine. Then you look at the wound.

It's bad. There's a swelling forming just above his temple that’s already darkening, the kind of blunt impact that could mean a concussion or worse, and beneath that there are multiple cuts across his forehead and one through his eyebrow, deep enough that you can't fully assess any of it without seeing all of it. And the mask, even though it's torn, is still in the way. You hover there for a second with your hands over the edge of it, and something in you hesitates to lift it further. He's never once shown you his whole face. Whatever this is between you, this unspoken agreement you've built over the past months, it's always come with that one boundary which you’ve always respected. You'd be crossing it without his permission. But he's not conscious to give permission, and there's a bad wound on his head you can't properly see. And if this is worse than it looks, if there's swelling you're missing, if there's something under that torn fabric you need to know– You lift the mask. For a second your mind refuses to process it. It rejects the picture in front of you like it's wrong, two images that shouldn't overlay onto each other and yet they do perfectly. Michael. Your neighbor. The man across the hall who hands you eggs three at a time and eats your burnt cake like it’s fine, who says good morning in the same easy voice every single day, lying in your bed in a torn suit with blood in his hair. You don't move. You're not sure how long you don't move, only that at some point you realize you're just kneeling there with the mask in your hands, staring at his face.

He doesn't stir. His chest still rises and falls, slow and even. You snap out of it because he needs you to tend to him, because whatever this means, whoever he is, right now he is a patient with an open head wound and nothing else matters more than that. You set the mask aside gently and you get to work. You clean the cuts along his brow with careful hands, wincing every time he doesn't react to the sting like he usually would, and you wrap his head in gauze slowly and thoroughly, tucking it just right so it won't slip off. You don't leave his side after that. You pull a chair beside the bed and you sit down, watching his chest rise and fall, watching for any flicker of pain crossing his face, ready to move the second he needs you to. He wakes up a little after three. His eyes open slowly and he’s disoriented, and the first thing he does, before he even seems to register where he is, is to bring both hands up to his face in panic, searching for a mask that isn't there. When his fingers find nothing but skin his whole body goes rigid, and he turns his head and sees you sitting there, and his eyes go impossibly wide. "I–" His voice cracks. He tries again. "You– I didn't–" You shake your head at him slowly, and then give him a small smile. It’s the kind of smile you give patients who wake up frightened and need to know first that they're safe. "You took a bad hit to the head," you say, keeping your voice even. "I cleaned the cuts and wrapped them. You should come by tomorrow so I can check if it's healing right."

He stares at you like he's waiting for the rest of your questions, the part where you ask how long has this been going on and does anyone else know. You don't say any of that. You don't say his name either, though it's sitting right there on your tongue. "You should rest," you say instead, softly. He opens his mouth again, and nothing comes out this time either, just something helpless in his eyes. "Go," you tell him gently. "We'll talk tomorrow. Right now you need to sleep." He swallows and nods slowly, and when he sits up he sways a little before finding his balance. "Thank you," he says, the same quiet way he always does, though it somehow sounds different tonight. You walk him to the door this time. Not to the window. He pauses there for another second like he wants to say something else, but you just open the door and step back, and you watch from your doorway as he crosses the hall and disappears into his own apartment. You stand there a long moment after his door clicks shut before you finally close yours. Once he's inside his own apartment, door shut and locked behind him, Michael brings both hands up to his face and lets out a deep groan. He can't believe it. He can't believe he got caught, can't believe after months of careful covering and half-lifted masks and careful lies he let himself land right in front of her window tonight knowing that he was going to collapse and still going to her.

He sits down hard on the edge of his bed and stares at nothing for a long time. By morning he's made up his mind. Two, maybe three days off from benign Spider-Man. No patrol and no suit. His head throbs under the bandage every time he moves too fast, and he tells himself his quick movements are the reason, though they aren’t really. He spends the next evening checking his peephole every five minutes, watching the empty hallway for you coming home from your shift. When you finally do, looking tired with your bag over one shoulder, he waits exactly two minutes before he crosses the hall and knocks. You open the door without a word and step back to let him in. The apartment smells like something baked, warm and sweet, and for a second it almost feels normal, like any other evening he's shown up here with something to be treated. Except this time there's no mask between you at all and no fabric to hide behind. You look at him plainly and unguarded, like you’re looking at Michael and not at whoever you thought you'd been treating all those months. You sit him down and unwrap the bandage carefully, checking the cuts and pressing gently at the swelling near his temple to see how it's healing. He watches your hands the whole time, and it's a while before he finds the nerve to ask the thing he's been thinking about since he woke up in your bed. "Why weren't you scared?" he asks. "Or angry. Or anything. When you found out."

You don't stop what you’re doing right away. And when you finally do, you just shrug. "Would you have stopped coming here if I'd panicked?" "No," he says softly. "Then it doesn't matter how I reacted." She goes back to securing the fresh bandage carefully. "It only mattered that I took care of you." He doesn't have anything to say to that. He just sits there and lets you finish. But something in his chest strangely feels looser now. – Once he no longer needs the mask to knock on your door, something between you loosens up. He still comes to you most nights, sometimes with a fresh bruise, and sometimes just because, and you stop pretending you don't wait for the sound of his knock the way you used to wait for the fire escape. The baking keeps happening. The morning hallway greetings keep happening, except now there's no gap between the version of him you patch up at night and the version of him who says good morning with his camera bag slung over one shoulder. It's just Michael, all the way through, and somehow that makes everything feel both simpler and much more complicated at once. You find comfort in tending to him in a way you don't say out loud. He spends his nights holding an entire city up on his own two shoulders, running toward every disaster everyone else runs from, and you get to be the one place he comes back to. The one person who gets to put him back together.

There's something in that thought that comforts you on nights when your own shift has left you completely drained, a quiet reminder that even someone who carries that much weight still needs somewhere soft to land, and you get to be that for him. You'd fallen for him before you ever knew his face. You understand that now, looking back. It's why the comment in the break room had gotten under your skin the way it did, why you'd snapped at your coworker with an instinctive need to defend a man you'd told yourself you barely knew. You knew him. You'd known him for months, known his voice in the dark, known the quiet way he says thank you, the way he holds still and trusts you completely even when you're pressing into something that has to hurt. You just hadn't known the face that went with it. Now that you do, now that the stranger on your fire escape and the man across the hall have turned out to be the same person, the feeling hasn't gotten more complicated. It's just gotten heavier and harder to pretend it isn't there. What you don't know is that he'd fallen for you long before that. He'd known who you were from the beginning, both versions of you, the neighbor who forgot eggs and the woman who never once flinched away from a bleeding stranger climbing through her window. He'd loved you because you never asked for anything. Not his name, not his reasons, not a single piece of himself he wasn't ready to give. It comes to a head on a night that's worse than most.

He shows up limping, one eye already swelling shut, knuckles split raw, bruises darkening along his ribs that make your stomach drop the second you see him. You get him seated on the kitchen stool without a word, and he takes the muffin you hand him (chocolate this time), still slightly warm from the oven, and eats it in small distracted bites while you clean the worst of the damage. "This is getting worse," you say, quieter than you mean to. "I'm fine." He says it around a mouthful of muffin. "You're not fine, Michael. Look at yourself." Your voice comes out sharper than you intend to. "You need to stop the second it gets like this. The second it turns into this." You gesture at the bruising along his ribs, at the split skin over his knuckles. He frowns, setting the muffin down slowly. "I'm saving people's lives out there. You know that." "I know." Your hands don't stop moving, dabbing carefully at a fresh cut along his jaw. "I know what you're doing matters. I'm not saying it doesn't." "Then what are you saying?" "That you're allowed to be a little selfish sometimes." You press the gauze a little too hard and he winces, and you soften your hand without softening your voice. "That you're allowed to think about yourself too. Not just everyone else in this city." He goes quiet at that, his jaw tightening. When he speaks again his voice has an edge to it you rarely hear from him.

"Why does it matter to you?" You still, hand hovering near his split lip. "What?" "Why do you care so much whether I stop or not?" He's looking at you, and there's something raw underneath the frustration. You open your mouth to say something careful, something professional and safe. What comes out instead arrives before you can stop it. "Because I care for you," you say, and your voice cracks slightly on the words. "Because I can't stand the thought of you getting hurt." The room goes very still. You realize what you've said half a second after you've said it, and heat rushes up your neck and into your face so fast it almost makes you dizzy. You don't look at him. You can't. He doesn't say anything for a moment either, and you think maybe if you stay quiet long enough this will pass and you can pretend it never happened. Then you hear him move. He rises slowly from the kitchen stool, careful of his ribs, and when you finally look up he's closer than you expect, close enough that you have to tilt your head back slightly to hold his gaze. He's still got the mask on, pushed up past his face, curls still hidden underneath the fabric at his crown. His good eye is steady on you, dark and unreadable. He reaches up and pulls the mask off the rest of the way.

His curls spring loose, falling messy across his forehead, and something about seeing them free after months of careful half-reveals as Spider-Man makes your breath catch in your throat. He drops the mask somewhere behind him without looking, his whole attention on you. "Why do you care about me?" he asks, quiet now without any anger left in it. "Because..." you start, and the word dies in your throat. You try again. "Because–" You can't finish it. Your face is burning and your heart is going too fast. He steps closer anyway, close enough that you have to remind yourself to breathe. His hand comes up, thumb and forefinger finding your chin, tilting your face up toward his gently. "Why do you care?" he whispers again, barely any distance left between you at all. You don't answer. You can't. You just stare up at him frozen, wanting nothing more than to close the last of the distance yourself but being too overwhelmed to move at all. He closes it for you. His lips meet yours slowly, careful of the split still healing at the corner of his mouth, and you taste the faint iron of his blood the second his lips touch yours. Your eyes fall shut without your permission. Something in your chest loosens for the first time in months, a tension you didn't even know you'd been carrying finally letting go.

When he pulls back, you chase after him without meaning to, not wanting the moment to end yet. Your eyes open a second later and instantly, embarrassment floods through your face at what you just did. He's smiling down at you like he's never seen anything better in his life. – He stays properly for the first time a few nights later, on one of the rare evenings you both actually have off at the same time. No mask tonight, no injuries to clean, just Michael showing up at your door with a soft knock, asking if he can come in like he isn't always welcome. You spend the evening tangled together on your couch, some show neither of you is really watching playing in the background, his arm slung around your shoulders and your legs thrown over his lap. He keeps finding excuses to touch you, a hand at your waist, fingers tracing patterns along your arm, and every time you catch him looking at you like that he just grins wider instead of looking away. "What?" you ask, laughing and swatting lightly at his chest. "Nothing." He pulls you closer anyway, pressing a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then finally your mouth and it makes you melt into him every single time. "I just like looking at you." "You're ridiculous." "I'm allowed to be ridiculous about you." He kisses you again before you can argue, and you give up trying.

You talk for hours. Real things, small things, the conversations you never had time for during all those nights of gauze and antiseptic. He tells you about growing up and wanting to disappear into a camera lens instead of being looked at, about the first time the spider bite changed everything and how terrified he'd been before he felt useful as a hero. You tell him about your first week in the ER, about the exhaustion that never fully leaves your bones anymore, about how you'd noticed him the very first day he opened his door across the hall and thought, embarrassingly, that he had a nice smile. "You thought that on day one?" he teases delightedly. "Don't let it go to your head." "Too late." He kisses you again, grinning against your mouth, and you laugh into it. And somewhere in the middle of that laugh you both go quiet at the same time, foreheads pressed together, breathing each other in. "I love you," he says, so simply it almost breaks you, like it's the easiest thing he's ever said out loud. "I love you too," you say back immediately, no hesitation at all, because you've loved him for longer than you would admit. He kisses you again, deeper this time, one hand cradling the back of your head. You lose track of how many kisses come after that one. You stop counting somewhere around the point where you're both laughing between them, his forehead dropping to your shoulder while he catches his breath, your fingers tangled in his curls.

He stays the whole night. For the first time since any of this began, there's no fire escape and no reason for him to disappear before you wake up. He falls asleep with his arm heavy across your middle and you fall asleep listening to him breathe, slow and even. Morning comes soft through your bedroom window, gold light spilling across the sheets, and you wake up to find him already awake, watching you with an expression so soft it makes your chest ache. "Morning," he says, voice rough with sleep, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. "Morning." You stretch, glancing toward your kitchen. "Hungry?" "Always." You make him breakfast with the eggs he gave you instead of baking for him this time, and he sits at your counter in yesterday's clothes with his hair a mess and watches you cook like it's the most fascinating thing he's ever seen. "You're staring." "I'm allowed to stare. I'm in love with you." He says it so easily now, like it's just a common fact. You feel your whole face go warm anyway, every single time. "You're going to make me burn this." "Wouldn't be the first time." And when you lift your hand to playfully hit him, he catches it, pressing a kiss to your knuckles, then tugs you closer until you're standing between his knees instead of at the stove. "I don't mind. I like burnt things, apparently." "You're impossible." He doesn’t answer and instead kisses you properly, slow and warm, and you laugh against his mouth. He pulls you fully into his lap right there in the kitchen, breakfast forgotten on the stove behind you, and neither of you moves to save it. Some mornings, you're learning, are worth letting burn.

I hope you enjoyed this Spider-Man AU oneshot! I must admit, I'm not very satisfied with my writing here. I wrote the first 2/3 some days ago when I was getting sick and then I wrote the rest just now. I admit, I like the last past that I wrote today much more than the first parts I wrote while sick. I'm sure you can also see some kind of change in writing style between the parts, but I was too tired to perfect it and I just wanted to post it cause I still love the plot and the story so much ❤️ Not proof-read, but I hope you still like it!

I was inspired by a request I received as well as @amnesia-sc ❤️

Tagging: @alohaluz

[prettyoungho]

SUGAR TALKING SIDE STORY #1 ᝰ.ᐟ

michael jackson x sunshine!reader

please read part 1 & part 2 if u hadn’t yet ! STILL WORKING ON PART 3

⤷ sugar talking series guide

𖦹 summary : michael witnesses a side of you he never seen before— and he can’t stop thinking about it.

𖦹 word count : 2.2k

𖦹 a/n : aw man this was supposed to be short but i kinda got carried away… also part 3 is still on hold (‼️i might post it next week idk guys‼️) i’m beyond grateful for all the love and support you guys show of this series its crazy!! (also don’t mind the layout/small gaps i wrote this on my notes app).

SIDE STORIES ARE NOT IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER IT HAPPENED BETWEEN PART 1 AND PART 2.

⤷ masterlist.

the morning in the studio had started badly. very badly. the rehearsal room erupted in chaos, because the girl who supposed to perform ‘the way you make me feel’, just got fired by the label today.

“we perform in two weeks!”

“we need someone who already knows choreography.”

“someone who’s comfortable on stage.”

“someone who can learn learn quickly!”

the choreographer sighed.

“…we’re doomed.”

everyone started throwing out names.

“what about—“

“she’s already doing smooth criminal.”

“okaaay. what about—“

“she’s out of town.”

“then what about—?”

“too short.”

the room grew quieter. they all had no idea, no replacements. then the rehearsal room doors opened.

“good afternoon, everyone!”

you walked in carrying a clipboard against your chest. you smiled brightly at the room.

“i brought the costume adjustments from wardrobe!”

silence.

every single person turned toward you, including michael. you stopped walking after reading the room.

“…oh.” you looked around. “did i come at the wrong time? did… something happened?”

nobody answered. the choreographer slowly looked at michael. then at you. then—

ding!

the choreographer smiled.

“oh.”

you looked around again.

“why are you all looking at me?”

one of the dancers spoke first.

“…sunshine.”

“mhm?”

“can you dance?”

you blinked.

“dance?”

“yeah.”

“oh!”

you smiled.

“i did ballet.”

“…really?”

“my whole life.”

a few eyebrows shot up.

“you did… ballet?”

one of the dancers asked. you nodded happily in response.

“mhm!”

“…your whole life?”

“mhm!”

“you never mentioned that.”

“it never came up.”

“…”

“i stopped a couple years ago. but…” you shrugged. “i still dance.”

you continued, still confused, and still smiling brightly as ever.

“…why did you ask?”

another long silence.

then the choreographer clapped once, making you jump a little.

“found her!”

you blinked.

“found…” you looked around. “…who?”

𖦹

before you knew it… you were standing back in wardrobe. but this time, you weren’t holding the costume— you were the one wearing it.

you looked at yourself in the mirror, still processing the situation.

“wait… me?”

you pointed at yourself.

“yes.”

“for ‘the way you make me feel’?”

“yes.”

“i’ll be performing… on stage… with michael?”

the choreographer only nodded.

“oh.” you paused and looked around the room. “—THAT SOUNDS FUN!”

while everyone had been panicking earlier— you just looked like you’d been invited to disneyland.

you looked down at the black dress.

“…i made this.”

one of the seamstress adjusted the shoulder.

“you did, sweetheart.”

“…this is weird.”

the seamstress only laughed. you smoothed the skirt down, then smiled.

“it’s nice.”

𖦹

michael happened to walk in for his own fitting. then stopped when he spotted you. you turned to him.

“oh! hi, michael!”

you gave a little wave, and michael forgot why he’d walked into the room.

“hi.”

you were standing on the fitting platform in the black dress they altered for ‘the way you make me feel’. the hem swayed just above your knees, black heels adding a few inches to your height.

but it wasn’t even the dress (maybe a little), it was you. you look so excited.

“so…”

you looked down at yourself before looking back at him.

“what do you think?”

michael looked for a moment— and immediately had to look somewhere else.

“it…” he cleared his throat. “…looks very nice.”

you beamed.

“i think so too!”

you looked down again, smoothing the fabric over your waist.

“the dress is really pretty.”

“…it is.”

one of the dancers standing nearby hid a grin. michael’s ears had turned pink.

𖦹

the choreographer clapped.

“alright! let’s get to rehearsal.”

you followed everyone into the rehearsal hall. you’d walked past these doors hundreds of times

you would always carry garment bags, dropping off costumes, but never fully going inside.

you stepped onto the taped rehearsal floor, looking around like a curious kid. michael watched you, unable to stop smiling.

the choreographer called everyone over.

“we’ll start simple.” he looked at you. “just walk.”

you blinked.

“walk?”

the choreographer simply nodded.

“yes. walk confidently— like you own the stage.”

you nodded seriously.

“okay.”

you took exactly four steps. then looked back at the choreographer.

“like this?”

the dancers immediately burst into laughter.

“no, no—”

the choreographer smiled, then pointed at you.

“less…” he searched for the word. “…happy.”

you looked horrified.

“…less happy?”

“yes.”

“oh… i don’t know if i can.”

michael laughed loud enough for everyone to hear.

“i believe her.”

you hid a smile before taking a deep breath, and attempted the walk again. you put one hand on your hip, now more confident. you even showed a little smirk. then three steps in—

you accidentally smiled when you caught eyes with one of the dancers. the choreographer sighed dramatically.

“there she is again.”

“…who?”

you looked around.

“sunshine.”

you made an ‘o’ shape with your mouth, and sheepishly smiled.

“oops.”

𖦹

an hour had passed, and to everyone’s surprise— you had picked up half the choreography already.

the room stared.

“wow.”

one of the dancers said.

“she’s learning this way too fast.”

“…ballet.”

another nodded.

“definitely ballet.”

they took a break shortly after. the you wandered over to michael, smiling from ear to ear.

“this is so much fun.”

michael’s eyebrows shot up and looked at you. he hummed.

“you like it?”

“i love it!”

you looked around the rehearsal hall.

“i finally get to see what happens in here.”

michael smiled.

“it’s usually less exciting.”

he said, you laughed.

“maybe, but i think…” you looked around again. “it’s kind of magical.”

he flowed your gaze. the big mirrors on every wall, the lights, the taped floor… he had spent countless of hours in here.

to him, it had become ordinary, but seeing it through your eyes— made it feel new again.

