Itachisimp

nightmares - connor rk800

connor x reader

where connor worries too much about your habit of sleeping at work.

word count - 1.4k

warnings: mentions of struggling to sleep (not sure if that’s a warning but no harm in putting it here)

masterlist

it had been meeting after meeting — multiple, similar conversations about how to deal with deviants. how to interrogate them, prosecute them, even how to defend yourself against an android.

each one was the same.

hence why you saw no issue in quietly dozing off for a few minutes.

or maybe an hour.

“detective.” a soft, quiet whisper, followed by a gentle judge to your arm.

a groan escapes you, you’re not ready to wake up yet. not ready to listen to more rambling about incorrect techniques or whatever they said…

“detective, you might want to wake up.” the tone is still calming. “captain fowler is staring.”

Connor x Reader

Ever thought of getting yourself an android?

Friendly Fire: MASTERLIST

CHAPTER O1

* ˚  ✶ content/warnings: angstyyy, mean michael with a mean reader, NASTY AND HATEFUL SMUT, rivals to lovers, inaccurate details lowkey, slowburn till it gets real spicy, setting takes place at the infamous 1984 Grammys night  * ˚  ✶ WC: 10k (oops) * ˚  ✶ A/N: this is so long and i debated making this into multiple parts, but i wanted y'all to EAT the tension. comment how you feel about their dynamic because i was ready to punch them both and i was the writer mind you...

﹏﹏﹏

CELEBRATORY DINNER 

Michael rolls his eyes, masking his annoyed look behind his glasses. He spots you across the room, shaking hands with your fellow colleagues in the room. It was a few days after the 26th Annual Grammys, and all the Grammy-award-winning artists were invited to a celebratory dinner. Michael would be content with his victory, as he broke the record and won eight awards that night for his album, Thriller. The problem? You also won eight awards for your album. 

Everyone in the room was shocked- a record like that has never been broken, let alone twice in one night. Michael remembers biting his bottom lip so hard that he drew blood as you walked onstage, a smirk planted on your face as you accepted the award and gave a short yet detailed speech. He would’ve been happy if it were someone else, don’t get it twisted. He isn’t that selfish. However, when it comes to you, he’s the most selfish he can be. 

﹏﹏﹏

5 YEARS AGO 

The competition between the two of you began a few years back, before he released his first solo album. He remembers the first time you met so vividly, more than he should, honestly. He was in Las Vegas for a performance with his brothers and had visited the venue a few nights prior. He walked inside with his security guard, Bill, ready to take a small tour, before a voice so melodic and powerful stopped him in his tracks. His brows furrow, running his hands down his pants before he walks to where the singing comes from. His breath hitches slightly, watching as you pace back and forth on the stage. 

“Guys, let’s fix the light on this part of the stage. I want the center to be on me.” You spoke into the microphone, and people nodded to your orders as they adjusted the light. Michael squints his eyes, making sure his vision wasn’t deceiving him. 

“Is that-“ Bill begins, and Michael hums, interrupting him. 

“Yes, that’s her.”

The Jackson family knew who you were, too well. You were a year younger than Michael, and your success had been skyrocketing off the roof and into the stars, not backing down. You released a single at the same time as them, and it beat them on the charts by one place—number one, to be exact. You were interviewed by some reporters who asked how you felt about beating the talented and famous Jacksons. 

You shrugged your shoulders, brushing your hair out of your face, feeling indifferent to the question. “Well, what can I say? Maybe they’re outdated compared to the new type of music the world wants these days.” The family fumed as your response sat on the front page of the newspapers for weeks. Outdated? The Jacksons? Never. Michael replayed the clip over and over, using it as a motivation as he worked on his album, Off the Wall, during his nights. Michael never wanted to be outdated; he wanted to be timeless. He wanted to make sure his music would live on forever. He knew this wouldn’t happen if he kept just making music with his brothers, so he released his studio album and was proud of the success. He would nod as reporters pointed out how his singles were charting the billboards, not missing how they’d be boldly asking how he felt beating your record.

“I want to be timeless. I think this album does an amazing job at this.” Michael would respond, hinting at your remark in the press. You rolled your eyes as you watched the interview, cigarette in hand, as your knee bounced up and down, as his soft yet taunting voice filled the silence in your living room. 

Michael Jackson was talented; you could confidently admit that. But God, he was so egotistical, just like every other man in the music industry. You were above all the other women in the music industry; you were proud of that. But being a woman kept you from rising above on the latter any further, and your recent single was a barrier you were proud to break. Everyone comparing you to the Jacksons ticked you off. It made it seem like your talent always had to be compared to men. This led you to build a small resentment for the group, one you’d never actually say out loud. Or so you thought. 

You take a small break from your rehearsal, irritated at your team’s inability to comply. You needed this tour to be perfect, and opening in Las Vegas was the ultimate masterpiece move to ensure you’d secure sales for your upcoming album. Your assistant comes up to you and nods his head at two people, just feet away from the stage. You recognized the shadow just by a single glance, and it made your insides begin to swarm. Annoyance, shock, and attraction all in one, and you hated every single lustful flutter.

“Well, look at what the damn cat dragged in.”

Michael lets out a laugh, walking down towards the center of the room, closer and closer to you. “More like the press. Your press, to be exact.” 

You let out a satisfactory hum. “Is that so?”