𖦹

rehearsals became surprisingly fun for everyone.

by the end of the week, you have manage to hide your smile easily now. the confidence came naturally.

years of ballet have never really left your body. you remembered turns, timing, and posture. the muscle memory quietly waking up after years of sleeping.

one afternoon, the choreographer stopped the music.

“again.”

you nodded, and did it again. but this time, you caught michael’s jacket— pulled him just a little closer, and held eye-contact.

then… casually let go and walked away.

the room went completely silent, and michael was convinced you could hear his heart pounding. he just stood there, forgetting the next eight counts.

“…mike?”

the choreographer snapped his fingers.

“you’re supposed to follow her.”

“oh.”

he blinked, and shook his head.

“…right. sorry.”

one dancer whispered to another.

“sunshine got to him.”

“…she absolutely got him.”

one snickered quietly.

the funny thing was that right after rehearsals ended, you became you again.

“that was fun!!”

you laughed, then looked at the time.

“oh God! i have six costumes to alter— i gotta go!!”

before anyone could stop you, you were already halfway back to wardrobe.

everyday followed the same routine for you. rehearse. wardrobe. then rehearse again. until everyone started wondering when exactly you slept.

the thing was that you didn’t. well… not much.

𖦹

one afternoon, a seamstress walked into the wardrobe room. it was strangely quiet, which meant one thing—

“sunshine?”

there you were, curled over one of the cutting tables, your head was resting on folded arms, and you were still holding a pencil.

a half alteration list lay under your cheek. when you turned your head, a sticky note was clinging to your forehead.

nobody had the heart to wake you up. the seamstress smiled.

“she’ll wake up in a minute.”

someone whispered.

“…let her have five minutes.”

the others quietly worked around you, lowering their voices without even realizing it.

moments later, you stirred awake and sat up immediately.

“i wasn’t sleeping!”

you announced with complete confidence to absolutely nobody.

blink.

blink.

the sticky note stayed attached to your forehead. you looked around the room, and yawned. you stood up and picked up your clipboard, and headed to the door.

michael had spotted you first down the hallway. he blinked.

“…honey.”

you slowly blinked and turned to him.

“hm?“

he stared for a second.

“you’ve got…”

you immediately reached for your cheek.

“glitter?”

“no, it’s—“

“my hair?”

“no—“

“did i spill coffee on myself?”

you looked down on at yourself.

“honey…”

he laughed softly.

“…c’mere.”

you nodded and obediently stepped closer.

“like this?”

you tilted your chin up expectantly. michael looked down at you for a quiet moment, the sticky note was still stuck at the center of your forehead.

‘…cute.’

the thought came so naturally it startled him.

he smiled to himself before carefully lifting a hand, his fingertips brushing the edge of the paper as he gently peeled the sticky note away.

“…it followed you from here.”

you stared, then slowly looked at the sticky note in his hand.

“oh.”

your face turned pink.

“i’ve been walking around like that?”

“you have been.”

he nodded. you covered your face in embarrassment, and michael just patted your head in comfort.

“oh God.”

𖦹

despite everything, running around back and forth from rehearsals to wardrobe duties— you never complained, never stopped smiling, and somehow… you never stopped encouraging everyone else.

and finally… performance night arrived.

the backstage buzzed with nervous excitement. the dancers stretched, makeup artists hurried from one person to the next, and stagehands rushed props into position.

the black dress swayed around your thighs as you stretched. you bounced lightly on your heels, unable to keep still.

“i can’t wait!”

one of the dancers laughed at your enthusiasm.

“you nervous?”

“maybe a little. but mostly excited.”

you respond. a voice spoke behind you.

“you’ll do great.”

you turned around to see michael, already dressed for the performance.

the blue shirt caught backstage lights, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms, black trousers tucked into polished loafers.

his curls framed his face perfectly, a few falling over his forehead exactly the way they always seemed to during rehearsals.

and he looked… different. not because of how he was dressed tonight. but because of the performance had already settled into him.

there was an easy confidence in the way he stood, relaxed but ready, like the stage was already calling for him.

and for the briefest moment— you looked at him, and something fluttered quietly in your chest.

“…”

huh.

it felt strange, not bad, but different. you smiled anyway.

“thanks.”

his smile softened.

“i mean it. you’ll be amazing.”

you heart gave another tiny, inexplicable skip.

“…thank you.”

you decided it’s probably just pre-show nerves. that had to be it.

…right?

before you can think about it any longer, the stage manager called.

“places everyone!”

the room sprang into motion. you took one excited breath.

𖦹

the lights dimmed. the arena disappeared into darkness. then the crowd erupted as soon as the opening notes of ‘the way you make me feel’ blasted throughout the arena.

“you’ll be amazing.”

michael had only said it minutes earlier. he’d believed it. truly. he just didn’t expected to be this right.

you walked onto the stage. michael nearly missed his cue. because sunshine was gone— or at least disappeared the second the spotlight found you.

you walked across the stage in black heels with ease, confidence. every step was deliberate. you looked over your shoulder, caught his eyes, then looked away again with the tiniest grin.

michael followed behind you, without even thinking. you stopped just long enough for him to catch up. your fingers caught the front of his blue shirt, pulled him closer, and your eyes met his.

then, with a teasing smile, you let go. turning gracefully on your heel— and walked away. not rushed or flustered, but almost daring him to come after you.

and he did. exactly on cue.

the audience screamed.

what surprised him the most is how effortlessly you disappeared into the role. every movement was precise. elegant.

years of ballet hidden beneath pop choreography. even the way you turned your head felt effortless.

then during one section that almost made him lose composure.

you looked over at him. still completely in character. one eyebrow lifted ever so slightly, as if silently asking—

you keeping up?

michael laughed. actually laughed, right on stage. the audience roared louder, thinking it was part of the performance.

by the final chorus, you had become impossible to look away from. you were confident, playful, bold enough to tease him, yet elegant enough to make every move effortless.

you floated across the stage, only to slip away out of reach just before he could catch up.

michael knew it was acting. just before the performance, you were worried whether you left the iron plugged in. somehow, watching you now, he couldn’t convince his heart of that— and that only made him admire you even more.

after the song had ended, you immediately hurried backstage— and you immediately broke character.

“DID I DO GOOD?”

you practically bounced over to the dancers. your eyes were sparkling.

“did you guys see the audience?! oh God, that was amazing! they were so loud—! i almost forgot the cue.”

you rambled, jumping a bit in your heels.

“i forgot how much i missed performing!”

you were almost hopping in adrenaline, while the dancers laughed at your thrill.

while michael walked backstage a few moments later, already preparing for the next performance. but all he could think of now you.

one moment, you were the sweetest girl he’d ever met. the next… you had the entire arena, and him, wrapped around your finger without even knowing it.

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[whitelionspirit]

~ What a Crush, What a Rush ~

Bad Era Michael x Popstar! Reader

Synopsis: Michael and You have danced around each other for the last few years. Both respecting and always supporting one another. Not friends, not even really acquaintances, both sharing very few words since your debut five years earlier. It’s during the 1988 Grammys that you have your first conversation with him in a quiet corner of an after-party he would rather be leaving.

WC: 5.9k

Content: slight angst, mentions of a previous injury. Fluff, strangers to friends (eventually lovers later)

A/N: taken from a prompt list here X. This is my first official fic in this new fandom! It’s been a while since I properly wrote and posted a new fic. So I feel a bit rusty but despite my constant tweaking of the fic I’m ready to share it. This wasn’t meant to become a series but it will be. Also even if I give our girl a family her race is and will always be ambiguous. Hope you enjoy ✨❤️‍🔥

Prompt: Stop staring—I’m bruised, not broken.”

…….

The adrenaline rush of hearing your name called for the second time tonight was most definitely going to your head. Your sophomore album had been a smash hit from the starting line. 1987 had been a colorful year for music, and your music had been at its forefront. It was a year for music, a year where anything goes, from Prince to U2; it was a real competition.

If anyone were to ask, BAD would be your personal favorite album from last year, and your contender to win the majority of the awards tonight. Well, that was your opinion at least, but so far the king of pop had not won a single award.

You had never had a proper conversation with Michael in the past five years since your debut album. Only simple pleasantries were exchanged between colleagues passing each other at award shows and charity events. It didn’t stop you from speaking highly of your fellow singer and your admiration for his charity work. When asked about you, he always smiled gently and admitted to loving your music, especially your beautiful lyrics.

His words had flattered you so much that the talk show host who had brought it up laughed when you giggled and hid your face in your hands.

Articles often threw you into the mix when talking about who sold more records and which songs would outdo one another. You took it in stride that being compared to other artists like Madonna, Whitney, Prince, and, of course, Michael was the highest of compliments.

Being at the Grammys was always fun: it was one of your favorite events of the year. Even if you were only a nominee this year, just watching the show was enough. When you were nominated, the first person you called was your eldest sister. She was the first person you called whenever something exciting happened in your life. She was also your date for tonight; through every late-night conversation to every tear shed, she was the person you leaned on for everything.

Being the second eldest of four girls wasn’t easy growing up. You knew your parents did their best, but sometimes it was hard when three other children also needed their support. So your sister became your rock. After all these years, you felt like she deserved to be here beside you to celebrate and to have fun.

You had watched her become starstruck as she saw all your peers up close. When she spotted the singer Sting, she nearly lost all composure, which had you in hysterics.

The day you had left your hometown had been bittersweet, with your worried parents and younger siblings clinging to you. Your eldest sister had just smiled softly and hugged you tight. Ballet and theater had been your inspiration for wanting to pursue music.

Moving to Los Angeles to chase your dreams at eighteen had been hard for your parents to accept, but your sister knew you would do big things, and how right she had been. Even if they wanted you to be successful, your parents still worried about their little girl.

The music industry was not kind to you or any woman in general, it seemed. Even those who are already successful seemed to also fall under the pressure and scrutiny the world has laid at their feet.

All the blood, sweat, and tears had led to here.

A smile graced your face as you accepted the award for best pop vocal performance. It was your second award of the night, having won one earlier for best pop instrumental performance.

“Wow, I really have no words to express my gratitude.” You pause, collecting your thoughts before licking your lips. “I think every single woman in this category is mesmerizing, and I admire each and every one of you. This business is cutthroat, and while many artists have paved the way for us to stand here today. Many of the women who have shaped us and worked hard do not get the recognition and respect they deserve. I hope going forward we can continue to support these women and anyone else who feels underrepresented, as music is universal and brings us together. This award is for all of you.” You finish as the crowd gets to their feet and claps for you, a smile breaking out again on your lips as you mouth thank you and show off the Grammy, and you are escorted off the stage.

“Where did that come from?” Your publicist, Andrea, asked as you met her backstage.

“It’s something that’s been bothering me for a while, but actually saying it out loud was more spur of the moment.” You explained as she escorted you to the interview room.

The flash from the cameras greeted you both when entering the room. Black spots crossed your eyesight as you tried to adjust to all the flashbulbs going off at once. Andrea barked at them to give you some space as the questions started flying. She pointed to a reporter and told him to ask his question.

After several minutes of talking to them, she escorted you back to your seat. You were seated in the second row from the stage, and you exchanged small pleasantries with your fellow artists as you took your seat next to your sister again. She turned to you, grinning, grabbed your hands and squeezed them.

“Congratulations, again, seriously, I am so proud of you!” She beamed; you bit your lip, hiding your own growing smile

“Thank you. I am still so overwhelmed! What did I miss?”

“They announced the winner for best pop performance for men, and it went to a commercial break. I think another singer is going to be performing as well after the break.”

“Oh, okay, so who won the award?”

“Sting did!” She clapped excitedly.

Your eyebrows rose in surprise at her answer. You were sure that Michael would have won that one. Not that you didn’t enjoy Sting, because you did, but Michael’s song had been everywhere for weeks. You had heard it on the radio multiple times a day, and the music video alone had been the talk of the town for months.

“Huh, not who I was expecting, but good for him.” Your disappointment didn’t go unnoticed as your sister gave you a pointed look, and you waved her off.

She laughed as the lights flickered, letting everyone know that the commercial break was over. The rest of the night passed by quickly as you collected yet another award, this time for song of the year. For that speech, you kept it smaller and thanked your label, family, and of course, your fans.

It was when the final performance rolled around that something shifted in the room. You knew why, as it had been anticipated since its announcement last week; Michael was performing tonight. You had noticed him leave his seat about fifteen minutes ago, so he was definitely coming on now.

Another brief intermission had occurred but now everyone was back in their seats waiting patiently.

“Our last performer of the night has broken the record for best selling album of all time and his latest album BAD sold seven million copies worldwide in its first week! Please welcome to the stage Michael Jackson.”

The audience lost it as his silhouette came into view and he began dancing.

It was pure magic; he was magic.

The audience was on their feet as the last lyrics of Man in the Mirror were sung. Your sister was awestruck as she hollered her enthusiasm, and you laughed, clapping along with everyone.

Michael bowed and smiled before leaving the stage. The room was still filled with electricity as the last award was presented.

“And the winner for album of the year goes to-” Everybody waited with bated breath. “Joshua Tree. U2!”

To say you were flabbergasted was an understatement. You and your sister shared a glance before standing up and applauding the winners. It wasn’t to say the win wasn’t deserved, as every single one of the nominees was deserving. It was just disappointing since the person you thought most people predicted to win was going home empty-handed.

…….

Exiting the theater was very much a long goodbye. As literally every time you thought you were leaving, someone else wanted to chat. Your sister didn’t seem to mind as she got to talk to celebrities like a normal person. It took a good half hour before you finally made it to the exit. Andrea had gone ahead to assess the situation with the paparazzi as your head of security pulled up with your car.

Linking your arm with your sister, you both braced for more flashing lights as the door opened. “Just don’t look directly at them,” you informed as the shouts of the small crowd became deafening.

Andrea was directing you both to the red Cadillac as you tugged your sister along, who was definitely overwhelmed. Not even bothering to pose or wave to the cameras, you guided her into the car and slid in beside her in the backseat. Andrea quickly closed the door and climbed into the front with your driver as the car was put into drive.

….

The after-party was packed when you arrived at the restaurant. An upscale place in the East Village; luckily, the press presence had died down by the time you arrived. The few photographers and fans you saw, you smiled at and waved to as you were rushed into the building.

“I need a drink.” You announce as soon as you see the bar.

Your sister was too busy being starstruck again as you pulled her behind you to the bar.

“Two Shirley temples please,” you told the bartender who nodded.

“They are so many more celebrities here than I saw at the Grammys.” She whispered eyes sweeping over the crowd. You shrugged as it was pretty typical for other socialites to mingle among the entertainment industry. “It’s a party everyone loves a party, plus a place to do networking especially to scope out those who won big at the award shows.”

The bartender returned with your drinks and you took a sip of the sweet beverage.

“Does that mean people will be approaching you?” Your sister asked.

“Perhaps,”

“Well, someone is on their way over here now,” she said, making you look behind as Whitney Houston made her way toward you both.

A smile broke out on your face at the sight of your friend as she reached for you pulling you into a hug. Whitney and you had been friends for a few years now and took every opportunity to talk on the phone and see one another whenever possible.

“Oh it’s so good to see you!”

Whitney laughed. “We just saw each other last week!”

“And that was forever ago.”

“Whatever you say.”

Pulling away, you gesture to your sister. “You remember my sister, right?”

“Of course! How are you?” Whitney asked.

“I’m wonderful! This is a bit overwhelming but exciting also.” She laughed.

“Understandable but anyway I came over because we have a small group over in the corner and wanted to know if you guys wanted to join us?”

“Sure, we would love to.” You replied. Whitney smiled as she walked across the room, with you following.

That is how you found yourself for most of the night sitting surrounded by Whitney and other partygoers. Despite being in the industry for several years now you did not know everyone, but when being introduced, you recognized people by name and sometimes appearance. The conversations flowed easily and the time seemed to fly by.

It was around the third Shirley Temple that you decided it was time for a much-needed bathroom break. You smiled sheepishly at your group as they laughed and sent you in the direction of the restroom. After relieving yourself, you decided to be nosy and peek in the kitchen even though they had food sitting out for guests. The kitchen had technically closed earlier, but it shouldn’t be hard navigating the space as it was already dimly lit.

Pushing the swinging doors open cautiously, you looked over your shoulder just to see if anyone was watching. Seeing as the coast was clear, you slipped into the empty kitchen and let out a sigh of relief, but it was short-lived as you turned to your right and came face to face with another person. A muffled sound left you as the person covered your mouth with their hand.

“Please don’t scream,” a soft voice asked.

You stood frozen, backed against a counter, staring at Michael Jackson, whose eyes were pleading that you comply with his wishes. You searched his gaze for a moment before nodding, and he sighed in relief releasing his hand from your face.

“I’m sorry I didn’t mean to silence you like that, but I just didn’t want to cause a scene if you screamed.”

You cleared your throat. “It’s fine. I didn’t expect to meet anyone in the kitchen, so you definitely caught me off guard.”

“Yeah, I honestly wasn’t expecting to meet anyone in here either,” he laughed lamely not meeting your eye.

An awkward silence fell over the room while you both stood there unsure what to say in this moment. A loud growl broke the tension as Michael’s gaze admittedly shot upward to meet yours while you cringed at your stomach’s hunger.

“Well, this is embarrassing.”

Michael burst out into a fit of giggles, making you also start laughing.

“Didn’t they have food put out for everyone?” He asked between laughs.

“Yes! But I am notorious for being way too nosy for my own good, and I wanted to see what they had in the kitchen.”

Another round of laughs left Michael making you grin. That’s how you found yourself peeking through cabinets and exploring a walk-in freezer with Michael Jackson.

“I’ve never seen the inside of a kitchen like this before, you know,” Michael voiced softly as you stood in the walk-in freezer reading the labels.

Your gaze shifted to him as he quietly read over a label of a jar of pickles. His words didn’t shake you in any way, but it was the way they seemed to carry a heavier weight than they should’ve. You weren’t a child star like Michael was; even if your life had been busy with ballet and theater, your childhood had been pretty normal in every aspect that mattered.

You had gotten to live and be a normal person.

“You know I used to work in a restaurant before I was signed to my label.” You spoke, suddenly surprising even yourself. Michael didn’t respond, but you knew he was listening.

Returning your focus to the labels, you continued.

“It really sucked. I loved my coworkers, but dealing with people’s food is a different type of stress. I found myself crying in a freezer just like this on more days I could count. From the anxiety and anger, I felt like lashing out at customers, but I had to remind myself in the end it wasn’t worth my tears or the exhaustion I felt.”

Opening a platter of fruit, you grabbed a grape and closed it again. “My coworkers were my community for those kinds of days. My family wasn’t around, and while I could call them, it wasn’t the same as having them there in person.” You popped the grape into your mouth, eating it.

“I’m sorry you had to deal with that. People can be so cruel sometimes.” He says, finally joining you on your side of the freezer.

“Thanks, though it was a while ago, so I try not to dwell on it. The memories come to mind from time to time, and the feelings that follow them resurface before blowing away again.”

A shiver ran down your spine, your body shaking from the cold. You hadn’t noticed until now how cold you actually were. Your feet were aching, and a numbness had settled over your body. A hand on your bare shoulder made you jump, knocking you into the rack of food, making it rattle.

“Are you alright?” Michael asked, concern in his voice.

Placing a hand on your chest, you nodded, taking a breath to collect yourself. “Yeah, just caught me off guard is all.”

“I’m sorry; I was just trying to get your attention since you had shivered. I wanted to know if you wanted to leave the freezer.”

“It’s probably a good idea to be honest; my feet are numb.” Laughing, you push the fridge's door open as a rush of warm air hits you both, exiting the room, and closing the steel door with a click.

The sound of the fridge's generator was muffled as the quietness of the kitchen surrounded you once again. Michael shuffled somewhere behind as you walked across the room towards the doors.

“Well, that was entertaining, but I’m still hungry, so I’m going to go grab some stuff from the buffet. Do you want me to grab you anything?” You asked, meeting Michael’s gaze over your shoulder.

“I appreciate it, but I’m alright.” He replied. “I’ll bring a variety of things in case you change your mind.” You added, not waiting for his response as you reentered the chaos of the restaurant.

……

You returned with a tray full of food and set it down on the kitchen counter. Michael, who had been sitting on a stool, eyed the food curiously before wandering over to investigate.

“I knew you would be intrigued.” The smugness in your words made him roll his eyes, then smile.

“Whatever you say, girl" he said, looking over the food you had brought. He paused briefly on a glass of orange juice before taking it for himself.

“I figured you would like that.”

Michael blinked at you curiously as you took a bite of a sandwich in your hand.

“I read about it in a magazine article once that you like orange juice; almost like your preferred beverage, really.”

He stared at you for a long moment before laughing so hard that he wheezed.

“Are you trying to kill me or something tonight? That’s the second time you’ve made me laugh so hard I can’t breathe.”

“It’s definitely not my intention, but I can sense a kindred spirit from a mile away, and you, Michael, are very easily amused like myself.”

Michael snorted, taking a sip of his orange juice.

Time seemed to pass by as you both fell into easy conversation while snacking on finger foods and sweet desserts. The topics ranged from music and movies to a very detailed discussion about whether vampires were real or fake.

It was strange, really; you had never spoken to Michael before tonight, and it felt like you had known each other for years. You knew what the media said about him was garbage; it was obvious, but you knew sometimes that wasn’t enough for people who are so easily misinformed or form opinions before having all the facts.

“I really liked your speech tonight.” He said at some point in the night.

You paused in the middle of eating a cookie and stared at him owlishly. “Wah?”

Michael snorted as his eyes softened. “What you said about women and the industry not appreciating them enough. I loved it.”

“Oh, thank you. It’s something that has bothered me for a long time, you know, and I felt I needed to say something.”

He hummed in agreement.

“I’ve been in this business for a long time, and it’s only barely changed from the time I was a kid. I wish more people spoke up, but I know they are scared; somebody has to do it. Take that first step, and you did that tonight. It doesn’t seem like much, but it’ll get the conversation going. You did that.”

His words warmed your heart with their praise and appreciation.

“Thank you, Michael; that means a lot coming from you.”

He didn’t comment on what your words meant, but he gave you a small smile in response.

A quietness had settled between you both as you sat on a crate, and Michael sat on the stool he had been sitting on earlier in the evening. It wasn’t uncomfortable; it was rather peaceful as you watched him doodle on a lined notepad he had found in a drawer.

“You know you're exactly how I thought you would be.” Your voice broke through the stillness.

The pen stopped moving as Michael peered at you through a curtain of curls that had fallen into his eyes.

“Should I be scared?” He teased.

You shook your head. “No, silly. I just mean that before tonight we have never actually spoken; it feels strange, almost how easily we get along. We’ve only ever talked about one another through the eyes of other people, bringing us up in interviews or random conversations in my case.”

He hummed while a fond smile slipped onto his face.

“It’s funny you bring that up since it wasn’t the first time I had heard about you.”

You sat up straighter. “Really? Then how did you hear about me?”

“In 1983, before the Motown twenty-fifth-anniversary show, I was looking to incorporate more dance style into my routines. I had already been working with two dancers, but a few friends recommended I take ballet. I had already started adding ballet moves into my routines at the time, but insisted I check out a particular dancer.”

You knew where this was going, and you swallowed hard as he watched you cautiously before continuing.

“Your company was performing Peter Pan, and I absolutely couldn’t pass that up. Even though I was there to see you, I was extremely curious to see the production of Peter Pan as well. I thought the whole play was so fantastic and whimsical. I was especially impressed by you playing Tinker Bell. I wanted to talk to you after the show, but when I got backstage, I was informed that you weren’t there. You had twisted your ankle pretty badly and still performed. I thought it was completely insane, but at the same time I was in such awe that you would do that knowing it could have damaged your ankle permanently.”

You stared at a glass measuring cup on the counter opposite you as Michael concluded the story of an attempted encounter that never occurred.

That night had closed the door on a dream you never even realized you didn’t want. You loved to dance; you breathed, slept, and ate according to the rules of ballet for years. The tireless hours, the diets, the constant pressure pushing you to your limits. A torn Achilles heel had been the end result that made you decide that while you loved dancing, ballet as a career was not a part of your bigger dream of being an entertainer.

“No one ever told me you came to visit, though perhaps it was their way of punishing me for being so reckless.” You laughed halfheartedly.

Michael shifted in his seat, while you let out a heavy sigh.

“I’m sorry I had no idea.”

You gave him a smile that didn’t meet your eyes. “It’s alright; it was a long time ago, and I’m happier now even if the memories still hurt. I love to dance; that’ll never change, but I could no longer be what they wanted me to be.”

Michael’s eyes shone with something you couldn’t really place, but from the way he nodded in understanding. It seemed perhaps he could relate to the situation you had been in previously.

Looking to change the subject, you searched for something to talk about when it occurred to you that you never did ask why Michael had been in the kitchen tonight.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Depends.”

“On what exactly?”

“What the question is,” he smirked.

You rolled your eyes. “I just wanted to know why you were in the kitchen tonight when I came in. You never mentioned anything about it, so I didn’t even give it a second thought until now.”

You saw the immediate shift in his body language as his smile fell and he became extremely interested in looking at everything but you.

You frowned, eyebrows creasing in concern.

“Michael?” He ignored you. “Hey, are you alright?”

He muttered something under his breath.

“What was that? I didn’t hear you.”

He sighed before glancing at you out of the corner of his eye.

“My album has been breaking records with sales and singles, and still I walked away with nothing to show for it tonight. That’s why I was in the kitchen; I didn’t want to really go socialize with anybody.”

His words didn’t shock you; hell, they just made you even more furious on his behalf. Hollywood at its core was complicated and corrupt. They have the habit of punishing people who are too successful in their eyes. They don’t want artists getting too big beyond what they think they deserve. Too late for that. Michael and every artist who would ever be snubbed were far beyond what those at the Recording Academy would ever be.

You watched him, a look of sympathy reflected in your eyes, as he played with his hands, a nervous habit you assumed. It had become a habit over the course of your evening that these pauses of silence tended to happen a lot. You didn’t think much of it since they felt natural enough to happen when you ran out of something to talk about. It didn’t occur to you that maybe Michael didn’t like small talk and that being here in general was uncomfortable for him.

Perhaps he didn’t like feeling vulnerable with someone he barely knew. You had a habit of sharing information that wasn't appropriate for small talk.

“Stop staring—I’m bruised, not broken.”

You paused.

“What?”

He turned his head, frowning; he locked eyes with you. “I can feel your pitying gaze on me. I don’t need pity.”

A fit of frustration rushed through you, but you controlled your emotions and breathed deeply.

“You know I was so annoyed tonight on your behalf because the Recording Academy didn’t acknowledge that your album deserved recognition. I am not sure how my trying to show sympathy to a fellow artist is pitying you.”

Michael winced, then stood and walked toward a corner of the kitchen.

He was silent for several minutes before speaking.

“I’m sorry.” He paused, his voice going quiet. “That was wrong of me to assume.”

You didn’t say anything.

“But why? You don’t know me; not really at least.”

“Why?” You questioned, brows furrowing.

“Yes, why?”

You stood up, making him turn so he was facing you again.

“Because your music is magical and speaks to my soul; it’s electrifying.” You said as if it were obvious.

He stared at you for a moment, eyes shining as a small smile pulled at his mouth.

“No one has ever described it like that before, thank you.”

His words surprised you as heat rushed to your cheeks in embarrassment.

“Oh, it’s nothing.”

“It is though.”

Looking up again, you catch his gaze as he watches you thoughtfully. Face still hot, you clear your throat you smoothed down your shimmery gown. “It’s late; I should go and find my sister.”

Michael didn’t say anything as he followed your lead in cleaning up after each other. Once it was all clear, he followed you out of the kitchen back into the thrall of the restaurant. It was quieter than before, with nearly half the crowd having left already, it seemed.

Looking around, you find your sister sitting at a table talking to the singer Sting. You laughed at the sight of your sister listening intently to the veteran musician. “I leave her alone for five minutes, and she’s deep in discussion with her favorite singer.”

Michael followed as you walked towards the table, shouting your sister’s name as she looked up and smiled widely. “There you are. I was wondering where you wandered off to!” She said as the two of you stopped next to the table.

You shrugged nonchalantly. “I got sidetracked talking to this one,” you gesture to Michael, who waves at them shyly.

You see the moment your sister puts it together as a smug look appears on her face. “Let me guess: you were in the kitchen?”

“And if I was?”

“You're just as terrible as Grandma,” she deadpans

“At least you admit, Grandma, and I have better instincts than you.”

An exasperated expression appears on her face before laughing. “What does that even mean?”

You stick out your tongue, making Michael snort while Sting just watched on in amusement.

Your sister just laughed before sticking out her hand to Michael and introducing herself. Michael smiled politely, took her hand, and returned the pleasantry.

“So did my sister drag you into her scheme of snooping in the kitchen?” Michael shook his head. “No, I was actually already in there when she came in. I may have sort of scared her and asked her not to scream since I didn’t want to make a scene.”

Another round of laughs fell from the small group; your stomach was definitely going to hurt later from all the laughter you had been doing tonight.

“Well, while this has been fun, I think the restaurant owners want to close up for the night.” You casually point to the owner, who had been slowly nudging patrons out of the facility.

“Damn, I didn’t realize it was that late.” Sting said as he got up from his seat before pushing it in.

You sister stood up more slowly fixing her gown before gathering her pocket book. Sting waited for her and he reached out to give her a quick hug. “Well, it was lovely meeting you and good luck with the business from what you’ve told me it’s never a dull moment so at least it’ll be entertaining.”

She shook her head, smiling while a confused expression spread across your face. “I told him about my job as a dog groomer,” she clarified.

“It was very enlightening and makes me never want to know about the inner workings of dog breeding again.”

You shared a look with Michael, who looked just as baffled and on the verge of laughing.

“I wish I didn’t either, to be frank, but alas, here we are.” She shrugged. Sting grinned before turning to Michael, shaking his hand and then giving you a quick hug. He congratulated you on your wins before leaving and meeting his date at the entrance.

Now only Michael, your sister, and you were left in the restaurant.

“I just met my favorite singer; Mom is going to lose it when I tell her!” Your sister said gleefully.

You snorted. “Bear, have you seen Andrea?

She groaned at the usage of her nickname.

“Do you really have to refer to me as that right now?” she complained, gesturing to Michael.

“I could call you grizzly bear instead if you prefer? I figured shortening it would be less embarrassing for you.” You snickered as your sister pouted at you.

“It’s a childhood nickname.” You tell Michael. “All my sisters have nicknames related to bears. Why? I have no idea; my parents don’t even know.”

“She’s Sunny Bear if you’re curious.” Your sister whispered behind her hand while winking.

Michael watched you both with an fondness in his eyes as you openly showed affection and bantered with one another. He grinned as you playfully glared at her.

“Okay but seriously where is Andrea?” You asked again trying to change the subject

“She mentioned going to get Wolfgang to pull the car up before you came over.”

That had been about ten minutes ago, you assumed. It was probably time to go anyway; it was very late, and you were exhausted.

“Alright, well, we probably really should be going. I can feel the poor restaurant owner’s eyes begging us to leave.”

“You’re right, we’ve held up in here long enough,” Michael added as he grabbed for his jacket and signaled for what you presumed was his bodyguard to get the car ready.

You watched him as he slid his blazer back on and fixed it before turning back to you.

“I’ll meet you at the door.” Your sister smiled at Michael before waving goodbye. “It was nice meeting you.” He smiled at her as she slipped past you both.

“I like your sister; she’s nice”

“Don’t tell her that it’ll go to her head.” You smiled.

Michael huffed out a laugh.

You both stood there for a moment in each other’s presence, not wanting to be the first one to say goodbye.

You finally broke the silence.

“I have to say this is probably the most interesting after-party I’ve been to so far.”

“It’ll definitely be one I remember fondly, especially since I got to spend it with you,” Michael admitted, biting his lip as another smile spread across his face.

Heat flooded your cheeks again. “Me too. It was an unexpected surprise; that’s for sure, as not many people can say they’ve snooped in a walk-in freezer with Michael Jackson.”

Michael snorted.

“I suppose not, though I don’t think that’s a common activity for most people.” He added, opening his arms for a hug, to which you gladly stepped fully.

If this was what they called a bear hug, then you never wanted to leave it. This may even compete with your own mother’s hugs because those were comforting and warm; Michael’s hug felt like home in a way you couldn’t describe, and you barely even knew the man.

You had smelt his perfume most of the evening but being this close the scent engulfed you with its sweet floral aroma. His grip on you tightened suddenly as you felt his breath tickle your ear. “I wanted to say thank you again for what you said tonight. I was really in a low place earlier and you made it better the moment you walked into the kitchen. So thank you genuinely.”

Your features softened at his words as you hugged him tighter before pulling away to look at him. “Your welcome.” Your eyes crinkled as you smiled.

“I don’t think we’ll be running into each other again any time soon so good luck with the tour. If you ever need to talk to someone call me.” You pull out a pen and paper from your pocket book and quickly write down your number.

“Here you go,” Michael took the paper from you and tucked it into his jacket pocket.

“Don’t be a stranger!” You said, kissing his cheek quickly before waving goodbye not waiting for his reaction. You picked up the hem of your dress and speed walked to meet your sister.

She gave you a smug smile as you shooed her out the door into a sea of cameras. As you climbed into the car, you looked back as the cameras' focus left you and encircled Michael. He wore a dark pair of aviators as his bodyguard escorted him to a car. He looked across the street as you climbed in your car, a wide smile on his lips as he waved to you as your door closed. You smiled to yourself; you hoped he would call soon.

What neither of you knew was that tonight had been the start of a lifelong romance that would explode in ways neither one of you could have predicted.

[whitelionspirit]

~ What a Crush, What a Rush ~

Bad Era Michael x Popstar! Reader

Synopsis: Michael and You have danced around each other for the last few years. Both respecting and always supporting one another. Not friends, not even really acquaintances, both sharing very few words since your debut five years earlier. It’s during the 1988 Grammys that you have your first conversation with him in a quiet corner of an after-party he would rather be leaving.

WC: 5.9k

Content: slight angst, mentions of a previous injury. Fluff, strangers to friends (eventually lovers later)

A/N: taken from a prompt list here X. This is my first official fic in this new fandom! It’s been a while since I properly wrote and posted a new fic. So I feel a bit rusty but despite my constant tweaking of the fic I’m ready to share it. This wasn’t meant to become a series but it will be. Also our girl’s race is and will always be ambiguous. Hope you enjoy ✨❤️‍🔥

Prompt: Stop staring—I’m bruised, not broken.”

…….

The adrenaline rush of hearing your name called for the second time tonight was most definitely going to your head. Your sophomore album had been a smash hit from the starting line. 1987 had been a colorful year for music, and your music had been at its forefront. It was a year for music, a year where anything goes, from Prince to U2; it was a real competition.

If anyone were to ask, BAD would be your personal favorite album from last year, and your contender to win the majority of the awards tonight. Well, that was your opinion at least, but so far the king of pop had not won a single award.

You had never had a proper conversation with Michael in the past five years since your debut album. Only simple pleasantries were exchanged between colleagues passing each other at award shows and charity events. It didn’t stop you from speaking highly of your fellow singer and your admiration for his charity work. When asked about you, he always smiled gently and admitted to loving your music, especially your beautiful lyrics.

His words had flattered you so much that the talk show host who had brought it up laughed when you giggled and hid your face in your hands.

Articles often threw you into the mix when talking about who sold more records and which songs would outdo one another. You took it in stride that being compared to other artists like Madonna, Whitney, Prince, and, of course, Michael was the highest of compliments.

Being at the Grammys was always fun: it was one of your favorite events of the year. Even if you were only a nominee this year, just watching the show was enough. When you were nominated, the first person you called was your eldest sister. She was the first person you called whenever something exciting happened in your life. She was also your date for tonight; through every late-night conversation to every tear shed, she was the person you leaned on for everything.

Being the second eldest of four girls wasn’t easy growing up. You knew your parents did their best, but sometimes it was hard when three other children also needed their support. So your sister became your rock. After all these years, you felt like she deserved to be here beside you to celebrate and to have fun.

You had watched her become starstruck as she saw all your peers up close. When she spotted the singer Sting, she nearly lost all composure, which had you in hysterics.

The day you had left your hometown had been bittersweet, with your worried parents and younger siblings clinging to you. Your eldest sister had just smiled softly and hugged you tight. Ballet and theater had been your inspiration for wanting to pursue music.

Moving to Los Angeles to chase your dreams at eighteen had been hard for your parents to accept, but your sister knew you would do big things, and how right she had been. Even if they wanted you to be successful, your parents still worried about their little girl.

The music industry was not kind to you or any woman in general, it seemed. Even those who are already successful seemed to also fall under the pressure and scrutiny the world has laid at their feet.

All the blood, sweat, and tears had led to here.

A smile graced your face as you accepted the award for best pop vocal performance. It was your second award of the night, having won one earlier for best pop instrumental performance.

“Wow, I really have no words to express my gratitude.” You pause, collecting your thoughts before licking your lips. “I think every single woman in this category is mesmerizing, and I admire each and every one of you. This business is cutthroat, and while many artists have paved the way for us to stand here today. Many of the women who have shaped us and worked hard do not get the recognition and respect they deserve. I hope going forward we can continue to support these women and anyone else who feels underrepresented, as music is universal and brings us together. This award is for all of you.” You finish as the crowd gets to their feet and claps for you, a smile breaking out again on your lips as you mouth thank you and show off the Grammy, and you are escorted off the stage.

“Where did that come from?” Your publicist, Andrea, asked as you met her backstage.

“It’s something that’s been bothering me for a while, but actually saying it out loud was more spur of the moment.” You explained as she escorted you to the interview room.

The flash from the cameras greeted you both when entering the room. Black spots crossed your eyesight as you tried to adjust to all the flashbulbs going off at once. Andrea barked at them to give you some space as the questions started flying. She pointed to a reporter and told him to ask his question.

After several minutes of talking to them, she escorted you back to your seat. You were seated in the second row from the stage, and you exchanged small pleasantries with your fellow artists as you took your seat next to your sister again. She turned to you, grinning, grabbed your hands and squeezed them.

“Congratulations, again, seriously, I am so proud of you!” She beamed; you bit your lip, hiding your own growing smile

“Thank you. I am still so overwhelmed! What did I miss?”

“They announced the winner for best pop performance for men, and it went to a commercial break. I think another singer is going to be performing as well after the break.”

“Oh, okay, so who won the award?”

“Sting did!” She clapped excitedly.

Your eyebrows rose in surprise at her answer. You were sure that Michael would have won that one. Not that you didn’t enjoy Sting, because you did, but Michael’s song had been everywhere for weeks. You had heard it on the radio multiple times a day, and the music video alone had been the talk of the town for months.

“Huh, not who I was expecting, but good for him.” Your disappointment didn’t go unnoticed as your sister gave you a pointed look, and you waved her off.

She laughed as the lights flickered, letting everyone know that the commercial break was over. The rest of the night passed by quickly as you collected yet another award, this time for song of the year. For that speech, you kept it smaller and thanked your label, family, and of course, your fans.

It was when the final performance rolled around that something shifted in the room. You knew why, as it had been anticipated since its announcement last week; Michael was performing tonight. You had noticed him leave his seat about fifteen minutes ago, so he was definitely coming on now.