Michael nods, looking around, mentally noting the details of your stage. He noticed how the stage light perfectly highlighted your features. He wanted that same effect, plus more. You noticed him studying and pointed to your crew member, giving him a warning look. He stops the effects altogether, directing another crew member to turn the lights on. Michael laughs, shaking his head as he smirks at Bill. “I’m not here to steal your ideas, girl. I was just in town, you know, for our three sold-out nights coming up.”

You scoff, wiping the sweat off your forehead as you walk to the edge of the stage, eyeing Michael carefully. “How pitiful it must be, to not be able to sell it out yourself. It seems you still have to have your brothers by your side to keep going.” 

Michael’s eyes widen in surprise at your venomous words. He didn’t expect kindness out of you, maybe cordial words, yes, but this? This was pure disrespect. A level of disrespect so deep that he was scared that biting his tongue wouldn’t do enough justice to help him suppress his resentment towards you. 

You smirk, taking a seat and crossing your legs. “Did I hit a nerve? I’m sorry, I forgot I wasn’t in an interview.” 

“Why must you be so mean? I’ve never once said anything to make you dislike me.”

“Oh, I don’t dislike you, poor thing. I’m just not passing out like every other woman out there, and it seems that bothers you, which bothers me.” You respond, shrugging your shoulders. 

﹏﹏﹏

WEEKS BEFORE GRAMMYS CELEBRATION DINNER 

And since that moment, Michael has disliked your name, your face, and even your music. It was hard to avoid you, given your growing fame. Your music was beginning to stream everywhere, competing alongside other big names on radios and in shopping malls, and even his workers were playing your songs. 

There was a recent moment, a few weeks before the Grammys night, when the two of you were set to be a part of a photoshoot together, meant to commemorate the world’s current big stars. You declined at first, not wanting to share any space with him, but your manager insisted it’d introduce you to another world of business. “Sponsorships,” she called it. You accepted, wanting no unnecessary contact with him before the shoot. 

Michael felt the same, probably even worse. He practically begged his manager not to let him do the shoot. He reminded his team that he wanted to do no press for this album; he wanted to go big because people truly loved his music. 

“This will look good for the members of the voting committee, Michael.” He was told, and if it weren’t for his mother next to him, he’d throw everything in front of him on the floor. They had a point, and he knew this too. The only detail keeping him from being completely grateful for the opportunity was the fact that he’d have to share it with you. 

The day came, and the two of you arrived minutes apart. You walked into the building, sunglasses on, while you signed some documents your assistant was handing to you. You look up, Michael’s gaze on you. He tightens his lips, fingers fidgeting with one another as you walk past him without a double look. Once again, he didn’t expect you to hug him or be so interested. But it’d been years since he’d last seen you, and he expected at least a greeting. 

“Fine, let it be that way.” He mutters under his breath, following behind you. He pretends not to notice the sway of your hips, the way they move so beautifully as you take each step. He puts on his sunglasses, using that to cover the fact that his eyes couldn’t stay off of you. You were mean, a very rude thing, but you were so beautiful. Michael’s exact type. He would’ve asked you out long ago if it weren’t for the weight of your cold heart. His cock hardens at the thought of gripping your hips under his touch, using all his force to pound into you mercilessly. He shakes his head. Why is he thinking like this? He hates you. 

He walks into the office and finds you reading a document. Your assistant looks up, gulping at Michael as he sits across from you. “Hello, Mr. Jackson.” 

“Please. Call me Michael. We’ll be working together for some time, I see.” Michael curtly smiles at your assistant, and you take your glasses off, rolling your eyes. “Since when were you a Michael lunatic?” You turn to your assistant, irritation creeping up on your skin. The last thing you needed was an acquaintance formed between your worker and your pesky colleague. 

“I’m not.” Your assistant whispers, a hint of fear and regret laced in his tone. 

“Good. Keep it that way.” You sharply say, turning to give Michael an annoyed look. 

“How are you?” Michael asks, and your breath hitches. His words would carry purity to them if he meant them. However, you know he wasn’t interested in your well-being. He was interested in your downfall, to see you crumble and call it quits forever. 

“Better than ever.” 

“You won’t even ask how I’m doing?” 

You shake your head, feigning a look of innocence. “No. Because I don’t care how you’re doing.” 

The room is silent, the air conditioning being the only noise either of you wishes you could really focus on. Instead, for you, your eyes rake over Michael’s ungloved hand. The veins in his hand begin to emerge, anger laced in between them. You shift your legs slightly, choosing not to focus on the wetness beginning to drip from your core. His hair was so perfectly styled against his face that it stood no chance against the flyaways standing out from yours. 

You knew about his burn incident weeks prior, and you wished you hadn’t felt the sharp pang in your chest as you looked at the pictures of him in the hospital. Your team advised you to send flowers, a “comprising gift,” they referred to it as. You declined. 

He looked so damn good, and he knew that. He sat there, proud as ever, as he focused on the emotion behind your eyes. He knew the true meaning behind your eyes. It was behind his. He had no shame, raking his eyes down your face, to your chest. He bites his bottom lip, looking away from your cleavage and to the door.

You sit in silence for almost half an hour, humming along to a popular song on the radio (your song), and continue signing documents. Michael takes glances at you, staring at the concentration in your eyebrows, at the shape of your lip as you bite it occasionally. He watches the flicker in your lashes, noticing how real you look in front of him. No makeup, no costumes, no words. Just you in silence. 

The door opens, and you look up, setting your pen down as you stand to shake the editor’s hand. “Hi.” 

You exchange names, and she smiles at you. “Thank you for accepting. The both of you. This will help you both succeed much further.” 

“I’m glad I can help.” You laugh, and Michael gives a sarcastic laugh, shaking the editor’s hand as you all walk out. 

“Okay. Here’s the plan. You’ll be wearing a few different outfits, most of which will match. Mr. Jackson, we got the approving list.” You turn to Michael, eyes twinkling with confusion. He got to give restrictions? 

“I’m sorry. A list?” You huff. 

The editor, Ellen, looks between the two of you, confusion in her eyes as she licks her lips. “Yes, Mr. Jackson sent a list on behalf of both of you.” 

Your mouth parts, and your breathing becomes more aggressive and defensive. Michael lets out a soft laugh, hands on his hips as he watches your face crumble. Smile. You don’t want him to see you fall apart. “That’s correct, my apologies. It seems I may have forgotten.” 

The editor smiles, points to your dressing rooms, and introduces you to your makeup and hair artists. You get familiar with the people and the room, taking a seat in front of the vanity mirror. You shake your head, turning to your assistant. “I hate his guts.” 

Your assistant nods, crossing his feet. He doesn’t say anything; he knows better than to. So he stands there, listening to your pessimistic rantings. He wants to roll his eyes. Just fuck already, is what he wants to truly say. Instead, he hums, nodding his head to every single thing you spit out. You’re interrupted by your makeup artist, who smiles at you as she begins to shade-match your skin complexion with the makeup in her hands. You build a conversation, making the process go faster and much more smoothly. You almost forget what this photoshoot was for, and who it was with, before she applies lipstick on your mouth and whispers, “This will go so perfectly with Mr. Michael’s cheek colors.” 

You let out an unsatisfactory groan. “Right.” 

Michael, across the room, listened attentively to his makeup crew. He was a perfectionist and wanted meticulous attention to detail in his makeup. He, more specifically, however, wanted to make sure the discoloration in his face wasn’t evident. He wanted even strokes and shade, to ensure no one could see it at all. He didn’t want anyone to see the unevenness in his tone; it was an insecurity he had built up over the years. He didn’t want you, out of all people, to notice it up close. 

It was hours later, and you two were finally dressed and in your makeup. You take a look at your first outfit. It’s a beautiful, brown leather dress, one that matches Michael’s brown leather jacket. You run your hands down your sides, pitching at the tight leather. You weren’t typically insecure; you loved your body and knew you captured most people's attention when you walked into a room. But for some reason, right now, you felt uncomfortable. The leather against your skin made you feel suffocated, and the blue details in your hair made you feel like a prop. You brushed off the feeling, feigning a smile in the mirror before walking out of the room and into the crowd of crewmembers adjusting the cameras, lights, and set. 

“You look beautiful. That dress looks even better on you.” Ellen exclaims, clapping as you give her a small smile. You spot Michael walking towards both of you, and you pretend that the sight of him in casual attire doesn’t affect you. Your outfits match well together, and if you weren’t familiar with the distaste you both had for one another, you could easily look like a married couple. However, that wasn’t the case, and you suppress a roll of eyes as he does a spin. 

“This jacket is beautiful. I almost want to keep it.” Ellen laughs, walking you both under the lights. 

“We’ll start with some duo pictures, and then take some solo shots after. Once we’re done, we’ll review them and decide whether to do retakes. Got it?” You both nod and stand awkwardly next to one another. 

Michael hums, inspecting every detail of you from head to toe. A small smirk crept on his face as he ran a finger on your waist. “You dress up nice.” 

You scoff, rolling your eyes as you take a step away from him, crossing your eyes. “This dress is ridiculous. It doesn’t look right on me whatsoever.” 

“Maybe it’s you that makes it look ‘wrong’, because the dress is beautiful.” Michael hums, shrugging his shoulder as he fidgets with his gloved hand. 

You nod, looking down at your feet. Michael was right, it was a beautiful dress, but it just didn’t look good on you. You keep quiet, licking your lip as you clear your throat. “I guess you’re right about that one. First thing you’re ever right about.” 

Michael slows his movements, and regret fills his body. He notices the crack in your voice as you speak, and he feels horrible. He thought you’d give him a smart remark back, but instead, you gave him a hurtful look. “I didn’t mea-“

“You said what you said, don’t take it back.” You interrupted him, giving the makeup artist who was touching up your makeup a small smile. You don’t speak after that, scared you’ll give away any more vulnerability. The artist walks away, leaving you and Michael in your space once again. Ellen yells some directions, so Michael grabs your waist. You pretend your skin isn’t heating to a perfect temperature under his touch, a touch you hate yet yearn for. 

“Perfect! Now, Michael, look at her like you’re proud of her. Remember, the goal is to capture success, wealth, and respect.” Ellen voices, and you nod your head. You take your free hand and wrap it around Michael’s shoulder, and look up at Michael. The camera flashes, and you smile at Michael. A smile that Michael looks down on, noticing the fact that it doesn’t reach your eyes as it should. Instead, it carries resentment. Hurt. Pain. His stomach drops, and it takes every fiber in his body to stop him from calling the flashes off. He feels uneasy, and he hates that he does. 