Another brief intermission had occurred but now everyone was back in their seats waiting patiently.

“Our last performer of the night has broken the record for best selling album of all time and his latest album BAD sold seven million copies worldwide in its first week! Please welcome to the stage Michael Jackson.”

The audience lost it as his silhouette came into view and he began dancing.

It was pure magic; he was magic.

The audience was on their feet as the last lyrics of Man in the Mirror were sung. Your sister was awestruck as she hollered her enthusiasm, and you laughed, clapping along with everyone.

Michael bowed and smiled before leaving the stage. The room was still filled with electricity as the last award was presented.

“And the winner for album of the year goes to-” Everybody waited with bated breath. “Joshua Tree. U2!”

To say you were flabbergasted was an understatement. You and your sister shared a glance before standing up and applauding the winners. It wasn’t to say the win wasn’t deserved, as every single one of the nominees was deserving. It was just disappointing since the person you thought most people predicted to win was going home empty-handed.

…….

Exiting the theater was very much a long goodbye. As literally every time you thought you were leaving, someone else wanted to chat. Your sister didn’t seem to mind as she got to talk to celebrities like a normal person. It took a good half hour before you finally made it to the exit. Andrea had gone ahead to assess the situation with the paparazzi as your head of security pulled up with your car.

Linking your arm with your sister, you both braced for more flashing lights as the door opened. “Just don’t look directly at them,” you informed as the shouts of the small crowd became deafening.

Andrea was directing you both to the red Cadillac as you tugged your sister along, who was definitely overwhelmed. Not even bothering to pose or wave to the cameras, you guided her into the car and slid in beside her in the backseat. Andrea quickly closed the door and climbed into the front with your driver as the car was put into drive.

….

The after-party was packed when you arrived at the restaurant. An upscale place in the East Village; luckily, the press presence had died down by the time you arrived. The few photographers and fans you saw, you smiled at and waved to as you were rushed into the building.

“I need a drink.” You announce as soon as you see the bar.

Your sister was too busy being starstruck again as you pulled her behind you to the bar.

“Two Shirley temples please,” you told the bartender who nodded.

“They are so many more celebrities here than I saw at the Grammys.” She whispered eyes sweeping over the crowd. You shrugged as it was pretty typical for other socialites to mingle among the entertainment industry. “It’s a party everyone loves a party, plus a place to do networking especially to scope out those who won big at the award shows.”

The bartender returned with your drinks and you took a sip of the sweet beverage.

“Does that mean people will be approaching you?” Your sister asked.

“Perhaps,”

“Well, someone is on their way over here now,” she said, making you look behind as Whitney Houston made her way toward you both.

A smile broke out on your face at the sight of your friend as she reached for you pulling you into a hug. Whitney and you had been friends for a few years now and took every opportunity to talk on the phone and see one another whenever possible.

“Oh it’s so good to see you!”

Whitney laughed. “We just saw each other last week!”

“And that was forever ago.”

“Whatever you say.”

Pulling away, you gesture to your sister. “You remember my sister, right?”

“Of course! How are you?” Whitney asked.

“I’m wonderful! This is a bit overwhelming but exciting also.” She laughed.

“Understandable but anyway I came over because we have a small group over in the corner and wanted to know if you guys wanted to join us?”

“Sure, we would love to.” You replied. Whitney smiled as she walked across the room, with you following.

That is how you found yourself for most of the night sitting surrounded by Whitney and other partygoers. Despite being in the industry for several years now you did not know everyone, but when being introduced, you recognized people by name and sometimes appearance. The conversations flowed easily and the time seemed to fly by.

It was around the third Shirley Temple that you decided it was time for a much-needed bathroom break. You smiled sheepishly at your group as they laughed and sent you in the direction of the restroom. After relieving yourself, you decided to be nosy and peek in the kitchen even though they had food sitting out for guests. The kitchen had technically closed earlier, but it shouldn’t be hard navigating the space as it was already dimly lit.

Pushing the swinging doors open cautiously, you looked over your shoulder just to see if anyone was watching. Seeing as the coast was clear, you slipped into the empty kitchen and let out a sigh of relief, but it was short-lived as you turned to your right and came face to face with another person. A muffled sound left you as the person covered your mouth with their hand.

“Please don’t scream,” a soft voice asked.

You stood frozen, backed against a counter, staring at Michael Jackson, whose eyes were pleading that you comply with his wishes. You searched his gaze for a moment before nodding, and he sighed in relief releasing his hand from your face.

“I’m sorry I didn’t mean to silence you like that, but I just didn’t want to cause a scene if you screamed.”

You cleared your throat. “It’s fine. I didn’t expect to meet anyone in the kitchen, so you definitely caught me off guard.”

“Yeah, I honestly wasn’t expecting to meet anyone in here either,” he laughed lamely not meeting your eye.

An awkward silence fell over the room while you both stood there unsure what to say in this moment. A loud growl broke the tension as Michael’s gaze admittedly shot upward to meet yours while you cringed at your stomach’s hunger.

“Well, this is embarrassing.”

Michael burst out into a fit of giggles, making you also start laughing.

“Didn’t they have food put out for everyone?” He asked between laughs.

“Yes! But I am notorious for being way too nosy for my own good, and I wanted to see what they had in the kitchen.”

Another round of laughs left Michael making you grin. That’s how you found yourself peeking through cabinets and exploring a walk-in freezer with Michael Jackson.

“I’ve never seen the inside of a kitchen like this before, you know,” Michael voiced softly as you stood in the walk-in freezer reading the labels.

Your gaze shifted to him as he quietly read over a label of a jar of pickles. His words didn’t shake you in any way, but it was the way they seemed to carry a heavier weight than they should’ve. You weren’t a child star like Michael was; even if your life had been busy with ballet and theater, your childhood had been pretty normal in every aspect that mattered.

You had gotten to live and be a normal person.

“You know I used to work in a restaurant before I was signed to my label.” You spoke, suddenly surprising even yourself. Michael didn’t respond, but you knew he was listening.

Returning your focus to the labels, you continued.

“It really sucked. I loved my coworkers, but dealing with people’s food is a different type of stress. I found myself crying in a freezer just like this on more days I could count. From the anxiety and anger, I felt like lashing out at customers, but I had to remind myself in the end it wasn’t worth my tears or the exhaustion I felt.”

Opening a platter of fruit, you grabbed a grape and closed it again. “My coworkers were my community for those kinds of days. My family wasn’t around, and while I could call them, it wasn’t the same as having them there in person.” You popped the grape into your mouth, eating it.

“I’m sorry you had to deal with that. People can be so cruel sometimes.” He says, finally joining you on your side of the freezer.

“Thanks, though it was a while ago, so I try not to dwell on it. The memories come to mind from time to time, and the feelings that follow them resurface before blowing away again.”

A shiver ran down your spine, your body shaking from the cold. You hadn’t noticed until now how cold you actually were. Your feet were aching, and a numbness had settled over your body. A hand on your bare shoulder made you jump, knocking you into the rack of food, making it rattle.

“Are you alright?” Michael asked, concern in his voice.

Placing a hand on your chest, you nodded, taking a breath to collect yourself. “Yeah, just caught me off guard is all.”

“I’m sorry; I was just trying to get your attention since you had shivered. I wanted to know if you wanted to leave the freezer.”

“It’s probably a good idea to be honest; my feet are numb.” Laughing, you push the fridge's door open as a rush of warm air hits you both, exiting the room, and closing the steel door with a click.

The sound of the fridge's generator was muffled as the quietness of the kitchen surrounded you once again. Michael shuffled somewhere behind as you walked across the room towards the doors.

“Well, that was entertaining, but I’m still hungry, so I’m going to go grab some stuff from the buffet. Do you want me to grab you anything?” You asked, meeting Michael’s gaze over your shoulder.

“I appreciate it, but I’m alright.” He replied. “I’ll bring a variety of things in case you change your mind.” You added, not waiting for his response as you reentered the chaos of the restaurant.

……

You returned with a tray full of food and set it down on the kitchen counter. Michael, who had been sitting on a stool, eyed the food curiously before wandering over to investigate.

“I knew you would be intrigued.” The smugness in your words made him roll his eyes, then smile.

“Whatever you say, girl" he said, looking over the food you had brought. He paused briefly on a glass of orange juice before taking it for himself.

“I figured you would like that.”

Michael blinked at you curiously as you took a bite of a sandwich in your hand.

“I read about it in a magazine article once that you like orange juice; almost like your preferred beverage, really.”

He stared at you for a long moment before laughing so hard that he wheezed.

“Are you trying to kill me or something tonight? That’s the second time you’ve made me laugh so hard I can’t breathe.”

“It’s definitely not my intention, but I can sense a kindred spirit from a mile away, and you, Michael, are very easily amused like myself.”

Michael snorted, taking a sip of his orange juice.

Time seemed to pass by as you both fell into easy conversation while snacking on finger foods and sweet desserts. The topics ranged from music and movies to a very detailed discussion about whether vampires were real or fake.

It was strange, really; you had never spoken to Michael before tonight, and it felt like you had known each other for years. You knew what the media said about him was garbage; it was obvious, but you knew sometimes that wasn’t enough for people who are so easily misinformed or form opinions before having all the facts.

“I really liked your speech tonight.” He said at some point in the night.

You paused in the middle of eating a cookie and stared at him owlishly. “Wah?”

Michael snorted as his eyes softened. “What you said about women and the industry not appreciating them enough. I loved it.”

“Oh, thank you. It’s something that has bothered me for a long time, you know, and I felt I needed to say something.”

He hummed in agreement.

“I’ve been in this business for a long time, and it’s only barely changed from the time I was a kid. I wish more people spoke up, but I know they are scared; somebody has to do it. Take that first step, and you did that tonight. It doesn’t seem like much, but it’ll get the conversation going. You did that.”

His words warmed your heart with their praise and appreciation.

“Thank you, Michael; that means a lot coming from you.”

He didn’t comment on what your words meant, but he gave you a small smile in response.

A quietness had settled between you both as you sat on a crate, and Michael sat on the stool he had been sitting on earlier in the evening. It wasn’t uncomfortable; it was rather peaceful as you watched him doodle on a lined notepad he had found in a drawer.

“You know you're exactly how I thought you would be.” Your voice broke through the stillness.

The pen stopped moving as Michael peered at you through a curtain of curls that had fallen into his eyes.

“Should I be scared?” He teased.

You shook your head. “No, silly. I just mean that before tonight we have never actually spoken; it feels strange, almost how easily we get along. We’ve only ever talked about one another through the eyes of other people, bringing us up in interviews or random conversations in my case.”

He hummed while a fond smile slipped onto his face.

“It’s funny you bring that up since it wasn’t the first time I had heard about you.”

You sat up straighter. “Really? Then how did you hear about me?”

“In 1983, before the Motown twenty-fifth-anniversary show, I was looking to incorporate more dance style into my routines. I had already been working with two dancers, but a few friends recommended I take ballet. I had already started adding ballet moves into my routines at the time, but insisted I check out a particular dancer.”

You knew where this was going, and you swallowed hard as he watched you cautiously before continuing.

“Your company was performing Peter Pan, and I absolutely couldn’t pass that up. Even though I was there to see you, I was extremely curious to see the production of Peter Pan as well. I thought the whole play was so fantastic and whimsical. I was especially impressed by you playing Tinker Bell. I wanted to talk to you after the show, but when I got backstage, I was informed that you weren’t there. You had twisted your ankle pretty badly and still performed. I thought it was completely insane, but at the same time I was in such awe that you would do that knowing it could have damaged your ankle permanently.”

You stared at a glass measuring cup on the counter opposite you as Michael concluded the story of an attempted encounter that never occurred.

That night had closed the door on a dream you never even realized you didn’t want. You loved to dance; you breathed, slept, and ate according to the rules of ballet for years. The tireless hours, the diets, the constant pressure pushing you to your limits. A torn Achilles heel had been the end result that made you decide that while you loved dancing, ballet as a career was not a part of your bigger dream of being an entertainer.

“No one ever told me you came to visit, though perhaps it was their way of punishing me for being so reckless.” You laughed halfheartedly.

Michael shifted in his seat, while you let out a heavy sigh.

“I’m sorry I had no idea.”

You gave him a smile that didn’t meet your eyes. “It’s alright; it was a long time ago, and I’m happier now even if the memories still hurt. I love to dance; that’ll never change, but I could no longer be what they wanted me to be.”

Michael’s eyes shone with something you couldn’t really place, but from the way he nodded in understanding. It seemed perhaps he could relate to the situation you had been in previously.

Looking to change the subject, you searched for something to talk about when it occurred to you that you never did ask why Michael had been in the kitchen tonight.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Depends.”

“On what exactly?”

“What the question is,” he smirked.

You rolled your eyes. “I just wanted to know why you were in the kitchen tonight when I came in. You never mentioned anything about it, so I didn’t even give it a second thought until now.”

You saw the immediate shift in his body language as his smile fell and he became extremely interested in looking at everything but you.

You frowned, eyebrows creasing in concern.

“Michael?” He ignored you. “Hey, are you alright?”

He muttered something under his breath.

“What was that? I didn’t hear you.”

He sighed before glancing at you out of the corner of his eye.

“My album has been breaking records with sales and singles, and still I walked away with nothing to show for it tonight. That’s why I was in the kitchen; I didn’t want to really go socialize with anybody.”

His words didn’t shock you; hell, they just made you even more furious on his behalf. Hollywood at its core was complicated and corrupt. They have the habit of punishing people who are too successful in their eyes. They don’t want artists getting too big beyond what they think they deserve. Too late for that. Michael and every artist who would ever be snubbed were far beyond what those at the Recording Academy would ever be.

You watched him, a look of sympathy reflected in your eyes, as he played with his hands, a nervous habit you assumed. It had become a habit over the course of your evening that these pauses of silence tended to happen a lot. You didn’t think much of it since they felt natural enough to happen when you ran out of something to talk about. It didn’t occur to you that maybe Michael didn’t like small talk and that being here in general was uncomfortable for him.

Perhaps he didn’t like feeling vulnerable with someone he barely knew. You had a habit of sharing information that wasn't appropriate for small talk.

“Stop staring—I’m bruised, not broken.”

You paused.

“What?”

He turned his head, frowning; he locked eyes with you. “I can feel your pitying gaze on me. I don’t need pity.”

A fit of frustration rushed through you, but you controlled your emotions and breathed deeply.

“You know I was so annoyed tonight on your behalf because the Recording Academy didn’t acknowledge that your album deserved recognition. I am not sure how my trying to show sympathy to a fellow artist is pitying you.”

Michael winced, then stood and walked toward a corner of the kitchen.

He was silent for several minutes before speaking.

“I’m sorry.” He paused, his voice going quiet. “That was wrong of me to assume.”

You didn’t say anything.

“But why? You don’t know me; not really at least.”

“Why?” You questioned, brows furrowing.

“Yes, why?”

You stood up, making him turn so he was facing you again.

“Because your music is magical and speaks to my soul; it’s electrifying.” You said as if it were obvious.

He stared at you for a moment, eyes shining as a small smile pulled at his mouth.

“No one has ever described it like that before, thank you.”

His words surprised you as heat rushed to your cheeks in embarrassment.

“Oh, it’s nothing.”

“It is though.”

Looking up again, you catch his gaze as he watches you thoughtfully. Face still hot, you clear your throat you smoothed down your shimmery gown. “It’s late; I should go and find my sister.”

Michael didn’t say anything as he followed your lead in cleaning up after each other. Once it was all clear, he followed you out of the kitchen back into the thrall of the restaurant. It was quieter than before, with nearly half the crowd having left already, it seemed.

Looking around, you find your sister sitting at a table talking to the singer Sting. You laughed at the sight of your sister listening intently to the veteran musician. “I leave her alone for five minutes, and she’s deep in discussion with her favorite singer.”

Michael followed as you walked towards the table, shouting your sister’s name as she looked up and smiled widely. “There you are. I was wondering where you wandered off to!” She said as the two of you stopped next to the table.

You shrugged nonchalantly. “I got sidetracked talking to this one,” you gesture to Michael, who waves at them shyly.

You see the moment your sister puts it together as a smug look appears on her face. “Let me guess: you were in the kitchen?”

“And if I was?”

“You're just as terrible as Grandma,” she deadpans

“At least you admit, Grandma, and I have better instincts than you.”

An exasperated expression appears on her face before laughing. “What does that even mean?”

You stick out your tongue, making Michael snort while Sting just watched on in amusement.

Your sister just laughed before sticking out her hand to Michael and introducing herself. Michael smiled politely, took her hand, and returned the pleasantry.

“So did my sister drag you into her scheme of snooping in the kitchen?” Michael shook his head. “No, I was actually already in there when she came in. I may have sort of scared her and asked her not to scream since I didn’t want to make a scene.”

Another round of laughs fell from the small group; your stomach was definitely going to hurt later from all the laughter you had been doing tonight.

“Well, while this has been fun, I think the restaurant owners want to close up for the night.” You casually point to the owner, who had been slowly nudging patrons out of the facility.

“Damn, I didn’t realize it was that late.” Sting said as he got up from his seat before pushing it in.

You sister stood up more slowly fixing her gown before gathering her pocket book. Sting waited for her and he reached out to give her a quick hug. “Well, it was lovely meeting you and good luck with the business from what you’ve told me it’s never a dull moment so at least it’ll be entertaining.”

She shook her head, smiling while a confused expression spread across your face. “I told him about my job as a dog groomer,” she clarified.

“It was very enlightening and makes me never want to know about the inner workings of dog breeding again.”

You shared a look with Michael, who looked just as baffled and on the verge of laughing.

“I wish I didn’t either, to be frank, but alas, here we are.” She shrugged. Sting grinned before turning to Michael, shaking his hand and then giving you a quick hug. He congratulated you on your wins before leaving and meeting his date at the entrance.

Now only Michael, your sister, and you were left in the restaurant.

“I just met my favorite singer; Mom is going to lose it when I tell her!” Your sister said gleefully.

You snorted. “Bear, have you seen Andrea?

She groaned at the usage of her nickname.

“Do you really have to refer to me as that right now?” she complained, gesturing to Michael.

“I could call you grizzly bear instead if you prefer? I figured shortening it would be less embarrassing for you.” You snickered as your sister pouted at you.

“It’s a childhood nickname.” You tell Michael. “All my sisters have nicknames related to bears. Why? I have no idea; my parents don’t even know.”

“She’s Sunny Bear if you’re curious.” Your sister whispered behind her hand while winking.

Michael watched you both with an fondness in his eyes as you openly showed affection and bantered with one another. He grinned as you playfully glared at her.

“Okay but seriously where is Andrea?” You asked again trying to change the subject

“She mentioned going to get Wolfgang to pull the car up before you came over.”

That had been about ten minutes ago, you assumed. It was probably time to go anyway; it was very late, and you were exhausted.

“Alright, well, we probably really should be going. I can feel the poor restaurant owner’s eyes begging us to leave.”

“You’re right, we’ve held up in here long enough,” Michael added as he grabbed for his jacket and signaled for what you presumed was his bodyguard to get the car ready.

You watched him as he slid his blazer back on and fixed it before turning back to you.

“I’ll meet you at the door.” Your sister smiled at Michael before waving goodbye. “It was nice meeting you.” He smiled at her as she slipped past you both.

“I like your sister; she’s nice”

“Don’t tell her that it’ll go to her head.” You smiled.

Michael huffed out a laugh.

You both stood there for a moment in each other’s presence, not wanting to be the first one to say goodbye.

You finally broke the silence.

“I have to say this is probably the most interesting after-party I’ve been to so far.”

“It’ll definitely be one I remember fondly, especially since I got to spend it with you,” Michael admitted, biting his lip as another smile spread across his face.