The flashes stop, Ellen announcing a five-minute break. You release a breath you didn’t know you were holding, and quickly walk away from the center, and to the back, where your assistant hands you a cup of apple cider juice. “Thanks.” 

Unbeknownst to you, Michael’s watching you intensely. He notices the quiver in your lip as you talk with your assistant, the shaking of your hand as you take small breaths. It seemed like you were panciking, and despite the regret seeping deep in his heart, he stood where he was. He didn’t move, not to apologize, or to distract himself. Instead, he kept his eyes on you, even as you walked back and took your place beside him. You turn to Michael and give him a sharp look. “Going to comment on how ugly my makeup looks? Or is that for the next session?” 

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” Michael defends, crossing his arms. He wasn’t sure why he couldn’t apologize; he knew he needed to. You just made it so damn hard to. 

Ellen comes up to both of you and smiles. “The pictures look great. Now, I want you,” she turns to you, “to grab onto Michael’s shoulders as he sits. Michael, grab her hand and smile. You both are going to look so perfect.” You give her a small smile and take a step back as a crew member sets a chair, and Michael sits down. You wipe your hands on the back of your dress and stand behind Michael. You take in his scent, filled with a sweet and intoxicating scent, which distracted you from the fact that you were mad at him. 

“Stop smelling me.” Michael hums, and you scoff. You lightly set your hands on his shoulders, putting on a smile as the flashes begin. Michael grips onto your hand, looking up at you and smiling. You look at him for a second, and the look he gives you makes you want to slap him. He stared at you like you were prey, and to him, that’s what you were. The camera clicks continued, and you looked back up, smiling into the camera.

“More eye contact with each other, please! Michael, don’t squeeze her hand, it looks purple through here.” Thank you. Michael lets go slightly, and the pain subsides. 

“Do you genuinely like seeing me in pain?” You say through your teeth, fluttering your lashes as they continue to take pictures. 

“Seeing you beneath me keeps me going, girl. Get it through your skull.” Michael responds, and your knees buckle. You harden your grip on his shoulder, smirking softly as he lets out a rasped breath. 

“Amazing. Now, outfit change. 15 minutes.” Ellen instructs, and you pinch Michael’s shoulder before bending down to his ear. 

“You’ll be kissing my feet one of these days, Michael Jackson. Remember that before you decide to use your ego on me.” 

Michael grunts, watching as you walk away and into your dressing room. He stands, taking his jacket off and placing it over his hard-on before slamming his dressing room door open, letting out a breath. Why did you have that effect on him? 

You undress and put on a teal suit, a color that was meant to radiate tranquility. Instead, it just reminded you of the insecurity laced in your spirit. You hated feeling this way, and most of all, hated that you felt this way because of him. You come out of the dressing room, standing behind the camera as Michael takes his solo shots. You focus on anything but him, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of admiration that everyone else on this set gives him. 

“Great. Your turn.” Ellen points to you, and you walk past him, taking a seat in the beautiful red chair that matches your lipstick. Your suit is meant to represent “fuck the stigma,” but instead, it makes it seem like you’re falling right into the stigma. Michael looks at you, nodding.

You smile into the camera, leaning back as you lick your lips and let the flashes distract you from the fact that Michael is staring at you, more like focusing on every imperfection of you based on the judgment in his eyes. Nonetheless, you finish your part and move to another background, where it comes to posing with Michael. 

You sit next to one another, watching as the crew works on staging the light just right. Michael clears his throat and looks at you. He opens his mouth, and despite the seriousness in your face, he is ready to let him say what he needs to say, but he can’t speak. He’s frozen, unable to speak. 

“You won’t ever be timeless with that damn attitude. You put on a facade, fooling every single folk out there who listens to your music. They don’t know the real you.” 

“Tell me, darling, what’s the real me?” Michael hums. 

“A real dog piece of crap. You’re a bully, an egotistical man ready to ambush anyone willing to take any sort of spotlight away from you. Unlucky for you, that person happens to be me. A younger girl.” 

Michael stares at you, gripping onto the armrest beneath him. He wanted to hurt you, make you cry, anything to shut you up. And so he venomously says, “Exactly. So stay where you’re at. Don’t try to ignite a fire where a fire already burns. You’ll just be a waste.” 

Your breath hitches, and Michael turns, leaving you completely silent. 

The rest of the shoot goes silent between the two of you, playing your parts as you work together to look good for the cameras, quickly pulling away when Ellen yells, “Done!” You change back into your clothes, removing your makeup, and request to be alone. Your assistant complies, leaving the door slightly open as he walks away. You look to the door, waiting for him to leave before biting your lip, watching through the mirror as your eyes begin to tear, and you close them. The tears fall, and you cover your mouth as you sob. This shoot, despite the constant compliments and reassurance that it was perfect, you felt angry and ugly. You hated the clothes against your skin, the fact that you were in a hairstyle you’d never wear willingly, and most of all, paired up with the one you hate the most. You continue to sob, wiping away the rest of your makeup before dropping the wipe onto the vanity and tucking your face into your hands. 

Michael walks to your door, peeking through the space. He hears your sobs. He knows them all too well. He knows the feeling of crying after hearing constant consolation. However, he felt horrible. He felt like garbage. He knew you were in that state because of him. He took it upon his own liberty to make it up to you by speaking highly of you in his portion of the solo interview.

“She’s a very talented young woman. Her music is amazing, and her ideas are so intelligent. They’ve definitely inspired me. My brothers and I carry so much respect for her, despite all the press forcing us to hate each other.” He quoted, clawing at his pants as he practically had to make sure his heart wouldn’t stop beating as he said the words. They weren’t a 100% lie; he just hated that he even had to say something like that. 

He debated knocking on your door, wanting to give you an apology, but instead, gave you one last look before walking off. You, on the other hand, pull your hands away from your face and smirk. You heard footsteps as soon as you placed your head in your hands, and took a small peek from under your eyes as Michael stood there and watched you. Your assistant had warned you that Michael would say some good things about you in the interview. You, on the other hand? You didn’t hold back. 

“Michael, like every other man, hates to see a woman succeed. I mean, you can be timeless without putting others down. Jackson is the king in ensuring that he’s the saint in every situation. I mean, how jealous can you be? You’re allowed to share. I mean, that just shows the privilege he carries. He makes good music, I guess. But as a person? He’s difficult to work with, and I’ve only met him twice.” 

﹏﹏﹏

MORNING AFTER GRAMMY NIGHT

The magazine and interview came out the morning after the Grammys, and Michael fumed. And I mean fumed. His family had never seen him slam doors so hard. He didn’t even greet his animal friends as he walked past them and into the backseat of his car. He was furious. He had spoken so well of you, even willing to lie to his family, and look at how you repaid him? You probably faked crying, he thought. He ignored the look of his family as he walked up and down the stairs, figuring out ways to get you back. Bill looked at him through the mirror, watching the sweat begin to build up above Michael’s lip as he bit it. 

He had milestones to be proud of- that should’ve been his focus. Instead? He ripped apart every single copy of the magazine they had sent him. He kept one, however. He felt mad at the biological aspect of his body as he raked his dark eyes over your body. God, you were beautiful. In the pictures together, you two could’ve fooled anyone living under a rock and could say you two were in love, and they’d believe it. Michael hated the effect you had on his body, and that just made him despise you more than ever. 

You, on the other hand, looked at your Grammys sitting in a perfect line at the top of your dresser. You drank the champagne in your hand, humming along to a Bruce Springsteen song as you looked through the magazine over and over again. Not only did you look better than you thought, but Michael had fallen into your trap. Although his words did hit a tiny spot, you knew he would feel bad and make up for it in the most cowardly and noble way possible. You traced your manicured fingers along his quotes, smiling. Maybe he was lying, maybe he was finally being honest. Either way, none of it mattered. You had eight Grammy awards in front of you, ready to be cleaned and placed in a cabinet. Oh, and an outfit and speech to prepare for the celebratory dinner that’d take place in a couple of nights. 

﹏﹏﹏

CELEBRATORY DINNER 

You approach Michael, and smirk as the cameras follow both of you. You rake your eyes over his body, a detailed jacket similar to the one he wore a few nights ago, reminding you of the very reason you decided to dramatize your look today. “Hello, Mr. Jackson.”

Michael leans in, feigning a formal cheek-kiss as the cameras click, harshly gripping onto your arm. “Save the dramatics, young thing. You already won.” 

“Oh, honey, but we both did.” You pull away, grabbing his hand on you and interlacing it with yours, turning to smile at the camera. They move away to another guest, and you drop it, rolling your eyes. Michael’s stomach flutters at the nickname you give him, but he tucks that feeling away, focusing on the disdain that sits in his heart. 

“Want the truth? I can’t be happy with that night. I don’t think I ever will be. All because of you.” 

You place a hand over your heart, brushing away the loose piece of hair from your face. “Does it bother you that much to share such a milestone with a woman?” 

Michael laughs, shaking his head. “Oh, please, don’t make it into that. You know perfectly fine why I hate sharing anything with you.” 

You shake your head, grabbing a champagne glass off the waiter’s tray and gently sucking the candied cherry, giving it a small pop as you maintain eye contact with Michael’s dark eyes. The look he keeps on you is intense and dangerous, yet promising. “Michael, let go of the theatrics, and enjoy the fact that we’ve made history. If you drop this immature behavior just for one night, so will I, I promise.” 

“Nothing about what I want to do to you is immature. I promise you.” Michael leans in, whispering in your ear as he softly pinches your cheek, spinning you as you both greet a member from the committee. You shut out the words from everyone else, focusing on the intentionality behind his words. Threatening, poisonous, and toxic. And yet, your body loved every single syllable that came out of his mouth, and you were more mad at yourself for feeling that way. 

You both move on, appreciating the distance as a distraction from the fact that you two didn’t know what you were doing anymore. Michael didn’t care to be cordial or respectful. The things he wanted to do to you, the way he wanted to bend you over and pound into you roughly without mercy, the way he wanted to pull on your hair, putting pressure on your neck to the point where you’d beg him to stop, yet pull his hands back onto your neck if he dared to pull away. The looks he gave from across the room should’ve been forbidden. It carried lust, heat, and vulnerability. All of which he was willing to submit to just for one night, if it meant his mind would finally get rid of you. 

The tables had labels with your names on them, and of course, your names were right beside each other. You took a seat next to him, holding onto your dress as you bent over, wiping away any nonexistent crumbs from the seat, as Michael focused on the softness of your breasts. You smirk, finally sitting and turning to him. “Done being a little crybaby?” 

Michael rolls his eyes, giving a small smile to some guests as they walk by him, offering their congratulations. “I’m keeping track of every smart comment you make, by the way.” 