Heat flooded your cheeks again. “Me too. It was an unexpected surprise; that’s for sure, as not many people can say they’ve snooped in a walk-in freezer with Michael Jackson.”

Michael snorted.

“I suppose not, though I don’t think that’s a common activity for most people.” He added, opening his arms for a hug, to which you gladly stepped fully.

If this was what they called a bear hug, then you never wanted to leave it. This may even compete with your own mother’s hugs because those were comforting and warm; Michael’s hug felt like home in a way you couldn’t describe, and you barely even knew the man.

You had smelt his perfume most of the evening but being this close the scent engulfed you with its sweet floral aroma. His grip on you tightened suddenly as you felt his breath tickle your ear. “I wanted to say thank you again for what you said tonight. I was really in a low place earlier and you made it better the moment you walked into the kitchen. So thank you genuinely.”

Your features softened at his words as you hugged him tighter before pulling away to look at him. “Your welcome.” Your eyes crinkled as you smiled.

“I don’t think we’ll be running into each other again any time soon so good luck with the tour. If you ever need to talk to someone call me.” You pull out a pen and paper from your pocket book and quickly write down your number.

“Here you go,” Michael took the paper from you and tucked it into his jacket pocket.

“Don’t be a stranger!” You said, kissing his cheek quickly before waving goodbye not waiting for his reaction. You picked up the hem of your dress and speed walked to meet your sister.

She gave you a smug smile as you shooed her out the door into a sea of cameras. As you climbed into the car, you looked back as the cameras' focus left you and encircled Michael. He wore a dark pair of aviators as his bodyguard escorted him to a car. He looked across the street as you climbed in your car, a wide smile on his lips as he waved to you as your door closed. You smiled to yourself; you hoped he would call soon.

What neither of you knew was that tonight had been the start of a lifelong romance that would explode in ways neither one of you could have predicted.

[hon3yarchives]

— under the moonlight

michael jackson x fem!reader

SYNOPSIS: you bring michael out to a lake to unwind and forget about the world for a bit. spontaneously, you two end up shedding your clothes and taking a dip in the water as you gaze up at the stars.

CONTENT: 18+ MDNI, tooth rotting fluff, smut, relatively new relationship between michael and reader, reader rambles about greek mythology, do NOT swim in random lakes kids, joe jackson mentioned (only for a second i swear), michael is sosososo whipped, switchy mike, he likes to eat, he gets a little feral, outdoor sex (dont do that), unprotected sex (USE PROTECTION !!!)

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I THINK IM KINDA GETTING BETTER AT WRITING SMUT GUYS WHO ELSE CHEERED still a lot of room for improvement tho anyways hope u guys enjoy this one :)))

WORD COUNT: 5,965

“You’re crazy!”

“Come on! It’ll fine!”

“It’s so dark out there!”

“Mike, I told you, I’ve been here plenty of times, it’s fine.”

Michael had spent hours in his studio alone writing songs and drafting out beats. It had been a long night for him and he was just about ready to call it a night. But when he gets a call on his telephone from you, asking him if he wanted to go for a late-night drive, he couldn’t resist. He could never say no to you and he finds that just being with you was more than enough to rejuvenate him and restore his energy.

It had just been a few months since you two have officially started dating and it’s been nothing short of pure bliss and euphoria. He loved every second of being with you. But right now, as you lead him down a dirt path in the woods with one of your hands wrapped around his and the other holding a soft blanket, he’s starting to think you have ulterior motives.

“You’re not a serial killer, are you?”

You make a face. “You’re silly.”

“Am I? Cause this is feels like the beginning of a crime story.”

You laugh out loud, your hand slightly squeezing his as you continue to lead him down the path. “There’s a lake down this path that I’ve been going to since I was a kid. Real peaceful.”

The corner of Michael’s lips twitches up in amusement. “So, you’re taking me to where you dispose of your victims. Alright.” He jumps back laughing when you attempt to playfully pinch at his waist.

After a few more minutes of walking and playful banter, the two of you reach your destination. A large lake surrounded by trees with a small dock stretching out into it. The moonlight shines down and makes the water glisten beautifully as an earthy scent surrounds you. Crickets can be heard chirping in the distance as Michael takes in the view. “See? It’s nice, right?” you ask as you walk forward and lay down the blanket that you had brought, settling down on it.

“Yeah…” he breathes out, still staring at the scenery before he follows after you and sits down on the space next to you. “Wow… how’d you find this place?”

“Family stumbled upon it a long time ago,” you reply. He smiles when you move to lie down on your back and set your head on his lap. Instinctively, his hands move to toy with your hair. “Used to camp here and everything. It was our secret… now it’s yours too, apparently.” You grin up at him and he chuckles.

“I’ll definitely stop by here to write songs… It’s beautiful. Maybe bring my family here too.”

“Not Joseph, though,” you remark and smile sheepishly when he playfully glares at you. “I’m kidding, Mike.” He shakes his head and chuckles.

He knows you don’t like his father. Actually, his father didn’t really like you either. He remembers the time he first brought you to his home and almost immediately the tension between you and Joseph was palpable. How could he not dislike you? You were free, outspoken, and you stood up for Michael whenever you had to.

It would be nice if his father changed his mind about you and saw how much of a beautiful person you are. But quite frankly, Michael couldn’t really bring himself to care about that. He loved you and you loved him. That was all that mattered.

A comfortable silence arises and you two stay there for what seemed like hours just relaxing, basking in each other’s presence, cracking jokes, and stealing kisses. Some people may think it’s mundane, but Michael craved moments like this with you. He loved to just sit with you and talk about everything and nothing at the same time. To him, your presence was like a breath of fresh air. You didn’t treat him like a machine like everyone else did. He was just Michael to you and he loved that.

He genuinely thinks you’re one of the best things to ever happen to him. As a matter of fact, he thinks he’s going to marry you someday. He knows it’s a crazy thought, he’s only been dating you for a couple of months. But with your smile, your aura, your good heart, and the way you show that you care, he believes you truly are the one for him.

You sit up and stretch your arms over your head. “You know what?”

Michael hums in acknowledgement.

“I’m kinda in the mood for a swim right now.”

“Is it safe to?”

“Yeah, there’s a sign.” You jerk your head to your right and he looks in the direction. Surely enough, there was a sign posted right by the dock stating that the water was safe to swim in.

He nods. But then brows contort in confusion as he realizes something. “…You don’t have a swim suit,” he says.

You shrug. “So? I’ll just swim naked.”

His face heats up at the thought. The way you say it like it was the most normal thing in the world gets him a little flustered. You were always the one that’s more carefree and daring between you two. You rarely cared what other people thought and it’s one of the things he admired most about you. “Won’t… won’t someone see?” he asks out of genuine concern as he looks around the area.

You wave him off. “Ah, no one ever comes by here,” you say as you stand up, already beginning to unzip your jacket.

He gulps as he watches you. He’s seen you without your clothes on. You’ve been intimate before, he knows how breathtaking you are. But he still gets shy whenever you shed your clothes off. Every single time is like the first to him.

You’ve stripped down to just your shirt and underwear now and he struggles to keep his eyes on yours. “You coming?” you call out as you jog towards the dock, still looking back at him.

“Um… I don’t know… won’t the water be cold?”

You roll your eyes as you take off your shirt. “It’ll be fine! Live a little!” His breath hitches when your bra and panties come off and thrown in his direction. He eyes the garments on the ground for a second before he gazes back at you running to the dock. Naturally, his eyes gravitate towards your bottom and lets out a giggle as it shakes with each step you take.

You let out a loud ‘Woo!’ as you jump into the lake, the water splashing around you. Michael stands from where he is and walks towards the end of the dock. You rise from the water and wipe at your face as you smile up at him. “You’re crazy,” he says laughing.

“You don’t have to jump in if you don’t want to. But the water feels great, just saying.” You start doing backstrokes now, closing your eyes as you let your body float.

He sighs and looks around once more, feeling a little anxious about exposing himself in an outdoor area. Michael was shy and he doesn’t normally do stuff like this. But looking back at how free and unbothered you looked, he was tempted.

He starts unbuttoning his shirt. “Alright, I’m joining you.”

“Yeah! Go, Jackson!”

He laughs and shakes his head at your little cheer as he sheds his clothes. The cool breeze of the air envelopes him as he stares down at the water. “…Is it deep?” he asks.

“No, not really. My feet can still touch the ground.”

He nods at your response and takes a deep breath. He then steps back to gain momentum and jumps, striking the water with a big splash. He found the temperature to be really nice. Cool but not cold enough to make him shiver. His feet touch the bottom of the lake and he pushes himself up, breaking the surface tension. He shakes out the excess water from his hair and looks for you.

He sees you smile and tread your way towards him. He smiles back and instinctively reaches out to hold onto your hips when you’re close enough. You circle your arms around his shoulders and look into his eyes, beaming. “Look at you skinny dipping,” you tease, chuckling when he gets flustered and buries his face in your neck.

“I’ve never done it before.”

“Me neither. It’s my first time.”

He pulls back in slight surprise. “Really?” You hum in response, laughing at his shocked expression. “Seems like you’ve done it lots of times,” he remarks, gently pulling you closer to him by your waist.

You shrug. “Eh, guess I just felt like it tonight.”

He smiles and goes quiet for a bit as he scans you. You looked absolutely radiant. Even in the dim lighting, he could make out your features. Pieces of your wettened hair were sticking to your skin, your eyes were shining, and your lips were plump and perfect. He never thought a person could look so beautiful. He sees you quirk an eyebrow up. “What?” you question, noticing his lingered stare.

Michael blinks and shakes his head. “Nothing, it’s just…” he trails off, biting his lip. “I wanna kiss you,” he utters as he leans in slowly, a glint in his eyes. You giggle and raise your hands up to cup his face, gently urging him closer to you.

His eyes flutter shut once he feels your lips meet his. The kiss was gentle. Sweet, soft, you were smiling into it and he couldn’t help but do the same. He takes his time, savoring the moment, savoring you. He feels your fingers trail to his nape to deepen the kiss as his hold on your waist tightens slightly. Truthfully, it felt like he was on the clouds whenever your lips touched. He thinks he could never get tired of kissing you.

The kiss breaks and he pulls back slowly, allowing himself to let out a breath and rest his forehead against yours. He’s brought back down from the clouds and he’s reminded of where he is. The waters surrounding you two were calm, a stark contrast to the fast-paced thumping in his chest. A shy smile grows on his face and you chuckle, leaning back in for a little peck.

Then a splash of water abruptly hits his face.

“Race you to the other side!”

He blinks rapidly and wipes around his face to rid of the water that had obscured his vision. Then he sees you already swimming rapidly to the other side of the like. He laughs and shakes his head. “You cheater!” he calls out, following after you, his heart still racing.

--

A few laps around the lake and splashes to each other’s face later, Michael was now floating on his back, staring at the night sky. You were right beside him, doing the same. “Sky’s so clear tonight,” you say and he hums in agreement. There were barely any clouds present and because of that, the twinkle of the stars was completely visible.

“Oh my gosh, look!” you move to stand on your feet in the water and point up at the sky. Michael moves to place his feet on the bottom of the lake as well and looks at where you’re pointing.

His brows furrow as he tries to find what’s made you so excited. “…What am I looking at?”

“Perseus and Andromeda! Do you see?”

He doesn’t, actually. But the sparkle in your eyes makes him state otherwise. “Yeah,” he says.

You turn to him with a huge grin on your face. “You know their story?” you ask. Michael shakes his head and smiles when you practically beam and clasp your hands together in enthusiasm. “Oh, Mike, it’s my favorite!” you exclaim.

“Yeah? Tell me.” He enjoys hearing you talk about your interests. You always look so happy when you do.

“Okay! So, Andromeda is the daughter of Cassiopeia. And she’s gorgeous! Like drop dead stunning, like ‘men would go to war for her’ type beauty.” He snorts a little and nods at you to continue your story telling.

“And—you know—her mom, Cassiopeia, she was so proud of Andromeda’s looks. She bragged that she was more beautiful than- than the Nereids, you know what the Nereids are?” He shakes his head again, keeping his eyes locked on you. He figures he should study and research on some mythology. He wanted to relate to you a lot more.

You continue on, “So the Nereids are sea nymphs. They’re the daughters of Nerites and they got so mad and jealous of Andromeda that they complained to Poseidon about it and basically, he sent a sea monster to Cassiopeia’s kingdom to, like, terrorize them and shit.” You were waving your hands around now as you speak and Michael watches in amusement. “So, to save the kingdom… they chained Andromeda to a rock as, like, a sacrifice for the sea monster.”

His face contorts into confusion at that. “Wait, what? That’s so cruel.”

“Yeah, Greek mythology’s kinda fucked up.”

“Yeah, go on.”

“Right, so Perseus happened to be flying by and when he saw her, he swooped down. She told him what got her there and when he understood, he killed the sea monster and broke her chains. Then after that, they fell in love and got married!” You end the story a little abruptly and laugh when you realize. “That’s basically it. Actually, now that I’ve told it out loud, it’s a little corny, isn’t it? I think I rambled too much, sorry.” you say, scratching at your cheek awkwardly.

Michael chuckles and shakes his head, reaching an arm out to wrap around your waist and pull you closer to him. “Not at all. And don’t apologize, I like listening to you talk,” he utters, pressing a kiss on your hairline. He watches as you smile and look back up at the stars.

“I just think it’s beautiful that they sit next to each other in the sky, don’t you think?”

“Very beautiful,” he says, his eyes still laid on you. He thinks back to the story you just told and realizes the similarities it shares with his relationship with you. But he wasn’t Perseus in this case, because he thinks you’ve saved him in a way. With the way you’ve stood up for him in the face of his own father and the times you’ve broken him out of his spiral of self-hatred. It might be a reach, but he likes to think that you truly have freed him in your own way.

You look at him like he’s the only person in the world. And quite frankly, sometimes he doesn’t know what to do with it.

He looks down at his hands and his wrinkled-up fingers. Right, he thinks it was time to get up and get dry. He looks back at you. “Think it’s time to dry up,” he states.

You look down at your own hands and chuckle. “Yeah, my fingers are getting pruney.”

The two of you then make your way back to the dock where a ladder was attached. Michael, being the gentleman that he was, urges you to get up first. And when you start to go up the ladder, he’s suddenly reminded of your lack of clothing. He’s been way to preoccupied with the sweet moments you’ve had so far that he’s forgotten about your (and his) nudity.

And safe to say, it gets him flustered all over again.

Because you looked good. Way too good. The moonlight cast a gorgeous shine on your skin and there were little droplets of water falling off of you. You turn to face him as you squeeze some of the water out of your hair and he damn near collapses at how ethereal you looked. He thinks he should wait to get out of the water or else it’d be hard to conceal a rather… big problem which has arisen.

You laugh all of a sudden. “I just realized we don’t have any towels.”

Well, there goes his plan of using one to cover himself.

He chuckles awkwardly. “Maybe… maybe we could use the blanket you brought?”

You nod. “Yeah, guess we don’t have a choice.” You then start walking and Michael has to take a sharp breath in as he watches your hips sway. You look back at him from over your shoulder, noticing how he hasn’t made any effort to get out of the lake. “You coming?” you question.

He waves you off. “Yeah- um… actually could you bring the blanket here?”

He sees the way your eyebrow quirks up in suspicion but you shrug and jog over to the blanket you laid down on the grass earlier anyway. Michael lets out a breath of relief and looks down at his problem. He silently curses at himself. He was only half hard, but honestly it was only a matter of time before it fully was. You just had that effect on him.

He hears your footsteps padding on the wood of the dock and he looks up to find you patting the blanket around your face. He gulps. You haven’t gotten dressed yet, why? He thinks you’re out to get him. You hold out the blanket to him and he has to take another deep breath before he pushes himself out of the water and up the ladder to grab it. He turns to the side, attempting to hide himself as he dries off.

He hears you snort. “You don’t have to hide that from me, y’know?”

He shoulders tense and he slowly turns his head to look at you. There’s a glint in your eyes and a look of amusement on your face. “…What?” he questions, a pathetic attempt at playing dumb.

“Mike,” you chuckle as you step forward, reaching a hand out to touch his bicep. Your fingers felt cold against his warmed-up skin and it makes him shiver slightly. “You’re not really good at hiding it, baby.” He gulps. That nickname. You only ever say it when you’re feeling a little frisky.

He feels your hold on his bicep become firmer as you urge him to face you completely. He sighs before doing so, meeting your lidded gaze. It makes him a little nervous. “I’m sorry… I just… It makes me feel dirty when it happens and you’re just so beautiful-” you cut him off with a finger to his lips.

“Don’t apologize,” you whisper. His heart hammers in his chest as your hand trails to the back of his neck, gently pulling him down to you until your lips meet. Without even thinking, he drops the blanket in his hand on the wooden floors of the dock and circles his arms around your waist, pulling you closer.

This was a lot different from the kiss that you had earlier in the water. It was heavier, more intense. His skin is starting to feel hot now and a shaky sigh exits him when the kiss deepens. Your tongue slips into his mouth and he lets out small noise. You smile against him and he can only feel himself slipping further and further away into your touch. You always did just seem to know how to push his buttons.

The kiss breaks with a soft pop, and the sudden coolness of the air replaces the warmth of where your lips were. Michael’s eyes flutter open to meet your hooded gaze, he didn’t even notice that they had shut. Your fingers caress his cheek as you smile up at him. “Let me help you,” you utter.

His eyes widen. “No!” A knee-jerk reaction really, and he regrets it immediately. Your slightly surprised expression makes him panic a little. “I- I mean yes- but no… but yes- ah…” He curses himself in his mind, getting flustered when you let out a chuckle.

“Why? What’s wrong?”

Nothing was wrong, really. You usually were the one to take charge whenever you two got intimate and he liked it, a lot. But he’s been thinking lately. You’re always the giver, always the one making the other feel good. And it wasn’t a problem, he knows you like taking initiative but he wants to be the one making you see stars this time. 

He swallows, “Nothing’s wrong, it’s just… I wanna make you feel good this time…”

Your eyebrows raise slightly at that. “But you already do?”

He shakes his head and replies, “No, I mean I want to… touch you and… love on you…” His face heats up at his own words and you smile at his bashfulness.

You shrug your shoulders. “Alright, if you want to.”

He freezes for a second, his mind comprehending what you just said. “O-Oh, okay… okay…” Then he picks up the blanket he’s dropped to properly lay it down on the dock. You watch in amusement as he does and let out a giggle. He notices this and says, “What? We don’t have a bed and I wanna make it comfortable for you,” he chuckles for a bit before continuing, “and the grass might have bugs in it so… this’ll have to do.” He smooths out the blanket before reaching out to pull on your hand, signaling for you to lay down.

“You’re cute,” you say endearingly as you lay your back on the cloth.

A shy smile grows on his face at your comment. “Stop, I’m trying to be sexy,” he says as he slowly crawls over you until his face is directly above yours. Your hand comes up to caress his cheek and he leans into it.

“You are, baby. Sexiest man in the world.”

He bites his lip at that and rolls his eyes, giggling slightly before leaning down to kiss you again. He pushes his tongue into your mouth and you let out a noise which excites him. As you kiss, his hand trails up your thigh, over your hips and waist, before stopping right under your breast. He hesitates for a moment, pausing, unsure of whether or not to go higher. But when your fingers wrap around his wrist to guide it further up, he becomes more confident.

He flattens his palm on your breast and breaks away from your mouth to trail kisses down your neck. You let out a sigh when he starts to gently massage and knead at your tit, your hands coming up to rake at his curls. “Mike…” you whimper and he sucks in a breath at the sweet sound. His thumb brushes over your nipple and you gasp. “You- you can pinch it a little- yeah- oh-” He does as you say and the way your body reacts to his touch makes him think about why he’s waited so long to do this.

He pulls back to look at you properly, taking in the way you arch into his touch, the way you bite your lip, and the way your eyes are shut tight in bliss as his fingers continue to twist and pinch at your nipple. His lips part in awe. God, you were beautiful like this. He curses himself for not doing this sooner.

You were so responsive and he was barely doing anything. What more if he started touching you in other places? What more if he trailed his fingers down your body and teased your aching clit? What more if he used his mouth on you?

Shit, he wants to taste you.

He suddenly stops his movements and stares down at you, his eyes wide with thrill. “Wait.”

You blink up at him. “…Yeah?”

“Can I taste you?”

Your eyes widen in surprise and you swallow. “Are you sure?”

He licks his lips in anticipation. “Yes… I’ve thought about it a lot.” That seems to shock you because now you were staring at him with your mouth slightly agape. Truth was, he had imagined you in a lot of different scenarios. But the one that was always reoccurring was either you lying on your back with your thighs around his shoulders or you having a seat right on his face. Either way, it would mean his face would be buried between your legs and he wanted nothing more.

“Okay… how- how do you-”

“Sit on my face, please?”

You’re dumbfounded all over again. Michael knows this was all new to you. He’s never really voiced out how much he’s wanted to do this. But now he’s not wasting any chances. He wants you to know how much he really cares about your pleasure and how utterly crazy he was for you.

You nod and he wastes no time, lying down on his back on the blanket when you get up. You shakily hover over him, your drooling cunt now directly over his face. He gulps at the sight as he holds onto your thighs. It was dim, but he could still make out the slight shine of your wetness and fuck, did it make him feel good to know that it was him who made you that excited.

You look down at his face with your brows slightly furrowed in worry. He knows what you’re thinking. You don’t want to hurt him accidentally. But he aches for this. He aches to be smothered in your juices. “Please, I- I need this…” He pleads as he looks up at you wide-eyed. You swallow at the sight, a little nervous but you lower yourself down on him anyway.

Before you can even fully descend, you gasp as he pulls you down onto him, immediately lapping at your pussy. He moans once the taste of you lands on his tongue. It’s nothing like he imagined. Because it’s better. You taste too good. It’s sweet, almost like honey and he thinks he can never get enough of this.

He feels your thighs shiver against him as he continues to lap around your cunt, licking and sucking on your clit like a starved man. Your fingers tangle themselves in his curls as you whimper and moan in ecstasy. “Michael,” you whine. His dick twitches at the sound. He could listen to you making these pretty sounds all day and never get tired of it.

You fall forward slightly, catching yourself on with your hands. He feels you start to grind down onto him, moving your hips, making his nose bump onto your clit. His grip on your thighs tightens, his fingers digging into your skin as you lose yourself on him. Michael groans, letting his eyes roll back as he gets lost in you. Your taste, your scent, everything about you was perfect. He thinks he could die happy with his face stuffed in your cunt.

Then your movements start to get sloppy and your hands return to their place in his hair. “Mike- Michael- baby- you’re gonna make me-” His eyes snap open at that, desperate to get a glimpse at how you look reaching your peak from below. He couldn’t see your face, your head was thrown back, but fuck did your body look absolutely ravishing right now. He wants to have the view engraved into his memory.

You let out a loud moan as you reach your climax. He lets his eyes shut as he feels your juices gush all over his face and mouth. He licks around your pussy, doing his best not to let any drop go to waste. And in his pursuit, your body quivers against him again, signaling oversensitivity. He feels you try to lift yourself off and he relents, licking around his lips, savoring your taste.

“Michael… what the fuck?”

He sits up and reaches out for you, letting you straddle him as he chuckles at your remark. “I did good?”

You scoff at his question. “Good? That was one of the best orgasms I’ve ever had.”

He gets shy again, feeling a warmth creep up to his cheeks. “Really?” He pulls you closer to him by your waist. You roll your eyes and instead of answering him, you lean in for a kiss which he reciprocates almost immediately.

The kiss felt soft and intimate. It goes on for a few seconds before Michael pulls away, biting his lip. He’s now all of a sudden hyperaware of how hard he is. In fact, he was so hard it was starting to hurt. He needs to be relieved, but he doesn’t quite know how to ask you for it. He leans forward, resting his forehead on your shoulder and says your name, “I need you, please…”

“Need what?”

“Need to be inside you…”

You hum, placing kisses down his neck and he shivers. “Okay, baby, let me ride you,” you whisper in his ear. You gently push on his shoulder, urging him to lie back down and he does. He watches you eye his hardened dick, hissing when you reach out to hold onto it, running your thumb over his leaking tip. “Did so well, made me feel so good, Mike.” He relishes in your praise, letting out a sigh at the sound of it.

You lift yourself up slightly as you line up his aching dick to your hold. Slowly, you sink down and Michael has to bite his lip to keep himself from moaning out loud. Your warmth surrounds him and he can feel your walls flutter slightly as you take him in fully. And god, does it feel good. It feels so good that he has to calm himself down because he was about to explode.

“Wait- wait-” he holds onto your hips tight, stopping you when you start to move. You look at him with a questioning look and pause your movements, reaching over to caress his face, wiping away a drop of sweat that had trickled down from his forehead. “I can’t- give me a second, please…” he pleads and you oblige.

He takes deep breaths, trying his best to keep himself from bursting. He focuses on your touch, the way you gently caress him, the way you whisper to him that he was doing so well. He can’t believe the effect that you had on him. Fuck’s sake, you had just sat down on him and he was already ready to blow his load.

After a few more moments, he finally feels like he could hold out. “Okay… okay, you can move,” he says and slowly, you lift yourself up until it was just his tip inside of you. He hisses at the feeling, his fingers tightening around your hips. You drop yourself down and moan out loud as you reach the hilt. You place your hands on his chest and gradually, you start bouncing up and down, rolling your hips as you do.

“Oh- Michael,” you moan out.

“Yes, yes, yes, yes-” he whines out. “Mmm- oh, you feel so good,” he calls out your name again as you continue to bounce on him. You let out another whimper and his eyes go wide in amazement at the sight of you practically losing yourself on his cock.

And you looked good. Oh god, you looked so fucking good. You always did whenever you two got intimate like this. But right now, with the way the moonlight was shining down on you, the way your eyes were shut tight, the way your bottom lip was pulled in between your teeth, the way your tits bounce each time you sink down onto him, he felt like he was on cloud nine. How did he manage to get such a beauty?

His eyes roll to the back of his skull and his jaw drops open. All he can do is let tiny moans escape from his throat as he’s consumed by the feeling of your cunt around him.

But then he can’t hold himself back anymore. He reaches for your shoulders and pulls you down until your chest was pressed onto his. You look at him in shock as he adjusts his footing on the dock. “Mike, wha-” you’re cut off with a gasp when he starts to thrust up into you fast. He wraps his arms around you and buries his face in your neck, whimpering in your ear as he continues to push himself in and out.

He can already feel himself getting close again and with the way you were tightening around him, he can sense that you were too. He continues to thrust, his pace getting faster. “Please, please, please,” he doesn’t even know what he’s begging for. But all he knows is that he wants you to come undone all over him.

“Michael!”

He feels you release on him as your walls flutter around his dick and it pushes him further to the edge. He lets out another groan and one last thrust before he abruptly lifts you up and pulls out. He hastily strokes on his cock, chasing the edge and when he finally gets there, “Fuck,” he curses as he reaches his peak, spilling himself all over his stomach.

He lets out a huge sigh when he feels he’s had enough, collapsing on his back. You fall right next to him on the blanket, catching your breath as well. Instinctively, he wraps an arm around you and pulls you close, letting you bury your face in his chest.

A few moments of silence later, you look up at him with a still slightly dazed look. “…What the hell was that?”

Michael blinks and feels his face heat up all over again. A bashful smile makes its way onto his face. “I don’t know… went a little crazy, I guess…” He brings a hand up to gently caress your cheek, scanning your features. Then the smile on his face is suddenly replaced by a look of concern. “Wait, did I hurt you? I’m sorry.”

You snort and shake your head. “You didn’t, everything was perfect. I’m just… shocked? Didn’t know you had that in you.”

That makes him chuckle. To be honest, he didn’t know he had that in him either. But he guesses that’s just the effect you had on him. Whatever you did, it was enough to make him go feral over you. Not that he was complaining. Because after that, he thinks he’d like it if you’d let him be in control more in bed. Though, he still liked when you were the one in charge, of course. He just wanted to be able to explore you and indulge.

A breeze of cool air rushes past the both of you, reminding you of where you were. Michael speaks up first. “We should probably get going,” he says as he sits up, stretching his limbs.

He watches as you do the same, standing up on slightly wobbly legs. He tries his best not to laugh; it was his fault after all. “Yeah… though, I don’t know about you, but I think I need another swim after that,” you reply, turning to look down at him still sitting on the dock.

He smiles up at you and shakes his head as he too stands on his feet. He does admit that you’re right, though. He was feeling very sticky after what just occurred. One last swim wouldn’t hurt.

“You’re right… Just a quick one, though.”

Then before he knows it, you’re jumping back into the lake with a cheer and a large splash. He looks up at the sky for a moment and sees that the stars were still shining so bright. He makes a mental note to scavenge the library for a book about Greek mythology and constellations.

For now, he’ll go for another swim.

TAGS: @swavydadon @a-motherfcking-fish @pytforever @slickdickwitchbitchh @alohaluz @piewiesvanity @hisprettyyoungthing @sqrixm @archivedangel222 @iwannarockwu @pixieelixer-24 @mjrockedmyworld (i only tagged the people who commented on my posts lmaooo IDKKK)

[whitelionspirit]

Panoramic View

Synopsis: Writing columns on romance and relationships was not what you could call your expertise or even something you cared about. Wanting a change your editor offers up a challenge as Michael Jackson has recently offered up an opportunity to any magazine. He is offering anyone with the best pitch to come to Neverland Ranch for a month to do a full uncensored interview.

Your challenge: find out as much information you can on Michael Jackson.

Michael hated interviews but when his own fame is crumbling beneath him and the tabloids turning the general public against him. He has run out of options. Wanting to clean up rumors about himself he offers up the one thing he knows everyone is itching to get their hands on. Himself. What is it like to be the most famous person in the world, what is it like to love the man behind the curtain, what are his wishes and desires.

His goal: get the public to understand him.

A/N: I have a lot of ideas but unsure if I’ll get to them so these mood boards help.

[a-motherfcking-fish]

Objective: Keep Michael Jackson Safe

Obstacle: Michael Jackson

[sunshineyrosie]

stay (a little longer)

summary: you’re michael’s personal assistant on the bad tour. when a snowstorm grounds your flight and leaves you both stranded, you’re forced to share the last hotel room—and its one bed. the quiet night leads to more than you ever expected. (or let yourself hope for)

pairing: bad!era Michael Jackson x reader

w/c: 9.8k

notes: & THERE WAS ONLY ONE (1) BED—smut ahead!!! boss/employee relationship. forced proximity (or is it?), unprotected sex, they're pathetic and desperate your honor!!! michael EATS. there is discussion of michael’s struggle with insomnia & loneliness. the story also briefly touches on his eating habits. michael is a level 10 yearner, but so is the reader—so much vulnerability. he is a cheeky lil shit in this but still an absolute lover boy & dirty talker. some suspension of disbelief may be required—there are probably (definitely) historical and timeline inaccuracies. also, the role of a personal assistant in this universe is very subjective but lets pretend for The Plot

disclaimer: i give absolutely no one permission to use my writing to train AI ‼️

masterlist • ao3 • wattpad

DENVER, COLORADO. MARCH 26, 1988.

It’s late—11:47 p.m., according to the glowing red digits on the backstage clock. The air inside the McNichols Sports Arena still hums with the leftover electricity of the final night in the city. You can practically feel it in your bones—the faint echo of applause, the way the floor still seems to vibrate even though the crowd has long since spilled out into the cold Denver night. 

Normally, you would have already been on Michael’s private jet, halfway to Hartford, Connecticut—the next stop on the Bad World Tour. Tonight ran longer than usual, though. Michael stayed behind after the concert to finish a series of post-show interviews with local charities before leaving the city—something he refused to skip, no matter how exhausted he was.

You watched with a knowing smile as he pushed through his fatigue with the same gentle determination he always had when it came to causes that mattered to him. He even paused for a few fan interactions, signing posters and offering words of encouragement—giving everything he had left. 

You’re exhausted yourself—the good kind. The kind that comes with pride, with the quiet satisfaction of knowing you did your job well. You’ve been Michael Jackson’s personal assistant for nearly a year now—your first job in the industry—and somehow you’d managed to keep pace with the whirlwind of the tour for the biggest star in history. 

You’re good at this job, better than you had expected. Frank DiLeo had told you more than once that you were “a natural,” and Michael himself thanked you every chance he got for keeping things running smoothly. You still don’t quite believe it, but you love the work you’re doing—even when it pushes you to your limits. Especially when it pushes you to your limits.

You clutch your clipboard to your chest as you step toward the arena’s back exit, your coat half-buttoned, mind already shifting into travel mode. 

Pushing open the heavy door, you brace for the usual bite of early spring in Colorado. Instead, bitter cold hits you like a physical blow. The air claws at your cheeks, sharp and metallic, and the ground is already buried under a fresh layer of white. Snow pours from the sky in thick, relentless sheets, causing the entire parking lot to look blurry and unreal.

Bill stands near the SUV, talking urgently with the other security guards as you approach. Michael stands a few feet behind you, hands stuffed into his pockets. His thick winter jacket is zipped all the way up to his neck, the furry hood pulled over his head, making him look smaller than usual. A small smile graces his lips as he watches the snow swirl under the streetlights with childlike wonder.

You shuffle toward the men, your boots crunching in the snow. “Are we good to go?” You ask, breath fogging in the air.

Bill turns toward you, his expression tight. “We’re not going to the airport.”

“What? Why not?” You ask, although the reason is obvious.

”It’s a really bad storm,” he says. “Even by Colorado standards. They’ve halted all flights. Nothing’s going out tonight—private or not. They’re saying maybe noon tomorrow, once the weather clears.”

His words hit you, causing your stomach to drop.

Noon. Nearly a half a day behind schedule.

You immediately start mentally rearranging everything—rehearsal times, load-in windows, Michael’s rest schedule, the press commitments waiting in Hartford. You can practically see the calendar in your mind: the carefully-arranged blocks of time shifting, overlapping, collapsing. You’re already calculating how early Michael will need to wake up tomorrow, how quickly you can get him fed, dressed, transported, boarded—

You sigh in reluctant acceptance. You’ll make it work, you always do, but that doesn’t stop you from cursing the weather for screwing up your plans. You mutter under your breath, irritated: “It’s late March, for God's sake… we should be well past snowstorms and blizzards.”

Michael hears you—because of course he does—and he chuckles softly at your petulant griping. Storms don’t rattle him the way they rattle you. He steps closer, voice gentle but slightly strained. “Is everyone else already on their way?” 

You nod. “They left a couple hours ago, they should be landing soon.”

The majority of the crew—the dancers, the band, technicians—had left soon after the show had ended, boarding their flights and leaving only a small group behind: Michael, Bill, a few security members, and you.

Bill nods in confirmation. “I already checked, they beat the storm. Everyone’s safe, joker. No need to worry.”

Michael exhales, slow and heavy. He’s relieved that everyone is safe, but you know him well enough by now to recognize the tension behind it. He hates being late. He hates not being there when the crew starts setting up—a control freak in the most endearing way; he’s a perfectionist, overseeing sound checks and checking lighting angles himself.  He likes to walk the stage, to feel the space. To become the Michael Jackson, not only in body, but in spirit, ready to perform his soul out for thousands of fans. Being delayed, even by a few hours, twists something tight inside him.

Bill turns to the SUV, pulling open the back door. “We’re gonna head back to the hotel. Let’s move before it gets worse.”

Michael steps aside and lets you climb in first—something he always does, a gesture that feels strangely intimate despite you reminding yourself that he’s just being polite. You slide into the middle row, and he follows, settling beside you so closely that your thighs press against each other. 

The warmth inside the vehicle is immediate, the windows fogging with every breath. The wipers drag across the windshield in slow, strained arcs, barely keeping up with the onslaught of ice and snow. The moment the vehicle starts moving, the tires spin on the ice, and your body tenses immediately. Michael notices, nudging you lightly with his elbow. “You’re jumpy.”

”I’m not,” you mutter, even though you absolutely are.

“You sure about that, girl?” He drawls out, poking you in the side, pressing hard enough for you to feel his pointy finger through your thick coat.

You swat his hand away, trying not to smile. “I grew up on the West Coast. This kind of weather isn’t natural.”

He giggles in response, his arm draping casually behind you against the car seat, around your shoulder. “Well, I’m used to it. Gary got storms like this all the time. And touring with my brothers all over the place… I’ve seen worse.”

You roll your eyes, but his teasing does settle something inside you, despite the shiver that rolls through you as he scoots closer to you—subconsciously, you tell yourself. Probably just huddling for warmth. 

He’s always been flirty and touchy with you—little nudges, soft teasing, gentle brushes of his hand against yours when he hands you something. That’s just how he is, though. He was like that with everyone—it was in his nature. 

You’ve always remained professional—he’s your boss, after all. But you’ve spent so much time together—late nights and early mornings, getting to know one another, talking for hours about things that have nothing to do with schedules or checklists or responsibilities—that you like to think he’s become your friend, too. 

Still, you’d be lying if you said you never thought about it—about him—like that. That you hadn’t dreamt about his damn smile, or about the way he looks at you sometimes like you’re the only person in the room. 

But you love your job, and he’s Michael Jackson. You’re just… you. His employee. He’s your boss, you remind yourself again. So you push your thoughts down, ignoring your stupid feelings—burying them under professionalism and responsibility.

Another skid jolts the SUV, and you tense again. Michael leans in, voice softer now. “Hey. Stop stressin’.”

“I’m not stressing,” you lie, letting out a shaky breath.

”You are,” he insists, smiling. You can feel his warm breath against your ear as he speaks. “The next show isn’t for a few days. It’ll be alright.”

You know he’s trying to make you feel better, despite being stressed himself. He can’t stand being away from his crew while they need him. But you appreciate the comfort anyway, especially with the storm raging outside. 

The drive stretches on endlessly, tires spinning occasionally on hidden ice and the wipers continuing to fight a losing battle against the snow. Finally, the SUV pulls up to the hotel—a luxury tower in the heart of downtown Denver, the same one that you had been staying at for the past week—snowdrifts already pile against the entrance. You watch as even Bill struggles to open the door against a strong gust of wind. 

You shake the snow from your coat and hurry to the front desk, Michael and the security team close behind. The concierge looks frazzled as you approach him—cheeks flushed, tie crooked. 

“Good evening," he says, even though it’s clearly anything but. “How can I assist you?”

You clear your throat, slipping immediately into professional mode. “Hello. We checked out this morning. We were scheduled to fly out tonight, but our flight was canceled due to the storm. We need new rooms for Mr. Jackson and his team.”

The man behind the counter winces, swallowing loudly. “I’m very sorry. Because of the concert tonight bringing in tourists—and now the weather—we’re nearly at capacity. We have very limited availability.”

Your pulse quickens. “How limited?”

”The penthouse is occupied. No suites left. Not a single one…” he says apologetically. “But perhaps I could ask another guest to give up their room for Mr. Jackson. I’m sure someone would be willing—“

Michael tunes into the conversation then, stepping forward immediately. “No. Please don’t do that.”

You knew he would never accept that. He would never take a room from a fan—he’d sooner sleep in the lobby.

The concierge nods quickly, looking relieved to avoid an awkward interaction with another guest. “We do have two standard rooms available—one with a king-sized bed, another with two queens.”

Two rooms. For all of you. You sigh—it would have to do.