“For what?” 

Now he turns to you. “So you know how many times you’ll be denied finishing by my hand.” 

Your mouth gapes open, and you lose grip of your clutch. It falls onto the floor, and Michael bends down, keeping one hand on the floor and another on your thigh as he presses a kiss near your ankle. He groans softly, sitting back up and placing your clutch on his lap. “You did say I’d be kissing your feet soon, huh? Guess you were right.” 

You’re silent, clearing your throat as you push your chair closer to the table. You’ve gone completely speechless, and you hate yourself for it. Michael hums, smirking beside you as he takes a sip of his drink. Most of the night passes by, and it takes every smart neuron in your brain to stop you from running to the bathroom and pleasuring yourself. It seems you still have some common sense. 

“Lastly, can we give it up for the record-breaking stars in the house?” Someone speaks into the microphone, and you smile and wave as the camera pans to you, then to Michael. Michael bows his head, waving. The cheers in the room break out of the trance you’ve unfortunately fallen into. 

“You two are so young, and already legends to many. How do you do it?” You playfully shrug your shoulders, pointing to Michael as the crowd laughs. You cross your legs, biting your bottom lip as Michael smirks at the camera, wrapping an arm around you. You huff a breath, attempting to scoot away, but instead, Michael grips onto your back harder. 

The crowd takes note of every single detail of you both- from your facial expressions to the unintentional matching outfits you two are wearing. They keep your interviews in mind as you smile at each other, confused by the sudden friendliness. You, on the other hand, want to kill Michael. Where did he get the audacity to think he could touch you like that? Why is his grip hardening, becoming warmer and warmer? Despite these thoughts, you don’t push his hand away. Instead, you keep it there, nodding along to the speaker. 

“And now, a speech from our record-breaking artists!” You and Michael stand, and Michael takes out his hand, and you look down at it. You turn and spot Lionel Richie sticking out his arm, and you give a smirk to Michael as you grab onto Lionel’s. You hear some gasps around you, but you kiss Lionel on the cheek as you walk onto the stage. Michael stands beside you, grabbing onto your waist. He leans into your ear, and you feel yourself shudder. “You embarrassed me, girl. Another deny tonight.”

You gulp and watch as Michael pulls away, waving kisses to the crowd as he steps onto the podium. He begins his speech, and you don’t care to listen to anything he says. That’s a lie; you just can’t focus on anything besides the way he grips onto the glass podium and licks his lips. 

“And of course, I get to stand here a proud and fortunate man alongside this beautiful artist.” Michael turns to you, and you give a small raise of your eyebrows, walking to the podium as you softly push Michael away. 

“Whatever good he said about me just now, I agree.” You speak, and the crowd laughs. Michael nods his head, biting his lip as he gives a glance at Lionel, rolling his eyes as he keeps his gaze on you. 

“I said most of what I meant the other night, in my speeches. But I truly hold so much love and appreciation for my team, family, and friends who supported me on this journey. As a woman, it isn’t easy getting any higher on the ladder in this industry.” You feel your voice crack, and the room focuses on you. 

Michael tenses beside you, not knowing what to do. He didn’t want to steal your spotlight by attempting to comfort you, but he also didn’t want to see the press label him as a “jerk” for not giving you any solace. 

“For so long, since I started being known, I was always compared to the men in the industry who have come before me. Of course, my respect to them for breaking their own barriers and creating their careers. But, as a woman, it isn’t fair for me to sit there and allow any interviewers to disrespect the career I’ve worked so hard to build.” You turn to Michael and give a small nod. A nod that makes Michael’s breath hitch. That nod, a gesture so minuscule yet so heavy with meaning. It makes Michael’s heart beat faster, confused yet relieved. 

“I’m really grateful I’ve won all these awards- they look so good in my house,” you laugh, wiping a small tear away that threatens to fall, “but I’m more proud of myself. Proud that I’ve endured so much, and yet have come here and broken the barrier. A barrier I’m proud to say I’ve broken with the one and only, Michael Jackson.” The crowd literally erupts in screams, standing as you take a step back and laugh. Michael’s eyes slightly widen, shocked at your words. He takes them in, every single syllable entering his body, running like euphoria through his blood. You turn to him, leaning to hug him, pressing a kiss against his cheek. His cock hardens at your touch, twitching as you pull away, smiling as you run your fingers down his arms and into his free hand. 

“I never hated him, by the way. You all just took away my words out of context!” You say, blowing a kiss before pulling Michael away and down the stairs, and back into your seats. 

Music begins playing, and artists take the chance to group and gossip about what just happened. You grip onto the glass, taking a sip of the champagne. Michael subtly runs his hand over his crotch, wanting to find any friction to stop him from finishing in his pants then and there. 

“You must want to see me worship you like you’re the only thing in the world.” 

“That’s been the plan all along, sweetheart, I thought you knew.” 

Michael hums, keeping a hand on your thigh as you smile at guests who walk by, offering their compliments to you both. He leans into your ear, brushing hair out of your way as he keeps his gaze on your face. “I’m going to ruin you tonight in a way where you’ll be begging for mercy.” 

You lick your lips, smiling and pressing a soft and subtle kiss beside Michael’s ear. “What if I like that?” 

“Then I don’t want you complaining when you’re not allowed to play with yourself, baby.” 

A voice interrupts you both, and Michael begins talking with them. You’re impressed at his ability to act like he wasn’t just the reason your core was practically leaking down your legs. You straighten your posture, pretending not to notice that despite Michael’s attention being on his guest, his hand never left your thigh. You attempted to fidget yourself out of his touch, but he didn’t budge. If anything, it pushed him to keep his hand on you. 

The rest of the night goes by in a blur, Michael keeping a grip on you with no shame. You were embarrassed, secretly. You knew the exact judgment you’d receive the same night by the media tabloids, but a part of you didn’t care. 

You were having fun, that’s what you reminded yourself whenever you caught yourself smiling a little too hard. 

﹏﹏﹏

You closed the door with a bit of aggressiveness, double-checking the lock as you walked to Michael, who was sitting on the bed, glove off and beside him. You throw your clutch and jacket across the chair, sitting in the other, crossing your legs as you throw your head back and keep your gaze on Michael. He invited you to his hotel room, and you refused. 

You gave him a small pat on his back, walking to your car and opening the door, closing it a minute later, and walking back, rolling your eyes as Michael stood by his car door, nodding to it as you walked into the back and sat down, ensuring you had enough space from Michael where the cameras wouldn’t capture anthing suspicious, simply cordial respect between two superstars. 

You changed your mind once you got to the hotel, giving an excuse that you were “tired,” and Michael hummed, leaving you in the lobby as he walked to his room. You stood there, feeling stupid and confused. You made up your mind an hour later, walking to his room and doing the walk of shame. You knocked softly on his door, sighing as he gave a warm “welcome.” 

Michael’s eyes are on you, raking his eyes from your exposed legs to your unblinking eyes. “You had me waiting like a fool.” 

“I wasn’t sure if coming up here was a good idea.” 

“What makes you say that?” Michael jokes, and you let out a laugh. 

Michael stands and takes off his coat. He kicks his shoes off and nods to your heels. You nod your head, carefully taking them off and placing them below the table next to you. 

Michael walks to you, crouching down, bringing his lips to your ear. “Nothing about what I want to do with you is a good idea, baby. Catch up.” 

You sigh, closing the gap between the two of you. The kiss was fierce, harsh, unloving. It wasn’t soft or filled with relief- it was filled with coldness and shame. 

You let out a moan as Michael brings his hand down to your throat, putting pressure on it as you slip your tongue into his mouth. Your nipples harden against your dress, and you bring your hand down to your breast, toying with it as you whimper. Michael notices this, and he immediately tuts, shaking his head as he pulls your hand away. “No touching unless I say so.” 

You shake your head, pushing his hand away as you fight to touch yourself, but Michael just watches, using all his force to keep your hand away. You softly groan, his grip hurting. You eventually give in, allowing Michael to take control as he puts pressure back on your neck. “Good girl, baby. I want you all to be compliant after being so mean to me these past few years.” 

You close your eyes, the pressure on your neck darkening your vision. Michael hums, letting go as you let out a whine. Michael grabs onto your shoulders, helping you up as he unzips your dress. You stand naked in front of him, and you feel the weight of his words in the past haunt your mind. You instinctively cover your body, and Michael grabs your arms, pulling them away and keeping them next to your legs. “Don’t.” 

You stay silent, unsure of what to say. 

“You’ve always been the most beautiful woman to me. Always.” 

“You have a funny way of showing it.” You spit back, anger lacing into your tone. Michael smirks, and you push him, gripping onto his shirt as you give him a frenzied kiss. Michael groans, allowing your taste to consume him whole. You taste so perfect against him. Your tongues play with his so cohesively, like the rhythm you two created was pre-planned. Maybe in a way, it was. All those years of pent-up tension were finally being expressed, and it felt so good. It wasn’t right, of course, but nobody cared about the ethical dilemmas around here. What was important was how the body chemistry worked out, and Michael appreciated a good beat against his own melodies. 

You use all your force Michael’s shirt open, not caring about his whines about how expensive it was. You just cared about running your hands down his chest, his skin so soft against your palms. How can someone with so much disdain in his heart be so physically delicate? 

Michael turns you around, laying you on your stomach against the softness of the bed. Michael presses against your shoulder and down to the waistband of your panties, where he brings them down. He stuffs them in his pocket, smirking as he lifts your bottom. He licks his fingers, moistening them as he runs them down your neck and to your breasts, giving them a hard pinch before bringing them over your exposed pussy. He begins stretching your pussy with one finger, teasing at your whines. “Where’s all that back-talk now, hm?” 

You bite Michael’s free hand, scared to make any more noise as he keeps his finger inside your wet hole. He doesn’t move, and your eyes roll back. “Please.” 

“That’s more like it.” Michael thrusts his finger in and out, wetness coating his finger. He pushes another in, admiring how much you could take without already cumming. He pushes your limit, inserting another, and begins thrusting again. You cry out, grinding onto his hand, teeth clenching against each other as your clit receives stimulation from  Michael’s palm. 

“Look at how wet you get from me. Have you been like this the entire time?” Michael whispers in your ear. You know he’s referring to the entirety of your rivalry, and you suppress your remarks. You’re too busy focusing on the stimulation against your core, and how full Michael’s fingers are inside you. 

“Oh, Michael.” You loudly whine, and Michael groans, rubbing his clothed cock against the back of your thighs. He begins dry humping you, refraining from doing anything more as your ass thrusts back against his stomach. 