”We’ll take them.” You nod, sliding the company credit card in his direction.

Keys in hand, you turn back to the group. Michael stands closer than you realized, and he catches you as you nearly bump into him, hands landing on either side of your shoulders. Snow clings to his curls, the flakes beginning to melt slowly. Tiny droplets remain on his lashes. You force your gaze away, blushing, and gesture toward the elevators. “Let’s head up.”

The group moves as one—the four security guards flanking you and Michael on all sides. You fall into step beside him, hyperaware of his presence.

Inside the elevator, a soft chime marks your ascent to the eighth floor. It’s not as private as you would prefer—typically reserving the penthouse for Michael, or an entire floor. Not simply for comfort, but for safety. Anything to ensure his privacy and protect him from the unpredictable energy of crazy fans—

No—spirited fans. You correct yourself with a wince. You knew better than to refer to Michael’s fans like that, even in your head. He made that rule clear on your first day—to treat his fans with love and respect. They’re not ‘crazy’; they’re passionate, devoted, and overflowing with love. And he loves them back with equal intensity. 

Admittedly, you had grown to love them, too. Even the ones who pushed boundaries from time to time. They meant well… usually. Besides, up until a few months ago, you were one of them, admiring your favorite singer and performer from the sidelines.

Still, you’re glad to have security guards there. Four of them total, including Bill. You steal a glance at them as you step off of the elevator, and your heart tightens. They’re clearly exhausted—faces drawn, shoulders slumped, eyes heavy. They had been working since early morning; transporting Michael safely to and from the venue, managing crowd control and backstage access, keeping him safe. They should have been on a plane by now, asleep and recovering. 

You swallow the guilt, knowing there was nothing you could do to change the circumstances, short of being able to control the weather. 

The elevator doors glide open, spilling warm light into the hallway. Bill takes the lead with his team, assessing the two rooms quickly. “We’ll take the one with the two queens. Shifts as usual—first team, get some sleep. I’ve got point for now.”

Bill gives instructions to the other guard taking the first shift, and gives you a gentle pat on the shoulder. “Y’did good, kid.”

You smile back, grateful—growing warm at the praise. Over the past few months of working so closely, Bill had become one of the few constants you relied on throughout the whirlwind of the tour, and he had quietly taken on something of a “work-dad” role—always offering advice, checking in, nudging you toward confidence as you learned the ropes of the job. His approval felt like a small victory.

You turn back to Michael, who waited patiently a few steps away, his duffel bag slung over his shoulder. You gesture toward the second room. “This one’s yours.”

He follows you inside, the door swinging shut behind him. You take in your surroundings, and you almost laugh. It’s a “standard” room, technically—but it's still a luxury hotel. 

To you, a “standard” room meant a Holiday Inn room containing two double beds with stiff floral comforters (hopefully without bedbugs), and a complimentary breakfast buffet, if you were really splurging.  This room, though, was nothing like that. A king-sized bed sat against the far wall, crisp white linens tucked perfectly, pillows fluffed to maximum softness. (Bedbug-free, you’re sure.)

A small seating area faces the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooks the city—although the view tonight was nothing but swirling white. A mini-bar sits on the other side of the room, stocked with neatly arranged bottles and snacks that you know Michael won’t touch. A large-screen TV sits opposite to the bed. The carpet is thick enough that your boots sink in slightly as you step.

“I’ll call room service,” you say, completing a mental checklist as you scan the room for anything he might need—extra blankets, bottled water, towels. “Have them bring up some orange juice for you. And dinner. Don’t even try to lie to me, Michael Jackson—I know you have barely eaten today.”

You hear Michael snicker quietly at your accurate assessment and drop his duffel bag onto the floor. You continue looking around, making sure everything is perfect. You check the thermostat settings. “I’m really sorry it’s not a suite. If I could’ve—“

“Wait,” he interrupts. You turn toward him with a raised brow. “There were only two rooms. Where are you staying?”

Your stomach sinks. You’d hoped—foolishly—that you could slip away before he had a chance to ask. You hadn’t made a plan for yourself yet, wanting to get everyone else settled first. That’s your job. That’s what you do.

You try to skirt around the question, waving dismissively. “Oh, that. Don’t worry about me. I’ll figure something out.”

Michael plants his hands on his hips, giving you a look that is so perfectly, unintentionally mother-hen that you almost laugh, biting the inside of your cheek to hold it in.  He doesn’t say anything—simply waits with an expectant look on his face that says ‘explain yourself.’

You sigh, defeated. “I was… probably going to try to crash in the lobby. Or maybe sleep in the SUV if they give me a blanket. Or I think I saw a motel next door—“

Michael’s horrified reaction is immediate. Appalled, he cuts you off, the words coming out so fast and firm they catch you off guard. 

“Absolutely not.” He steps toward you, shaking his head in exasperation. Before you can sputter out a defense, he reaches forward and practically yanks your bag off your shoulder, setting it on the floor beside his own. 

“That is a ridiculously stupid plan,” he continues, incredulous. “You’re not staying in a lobby. You’re not sleeping in a car. You’re not going out in this weather. Absolutely not. Over my dead body.” 

You open your mouth to argue—even though you already know that you’re not winning this one. It was a dumb plan, and you knew it. (Even dumber to think he might let you get away with it.) He cuts you off with a single look.

”You’re staying in here. With me.”

You stare at him, stunned. He crosses his arms, doubling down on his mother-hen posture. You almost giggle at how serious he looks. Michael Jackson—global superstar, beloved icon, standing there like a stern parent scolding you for trying to sleep in a car. The spitting image of Katherine Jackson herself, right then. It would be funny if you weren’t so irritated. 

”Michael,” you sigh. “I can’t just—“

”You can,” he says simply. “And you will.”

You stand in front of him, your arms now folded tightly. Your foot begins tapping in a steady rhythm that betrays your irritation. Michael mirrors you instantly—arms crossed, his own foot now tapping, chin tilted upward—determined to match your stubbornness beat for beat. It’s ridiculous, and childish.  You narrow your eyes at him, trying to look stern, but his soft bambi-eyes make the attempt very difficult. 

“You’re my boss.” You remind him, weakly. “I can’t share a room with you.”

It’s a flimsy argument and you know it. You’d spent months practically living together—working side by side, eating meals together, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder, traveling the world. You had yet to share a room, granted—but the line between professionalism and something else was already blurry.

Michael raises a single eyebrow—the cocky one that you try so hard to hate—and suddenly he looks every bit like the superstar the world views him as. “Then don’t make me play the boss card.”

“The boss card,” you repeat, deadpan.

He nods, leaning into the spiel with almost theatrical confidence. “That’s right.”

You stare at him, wholly unimpressed and unsure where he’s going with this. He stares back, absolutely delighted with himself.

”I’m your boss,” He continues, voice smooth and authoritative. “And I’m ordering you to stay in this room for the night.”

Your jaw drops, and you sputter—caught off guard by the sudden shift in his tone. He’s never ‘ordered’ you to do anything. “That—that is… so not fair, Michael.”

A wide grin stretches across his stupidly handsome face—triumphant and boyish. He knows he’s won. He knows you know he’s won. And he’s enjoying every second of it. 

You roll your eyes and scoff, muttering something unflattering under your breath—something about egotistical pop stars—before crouching down to pick up your bag and shuffle toward the couch. Michael clears his throat. “What do you think you’re doing?”

You gesture vaguely at the couch, confused. “I’m taking this.”

He looks at the piece of furniture like it personally offended him. “No, you’re not.”

”It’s fine.” You insist, not sure you have any more fight left in you. “Seriously, Michael. I’ll take the couch. You need the bed. You just performed for forty thousand people and you have a packed schedule tomorrow as soon as we land. You need to rest.”

He shakes his head immediately, having absolutely none of it. “You’ve been working all day, too.”

”That’s different.”

”It’s not.” He counters.

You glance at the couch again, helplessly. It’s… not great. Not terrible, but definitely not meant for sleeping. It’s one of those decorative pieces hotels use to make rooms look fancy, but certainly not meant for comfort. The kind of furniture that says ‘look, we’re pretty and expensive’, but absolutely does not say ‘please relax here for eight hours’.

You wince. “I’ll be fine.”

”No.”

”Michael, please—“

He cuts you off with a decisive shake of his head.

”I’m a gentleman.” He says, voice firm. “Do you know what my mother would say to me if she found out I let you sleep on the couch? I’d never live it down. I can’t deal with all that.”

You snort—you can’t help it—because the image of Katherine Jackson scolding her grown son for poor manners is both funny and entirely believable.  Still, you can’t bring yourself to accept. “Michael, seriously, I can—“ 

“No.”

”But—“

”No.”

You huff, crossing your arms again. Your track record of winning arguments against him was already abysmal, and clearly tonight was no exception. 

“We’ll share it.” He gestures toward the bed with yet another grin. You briefly consider smacking it away. “It’s king-sized. There’s plenty of space. It’s the only option that makes sense.”

You nod shyly, biting your lip as heat rises to your cheeks at the implication of sharing a bed with him, even for one night. At that, he notices your hesitation—the way your arms are folded tightly, and how you can’t quite meet his eyes. Suddenly feeling guilty for pushing you, his cocky expression fades into something gentler.

“Hey,” he says quietly. “We can put up a pillow wall, I won’t touch you. It doesn’t have to be weird. I just want you to get some rest… you’ve been runnin’ around all day taking care of everything—taking care of me. Let me take care of you a little. Okay?”

Your heart flutters—traitorously—at his sincerity. You shove the feeling down. Hard. He doesn’t mean anything by it, you remind yourself. He’s just being kind. He’s just… being Michael.

Still, it melts the last of your resistance. “Okay. Fine.” You sigh, long and resigned.

His smile returns—wide and toothy.

”But,” you add quickly, pointing a single finger at him. “You get first dibs on the shower. That’s my final offer.”

He laughs then—bright and genuine. Relieved. “Deal.”

Michael turns, disappearing into the bathroom with a skip in his step—far too pleased with himself for winning yet another argument. 

You watch as the door closes behind him, shaking your head in amusement. You let out a soft laugh despite yourself. He’s impossible. Absolutely, utterly impossible. And yet… you wouldn’t trade him for anything.

You finally allow yourself a moment to relax—your body sinking onto the couch. You grunt as the cushions barely give beneath your weight. You would never admit it out loud, but the couch really is uncomfortable as hell. You wouldn’t have gotten ten minutes of sleep on it, let alone a full night. You’re very glad Michael isn’t there to witness your discomfort, it would only make him more insufferable. 

Still, it’s the first time you’ve sat down all day—the relief washing over you immediately. Your shoulders throb, your legs ache, and your feet feel like they’ve fused to the insides of your winter boots that are still on—wet and cold from the snow. You toe them off one at a time and let out a relieved groan as you stretch out.

You hear the shower start—the rush of water muffled by the door—and then you hear him. Humming at first, low and gentle, before a soft melody lifts into quiet singing. He knows full well he’s supposed to rest his voice between concerts, but he just can’t help himself. Music lives in him the way oxygen lives in everyone else. 

You giggle softly. You briefly consider tapping on the door, reminding him to be quiet, to save his voice, to follow his doctor’s orders. But you don’t—you love hearing him sing. 

You hear him perform nearly every night and still never get tired of it. For a single moment, you let yourself pretend you have him all to yourself—his voice, his presence. Him. 

You instantly scold yourself as that familiar flutter in your chest returns—He’s your boss. He’s your boss. He’s your boss. 

You repeat the words like a mantra—attempting to smother the feeling before it grows into something unmanageable. Something dangerous. 

You have to be okay with boundaries, with that invisible line drawn between you. Tonight is no exception, even if you’re sharing a bed with him. Because if you let yourself acknowledge your feelings, for even a moment, it will only hurt. You don’t want to lose him—That is… your job. Yes, that’s all—your job, nothing more. Surely having him as only your boss is better than not having him at all. Right?

You shake your head, forcing your thoughts into something practical—something safe. Work. Work always helps. 

You pull your clipboard out and begin flipping through the pages. The familiar columns ground you as you begin rearranging the next days’ schedule, calculating how early you and Michael will need to wake up once flights resume. 

You jot down notes, arrows, reminders. You plan out when you’ll need to call the venue manager, when to check into the next hotel, and a reminder to confirm transportation. You make a note to yourself to make sure Michael eats breakfast in the morning, not to let him skip it again.

At that thought, your stomach growls, a reminder that you hadn’t eaten much today, either. Hunger hits you all at once, sharp and insistent. He was right about one thing: you had spent all day taking care of everyone else. 

You reach over to the phone on the endstand and call for room service. You order orange juice for Michael—his favorite, you learned on day one—and something light for him to hopefully eat, as well as your own dinner.

You hang up the phone with a soft thanks and your gaze drifts toward the duffel bag he had dropped earlier. His coat was crumpled on the carpet beside it, having been shrugged off and dumped unceremoniously on the floor at some point during your argument. 

You stand, walking toward the pile and pick it up, your fingers brushing softly over the material. It’s still warm from his body heat, his scent wafting from it. You bite your lip, about to make a dumb decision. 

You glance around the room nervously, as if making sure no-one was watching, and bring the coat to your face, inhaling deeply. The scent of his cologne mixed with sweat, stage smoke and something uniquely him fills your nostrils, and you close your eyes—allowing the sensation wash over you for a single, stolen moment. 

Your heart flutters again, harder this time, and you quickly pull the coat away, forcing yourself to come to your senses. Your cheeks warm with embarrassment as you realize what you just did. You scold yourself again—

He’s your boss. He’s your boss. He’s your boss!

You repeat the words in your head until they lose meaning, a useless rhythm in your mind.

You walk over to the wall hook and hang the coat neatly—trying to pretend the gesture is purely professional. You’re still adjusting his coat on the hook, softly smoothing the fabric down when you hear the bathroom door open with a soft click. You jolt, jumping away from the coat hook like you had been burned.

Guilt flashes through you, even though you’re sure he didn’t see anything—that is, didn’t see you sniffing his clothes like an absolute crazy person.  But your guilt is short-lived, evaporating instantly as it is replaced by something else entirely. Something far more overwhelming. 

Steam billows out into the room like a gentle fog, and Michael stands there, wearing nothing but a white towel slung low around his hips. Droplets of water make slow paths down his skin, glistening under the warm lamplight. His curls are darker when wet—a few strands falling across his forehead, the damp ends trailing along his shoulders and collarbones. He looks like a scene from a movie—effortless, magnetic, and entirely unaware of how devastating the sight is.

Your face heats instantly—the rush of warmth so sudden it makes your cheeks sting. You nearly choke as you try not to stare, but your eyes betray you, drinking in the unexpected sight before you.

The two of you freeze in a startled standoff, like deer caught in each other’s headlights. Michael clears his throat softly, one hand adjusting his grip on the towel as his gaze flicks away, suddenly shy. The tips of his ears are tinged pink, and he looks endearingly human—caught off guard and a little flustered at your gawking. 

“Uh… my bag. I left it—“ he gestures vaguely behind you, where the duffel sits at your feet.

“Oh!” You squeak, voice embarrassingly high. You feel like an awkward teenager, nearly tripping over the bag in your scramble to move out of his way, giving him a wide berth so you don’t accidentally brush against one another.

He blushes, avoiding eye contact. He nods toward the bathroom. “I’m done, if you wanna go ahead. I can change out here.”

You manage a jerky nod, eyes fixed on the carpet as you grab your bag with stiff, robotic movements. You shuffle past him into the still-steamy bathroom. The moment the door closes behind you, you slump against the wood, letting out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. You press your hands against your burning cheeks, heart still racing.

He’s. Your. Boss. You repeat it again and again, desperately hoping it will erase the image of him standing in front of you wearing nothing but a towel. (It doesn’t.)

You pull open your overnight bag and pull out your pajamas—an oversized Bad Tour Crew shirt, and a pair of old sleep shorts. You groan internally, suddenly wishing you had packed something cuter, something less… practical. 

You shake the thought away. It doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter. He’s your boss. You’re only sharing a bed for practical reasons. That’s it. And that's alright.

You shower quickly, letting the hot water melt away the lingering tension from your shoulders. You towel off as quickly as possible and get dressed in the oversized shirt and shorts. You take one last steadying breath, repeating your mantra once again before stepping back into the hotel room.

Michael is already settled onto the bed, now fully clothed—thank god—sitting cross-legged with the phone pressed up against his ear. He twirls the cord absent-mindedly around his fingers as he speaks, his tone soft and affectionate. You’re pleased to find him at least picking at the food you ordered him, the orange juice sitting half-finished on the nightstand.

He looks up as you enter the room with a startled expression, his cheeks turning slightly pink as if hoping you hadn’t overheard his conversation. He wraps up the call almost immediately. “Okay, yeah. Goodnight, Mother. Love you too.” 

He hangs up and offers you a sheepish smile. “That was Mother. She heard about the storm and was worried. I let her know that we’re okay. She says hello… and to thank you for everything. She adores you, you know.”

Your cheeks warm again. You had only met Katherine a handful of times, but her grace and kindness had left a deep impression. Michael had certainly inherited so much of that from her. 

“Well, that's my job.” You murmur, trying to sound casual, hoping he doesn't notice your blushing. You sit on the edge of the bed and chuckle softly at the sight—he really did set up a pillow wall. A neat line of pillows divide the bed into two clear halves like a fluffy barrier of professionalism. 

”Eat,” he says, gesturing toward your food tray, and you don’t hesitate. Michael turns on the TV, flipping the channels before settling on an old Hollywood movie you don’t recognize as you dig into your food.

Neither of you speak for a while, both lost in your own thoughts, contemplating everything that had happened that evening—the concert, the storm, the canceled flights, the unexpected closeness of sharing a hotel room. Despite that, however, the silence isn’t awkward—it’s warm and familiar. An easy quiet that can only exist between two people that had spent months learning each other’s rhythms.

You finish the last few bites of your dinner, replacing the lid and wiping your hands on a napkin. The movie continues to play quietly in the background, but neither of you are really watching it. You’re too aware of his presence beside you, and you can sense him mulling over something—one of his legs hangs off the edge of the bed, bouncing nervously as he begins to anxiously run his palms up and down his thighs, a nervous tic you’d come to recognize.

“Michael? Everything okay over there?”

He bites his lip—deep in thought as he gathers his words. Finally he clears his throat, eyes fixed on his hands. “I just… wanted to say thank you.”

“You already thanked me,” you remind him gently. “And I was happy to do it.”

You’re about to add that it’s your job—that you’re his assistant, and that taking care of him is quite literally what you’re paid to do—when he interrupts you. Not rudely, but urgently. 

”No,” he says, voice soft. “I mean… For staying with me.”

You blink, letting the words hang in the air between you. His cheeks color slightly, and he looks away, rubbing his palms together nervously. His leg bounces faster, nervous energy radiating off him in waves.

Before you can respond, he rushes to explain—words spilling out quickly like he’s afraid to lose his courage. “It’s nice. You know… to have someone here. With me.”

You soften immediately, heartstrings being tugged. 

“I don’t sleep well after shows,” he murmurs. “You know that.”

You nod. You do know—his chronic insomnia was explained to you when you were hired—as if it were some small detail to be aware of when scheduling travel and appointments. But you had never talked about it with him personally, much less heard him say it out loud. 

“…It’s not just the adrenaline. Or jet lag.” He hesitates. “I just… I don't like being alone after a show.”

Your chest tightens, and you try not to interrupt as he continues. He avoids your gaze, looking down at his fidgeting hands. “I usually call my Mother. Or talk to Bill. But most nights, when they’re busy or asleep, I just… stare at the wall. For hours. Or I practice choreography. Or write. Or read. Or watch movies. Or—“ He swallows, shaking his head. “Anything to take my mind off how alone I am.”

His voice cracks a little at the end, and he winces, like he hadn’t meant to let that much vulnerability—that much honesty—slip out. 

Instinctively, you shift closer, reaching across the pillows to place a hand on his arm. “Why didn’t you tell me? I’m almost always just a hotel room away.”

“You work all day.” He shrugs. “I’m not gonna bother you with something as stupid as…” He trails off.  He really believes that, you realize. He really thinks he’s a burden. Your heart aches, eyes stinging with sudden tears.

“It’s just nice to have you here.” He says. “Even just for the night. I know I’m your boss. I do know that. I would never expect more than… I know we’re not… I just wanted to thank you, that's all.“

You bite your lip, watching him closely as you consider his words. Suddenly, he’s not your boss, and he’s not Michael Jackson. Right then, he’s a very lonely man pouring his heart out to you, desperate to be heard. To be seen.

“Alright,” you exhale, making a decision. “Right now, for the rest of the night; I’m not your employee, and you’re not my boss. I’m off the clock.”

He looks up, surprised at the declaration. Then, something in him melts—his shoulders relax, and the smile that spreads across his face is so genuine that it makes your heart skip a beat.

”Okay?” You grin, nudging his shoulder playfully.

”Okay.” He nods, the word coming out as a relieved chuckle. “I’m glad. Because… Well, th’truth is, I haven’t viewed you as just an employee for a while now.”

Your heart stutters. And you try—desperately—to push the feeling away, to remind yourself that he doesn’t mean anything by it, that he views you as a friend. That’s all. He needs a friend.

But right then… you swear he’s looking at you like you’re something more. Much more. 

And you’re looking back at him like you wish you could be.

Outside, the storm churned on—relentless and wild. Inside, though, the room felt suspended in time. Minutes melted into an hour. Then two.

As the time slips by, your conversation drifts effortlessly from one topic to another. He tells stories about his brothers and sisters—the mischief of their early touring days, about the places he’s visited, the people he’s met. You share quirks from your own childhood—your family, the places you lived growing up. You discuss your favorite Disney movies, and debate playfully about whether Disneyland or Disney World was better—his eyes lighting up as he insists the original park “has that special energy, you know?” You tease him mercilessly when he gets worked up over it, and the sound of his laughter—bright and boyish—makes something warm bloom deep in your heart.

He talks about his music—lighting up as he does so. You could listen to him talk about his work for hours, his passion transforming him—getting excited, hands moving fast as he talks and voice raising an octave as he tells you about everything he’s working on, and his plans for future projects. 

He makes you laugh—really laugh. The kind of laughter that shakes your shoulders and leaves you breathless. You can’t remember the last time someone made you laugh that hard. 

At some point, without either of you noticing, the pillow barrier began to gradually fall apart. One pillow ended up tucked beneath your head, another propped beneath his knees. A third is kicked aside entirely, forgotten on the floor.

Without realizing, you’ve inched closer and closer, drawn together by the warmth of conversation, by the storm outside that makes the hotel room feel like its own little world. Suddenly, your legs brush. The contact sends a quiet spark up your spine and you freeze—just for a heartbeat—but neither of you pull away.

You begin thinking. Too much—about him, about him opening up to you. About the way your heart fluttered when he said he wanted to take care of you—and how badly you wanted to let him. 

You’re mid-sentence when he reaches over, lithe fingers brushing against your cheek to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

You forget what you were saying, words evaporating on your tongue as everything narrows in on the warmth of his fingertips and the softness in his eyes.

He realizes what he’s done a second too late—eyes widening and breath catching—but he doesn’t move his hand. His gaze drops to your mouth for a beat before flicking back to your eyes.

Your pulse thunders so hard you’re sure he can hear it. You stare at one another for a long, suspended moment, and in your head the familiar mantra begins again—

He’s your boss. He’s your boss. He’s your—

But the words crumble—fluttering uselessly in your mind before disappearing entirely, lost somewhere in the snowstorm outside.

And him? He looks at you as if you had personally hung the moon and stars.

He leans in—slowly, instinctively—his forehead resting against yours, your noses brush. He’s close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath fan across your lips, shaky with restraint. 

“Tell me to stop.” He whispers, voice low and pained. It’s not a demand—it’s an offering.

He’s giving you out, and you should take it. You know you should. You should tell him to stop, roll over, go to sleep, and never speak of this again.

But you don’t. Instead, you lean in—choosing to throw caution to the wind. Choosing to accept the feelings you’d been trying so hard to bury. Choosing him. 

You close the gap, pressing your lips against his—impossibly soft and tasting like orange juice. His hand slides to your jaw, thumb stroking gently, as if afraid you might pull away. 

He pulls back for the briefest second—just long enough to take a shaky breath—before kissing you again like he physically cannot stop himself, as if months of careful restraint have finally snapped and he would rather drown in you than come up for air. 

He kisses you deeply—a soft, needy sound escaping from his throat as his lips move against yours, hungry and insistent—tongue sliding in to taste you fully. 

His hand moves to cradle the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair as he pulls you in. The other trails down your side, mapping the curve of your waist. You melt into the sensation, hands sliding up his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heart beneath your palm. 

“I meant what I said earlier…” He grunts out between heated kisses, voice rough and low against you. “I haven’t seen you as just an employee for a long time now.”

His lips trail down, pressing warm, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw before moving to the sensitive skin of your neck. “I want more with you… so much more.”

A helpless moan escapes from your lips as he bites a sensitive spot behind your ear, soothing it instantly with his tongue. He’s half on top of you now—your hands sliding under his shirt, palms gliding along the smooth, warm expanse of his broad back, feeling every flex of lean muscle as he moves over you.

He groans when you touch him, the sound vibrating against your throat and sending shockwaves straight to your core. 

“Tell me you feel the same,” he begs, voice strained from months of longing, of holding himself back. “God, please… I need to hear it, baby.”

You nod furiously, heart hammering in your chest. “I’ve been trying to ignore it for months,” you respond breathlessly. “How much I wanted—want you. I couldn’t stop it.”

You can feel his smile curve against your skin before he kisses you again. He moves so he’s fully on top of you, his weight a warm, delicious pressure that sinks you deeper into the soft mattress.

His large, warm hands caress your sides, your waist, your hips—any inch of skin he can reach, while he rolls his hips against you, grinding his unmistakable hardness right against your core. The friction drags an involuntary moan from your throat as heat pools low in your belly. He knows it, too—rocking against you again in a slow and deliberate circle.

”Michael,” you whimper, the single word trembling with need.

He doesn’t hesitate, his fingers finding the hem of your shirt and pulling upward. You lift your arms to help him and he pulls it the rest of the way off—flinging it carelessly across the hotel room. 

The cool air hits your bare skin for barely a second before his mouth is on you, hot and eager as he captures one nipple between his lips. He sucks gently, tongue swirling around the sensitive peak before trading it for the opposite side. He kisses and licks his way down your torso, worshipping and memorizing every inch, before reaching your sleep shorts.

His palms possessively squeeze the soft curves of your hips before hooking his fingers into the waistband and dragging your shorts and panties down your legs in one smooth motion, leaving you completely bare beneath him.

He settles himself between your thighs, pressing slow, worshipful kisses on your sensitive skin, working his way closer and closer to your dripping center. Your glistening cunt is fully bared to his gaze, and the intense, raw hunger in his expression makes your breath hitch.

Shyness washes over you suddenly. You try to close your legs instinctively, but his large hands wrap firmly around your thighs, holding them open. “You don’t have to—“ you start, voice small.

He cuts you off, voice low and rough with want. “Please, baby…. Please let me taste you. I need it, honey.”

The sweet endearment sends a sharp, involuntary spasm straight through you, fresh heat flooding between your legs. He looks up at you then, eyes desperate and pleading, silently asking for permission. You nod, unable to deny him—or yourself—any longer.

That’s all he needs before diving in—a hungry, animalistic groan escaping as he tastes you for the first time. His tongue drags slowly up and down your slick folds, savoring every last drop of your arousal before circling your clit with devastating precision. 

The wet heat of his mouth is overwhelming—soft lips sucking gently, tongue exploring every sensitive inch as if he’d been starving for your exact taste. He moans against you, unable to help it, the deep vibration traveling through your body and pulling a broken cry from your lips.

Your hand flies to the top of his head and threads into his hair, gripping the damp curls as your hips rock helplessly against his face. 

He keeps you spread wide with a bruising grip while he devours you with slow, relentless devotion. Every lick, every suck, every gentle graze of his teeth builds your pleasure higher, coiling tight until the world narrows to nothing except for the feeling of his mouth on you and the sounds he’s making—like he could stay there forever. And you would let him. 

You can hear how embarrassingly wet you are as he slides one hand down, teasing your entrance before slipping a single finger deep inside you. The wet, obscene sound of it fills the room, and it doesn’t take much effort for him to add a second one, curling them against that perfect spot inside of you. You clench around them instantly, arching off of the mattress with a loud cry. 

You couldn’t hold back the sounds spilling from your lips if you tried—his name nothing more than a broken echo that grows louder and louder with every stroke of his fingers. Your mind is blissfully empty except for one repetitive thought: Michael, Michael, Michael.

It had never felt like this with anyone else—the way he touched you, the way he tasted you as if trying to memorize you—you’re absolutely sure he had ruined you for anyone else.

He pulls his mouth away just long enough to look up at you, the bottom half of his face glistening with your slick, fingers continuing to thrust in and out at a steady pace. “Come for me, baby,” he practically begs, voice hoarse and desperate. “I want—I need you to fall apart for me.”

You’re so close, teetering right on the edge, but not quite there yet. 

”Look at me.” He commands. You obey instantly, watching as he leans back down, wrapping his lips around your clit, sucking firmly while his fingers keep that perfect, effortless rhythm. He looks up, meeting your gaze with dark, wide eyes. At that, the coil inside you snaps.

You cry out his name, thighs trembling uncontrollably as your walls clamp tightly around his fingers. He doesn’t stop for a single second—doesn’t even consider slowing down as he works you through every pulsing aftershock, drawing your orgasm out of you until you’re shaking and gasping for breath.

It’s not long before it becomes too much, inching into overstimulation. You push against his shoulder and he pulls away finally—pupils blown and eyes glassy. He looks completely drunk—instantly addicted to you. 

”You taste so good,” he slurs, voice completely wrecked. He withdraws his fingers from your fluttering heat and lifts them toward you, like an offering of sweet wine. Without hesitation, you grab his wrist and wrap your lips around the wet digits, tasting yourself on his skin.

Michael lets out a deep, guttural moan at the sight, his hips twitching pathetically against the bed. You can only imagine how hard he has become—his cock straining painfully inside his clothes as he watches you suck his fingers clean. 

You shoot up, grabbing the collar of his sleep-shirt and yanking him upward toward you, crashing your lips against his. The taste of yourself lingers on his tongue, tangy and intimate—intoxicating. It sends another rush of heat through your body. 

You want more. You want everything—every touch, every sound, every piece of himself he’s willing to give you.

Your fingers fist tighter into the fabric before you tug it over his head, throwing it somewhere into the abyss. You’re on him instantly—pressing your mouth against his bare skin, trailing hot, wet kisses down the column of his neck and across his sharp collarbones. You can feel his pulse racing under your lips, his whole body trembling with barely-held restraint.

“Don’t stop,” He pleads, voice husky and ragged, tilting his head back to give you more access. He moans softly when you begin to nip at the sensitive skin. “God—I’ve waited so long for this, girl… dreamt about it. I’ve been so damn patient. You have no idea what you do to me.”

”Show me,” you respond, placing a kiss at the center of his chest, right above his heart. “I need more, Michael. Please—“

He pulls back enough to cradle your face in his hands, eyes burning with sincerity. 

“I’ll give you everything,” he promises. “Anything—everything you want, mama.”

In one fluid motion he pushes his pajama bottoms down his hips. His cock springs free, slapping heavily against his toned abdomen. He’s thicker than you would have imagined, given his lean frame—flushed dark, the tip glistening with precum. The sight makes your mouth water and your core clench with fresh need. 

You reach for him eagerly, fingers wrapping around the warm, velvety base. He hisses sharply through his teeth at the contact, and he gently pulls your hand away, lacing his fingers with yours.

”Not yet,” he rasps, squeezing your hand. “I swear to god, I’ll bust if you touch me like that right now… and I’m not done with you yet.”

”But… I want to taste you,” you admit softly, feeling shy and girlish. “I want to make you feel good too.”

He shakes his head, a smile curling his lips. “I want that too, more than anything. And I’ll let you… next time.”

Next time. The promise settles warmly in your chest and makes your heart skip a beat. You know what that means—there will be conversations tomorrow, heavy ones. Things between you and him will never go back to the way they were. You should care. A smart, professional person who values her career should care deeply. But you don’t. 

You’re so utterly consumed by him—by the pleasure humming through your veins, by the way he’s looking at you like you’re everything he’s ever wanted. 

Consequences be damned. You’ve been good. You’ve been patient. You’ve done everything right for so long. And he—Michael Jackson himself—wants you just as badly as you want him. 

You nod, surrendering to him completely. A wolfish grin spreads across his face as he reaches down and slides his fingers through your soaked folds and pushes them back inside of you. A third finger joins soon after, stretching you open with slow, careful thrusts. Pleasure sparks through your body as he once again curls them perfectly against your g-spot.

His mouth stays close to your ear, whispering praises between the soft kisses along your neck. “That’s it, pretty girl. Let me hear those sounds. You’re so beautiful like this.” His thumb brushes against your clit in steady rhythm with his fingers. “So wet for me… only for me. Just like that, yeah? Right there?”

His dark, expressive eyes lock onto yours as he pumps three fingers deep inside of you, hitting that perfect spot over and over again. Your second climax of the night builds fast, your breath coming out in short, needy gasps. You’re right on the edge when he abruptly pulls his fingers out—popping them into his own mouth this time, sucking on them greedily. 

You let out a needy, petulant whine at the devastating loss, your hips chasing the orgasm that he ripped away from you. He coos in your ear, pressing a wet kiss against it. “Shh, baby… I’ve got you. Gonna make you feel so good.”

Michael finally shifts above you, bracing his weight on his forearms, and you feel the head of his cock nudging insistently against your slick entrance. His eyes lock onto yours, silently searching—begging—for permission. In answer, you wrap your legs around his waist and pull him closer, guiding him home.

”Baby…!” He moans out, the sound half ecstasy, half relief as he pushes forward. He enters you slowly, inch by thick inch, stretching you open. There’s a slight sting despite his earlier care—a sweet, delicious burn that makes your breath hitch. It had been too long since anyone had touched you like this—since anyone had made you feel this full, this wanted. 

You’re ruined, you accept with startling clarity. No one else would ever come close. He knows it too—you can see it in the way his eyes flutter shut, in the slight tremble of his body as he holds himself back from thrusting too fast. Nothing and no one would ever compare. 

A loud, broken moan spills from both of you as he finally bottoms out, buried to the hilt so deeply you can feel him in every part of you. He stays there for a long moment, perfectly still, savoring the feeling. He presses his forehead against yours, ragged breath mingling with your own. 

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes again, then he begins to move—long, deep thrusts drag against every sensitive spot inside you. His hips roll with that signature, graceful rhythm he brings to the stage every night, now edged with raw desperation. His fingers dig into your hips, grip tight and bruising, making certain you will feel him for days.

You cling to him—nails scoring down the smooth skin of his back, heels digging into the small of his spine as you meet his every thrust. The lewd, wet slap of skin on skin and your shared moans fill the hotel room.

He angles his hips higher, hitting your spot again and again until you’re gasping and shaking beneath him. “M-Michael—oh, oh god I think I’m—“

”Come for me,” he begs—voice straining, his breath hitching as you begin to clench around him. His thrusts grow faster, more frantic. “I want—I need to feel you.”

At his words, your orgasm crashes over you like a blinding tidal wave. A sharp cry tears from your throat as your walls clamp hard around his member. Your vision goes white around the edges, every muscle trembling as you release. His name pours from your lips like a mantra.

He’s close too—you can feel it in the way his hips begin to stutter—but he’s holding himself back, just barely. He buries his face into the crook of your neck, a broken moan escaping him.

“W-where?” He grits out, sounding almost pathetic with need. “Please—tell me where. I’m so close—I can’t—“

”Inside,” you answer immediately, wrapping your legs tighter around him, locking your ankles behind his back. “I’m on the pill. I’m safe, I promise. Please, Michael—fill me up. Please, please, I need—“

That’s all it takes. 

He buries himself inside of you with a loud cry, hips snapping forward as he comes hard. He doesn’t stop thrusting, not even for a second, grinding deep as he spills inside you, filling you with pulse after pulse of hot seed. The head of his cock presses insistently against your cervix as he paints your walls, whining your name over and over again like it’s the only word left in his vocabulary. 

Even after he finishes, his hips continue moving in shallow, desperate thrusts, as if he can’t bear to stop. Soft, pathetic whimpers escape him as overstimulation takes hold—body shaking as his pleasure clouds everything else. He’s lost in you, completely and utterly gone. You hold him close through every second of it, arms wrapped tight around his trembling frame.

You stay locked together for a long moment afterward, trembling and slick with a messy blend of sweat and release. The air around you is thick, smelling like sex and the faint trace of his cologne and the shampoo you used in the shower. Your heartbeats thunder against each other in the quiet hotel room, gradually slowing as the intensity of the moment fades into something softer.

Eventually, he shifts with a shaky, reluctant sigh, as if it physically pained him to have to separate from you. He slips out of you slowly, the wet drag sending a shared shiver through both of you. You can feel the warm trickle of your combined fluids leak obscenely out of you, soaking into the sheets. Michael barely moves away—immediately settling back down against your body, skin to skin. 

Soft, worshipful kisses begin to trail across your flushed, sweaty skin. He brushes his lips to your temple, to your cheeks, your jaw, and then finally your lips. He kisses you as if he can’t quite believe you’re real—willing and here with him. Each one lingers, gentle and reverent, as though he’s afraid that if he pulls away completely you might vanish, like the whole night could still be a dream. 

He finally settles his head against your chest, and your hand drifts up to rest at the back of his neck, fingers slowly threading through the damp curls at his nape. You play with them absentmindedly, still trying to catch your breath. That’s when you hear it—his voice, shaky and barely above a whisper, tumbling out in a frenzied, unconscious litany: “Thank you… thank you, thank you, thank you—“

The words spill from him like a prayer he doesn’t even realize he’s saying, raw and desperate. Your chest tightens with a fierce tenderness. You don’t speak or shush him. Instead, you pull him closer, holding him gently against you. 

You press slow, reassuring kisses to the top of his head: silent promises that reveal everything you can’t yet put into words: I’m not going anywhere. I’ll still be here in the morning, and every morning after that.

You love him, you realize. The thought settles over you undeniably, blooming deep and real in your chest. You don’t say it out loud, not yet—but the words echo in every gentle stroke of your fingers through his hair, in the steady rhythm of your heartbeat against his.

The world outside has ceased to exist. The snowstorm, the complicated travel plans, the endless chaos of the tour—none of it can touch you here. There is only this bed, only his warmth against yours, only the quiet certainty that everything has changed. For the better.

His whispers gradually fade into slow, even breaths, and his body grows heavier as exhaustion finally wins over, slumping fully against you. His entire weight presses you deeper into the mattress in the most comforting way imaginable. His face is tucked into the curve between your neck and breasts, warm breath fanning steadily across your skin. He succumbs to sleep completely—probably for the first time in days—safe, spent, and wrapped in your arms.

You hold him there, one hand still cradling the back of his head, and listen to the quiet rhythm of his breathing until your own eyes grow heavy. You surrender to sleep yourself, choosing to not worry about the next day and its complications. For tonight, nothing else mattered.

a/n: if you’ve read this far, thank you from the bottom of my heart! any and all feedback is greatly appreciated. please enjoy and be kind ❤️