“Everything about your body makes me a submissive man. I hate feeling this way. I hate you for making me feel this way. And yet, I’ve never wanted to stay so close to a person like right now.” Michael breathes out, and his words bring more pleasure to you than his actions. You feel your legs begin to shake, and your vision becomes cloudy. 

“I’m about to cum, Michael.” You regret it the moment the words leave you, because as soon as your wet walls began to tighten Michael’s fingers, he slides them out, juices flowing down your thighs. You let out a loud grunt, using all your energy to push away from him and turning around, legs still shaking as you sit up. 

Michael smirks at you as your face heats up in embarrassment and anger, mostly embarrassment. “You’re a jerk.” 

“I warned you, baby. Next time, remember to be nice if you want to cum.” You roll your eyes, and Michael readjusts himself on the bed, crawling to you. He pulls your hair, forcing your mouth open as he slides his tongue into yours, battling for dominance. He brings his hand to your nipple, immediately taking control as you let out a desperate sigh. 

He starts pressing wet kisses down your face and into your neck, sucking gently against the softness of your throat, making sure he leaves bruises on you. He brings his tongue down to your breasts, spilling them out of your bra and stuffing his face in between them, humming. “These will be the death of me.” 

You let out a breathy gasp, lying back onto the pillow as Michael runs his tongue over your nipples, sucking gently on each breast. You bring your hand down his shoulder, squeezing the muscle you began grinding yourself against him. He lays a hand on your stomach, halting your movements. “Let me eat in peace first, please.” 

You whine but comply, holding onto his face as he continues to suck on your breasts, the pleasure becoming a familiar feeling your body knows it could get used to. His tongue builds up a pattern that makes your muscles tighten, feeling your stomach build up with a yearning to release. Michael brings his hand down to your stomach, humming before he pops his mouth off your breast. You whine, shaking your head, pleading incoherent words. 

“Poor baby can’t even speak. How much more submissive can you get for me?” Michael smirks, pinching your nipples before standing up, sliding his shirt off his arms and onto the floor. 

You keep your hazy gaze on him as he runs his hand down his chest and to the waistband of his pants, zipping the zipper down and pulling them down altogether. His cock springs out, and you have to bite your lip to suppress a humiliating moan from escaping your fevered body. He begins pumping it, and you get on your knees, crawling to him once he directs you to him.

“Suck it for me, fox.” Michael rasps, and you wrap your tongue around the tip, sucking gently before shoving as much as you can fit in your mouth, bobbing your head up and down. Saliva trickles down your mouth and onto the base of his cock messily, but neither of you cares. 

Michael brings his hands to the back of your head, pulling gently on your hair into a rhythmic pattern. He hums, and every vibration runs through your body, electrifying every single cell in your body. You bring your hands down to your opening, fingering yourself before Michael harshly grips onto your hair, shaking his head. 

“You don’t even deserve to feel pleasure from yourself.” Michael teases, and you let out a desperate moan into his cock, feeling a harsher grip on your face as he bobs you up and down. You feel his cock pulsate in your mouth, and you open your eyes, finding Michael’s eyes rolled back as he bites his lip. You pinch his thigh, and he lets out a rasped whimer. A whimper so beautiful you take it in, memorizing every harmonic note.  Michael smirks, thrusting himself into your mouth, appreciating every noise you let out. 

Michael thrusts himself into your warm mouth before spilling inside your mouth, keeping your mouth on his cock until it stops twitching.

“Be a good thing for me and swallow it, okay?” Michael grips onto your jaw, and you let out a gasp as you swallow, humming as Michael grips onto your arms, bringing you onto his lap. 

Your breathing falls into a calm rhythm, matching Michael’s. You use the quiet to look into Michael’s eyes, looking for any trace of emotion. Your heart isn’t sure what’s looking for, but you see satisfaction, pleasure, and somberness. You bring your fingers across his face, an action so soft, yet Michael’s skin prickles, heart tingeing at your touch. He’s scared, unsure of why he feels so terrified to continue touching your skin. It felt so soft under his touch, perfect even. And Michael didn’t label perfection to just everything. 

“You’re ruining me, and I hate you for it,” Michael murmurs, lining up cock to your entrance. He teases your slit, closing his eyes at your moans. 

“But I’ve never felt more at home than I do at this moment.” 

His cock thrusts into you, the pain hitting you instantly. He stays still, sighing as your head falls onto his chest. You grind onto him, wanting the pleasure to hit you all at once. Michael takes the hint and brings his hands to your hips, gripping them as he begins thrusting into you. It’s a pound so heavy, filling yet your soul feels empty. You shake your head, biting onto Michael’s chest as his ruts inside you make sin look so innocent. 

“Please. I need more.” You whine, and Michael hums, quickening his pace. You’re stuffed completely, cock disappearing into your body. Michael moans at the pleasure, every massage working his thighs. The pleasure becomes overbearing, and his muscles begin to spasm. You smile softly, turning the languid movements into frenzied bucks, taking control. You grip onto Michael’s shoulders for support and begin hopping on him, the stimulation overpowering you. Your moans were pornographic, a shameful reaction you’d know you’d regret the next morning, but you didn’t care. You didn’t care about the outside world right now, or the sad look in Michael’s eyes; you cared about how good Michael’s cock filled you, every vulnerable thrust swallowing you whole. 

“Yes, ride it just like that, my girl. Ride my cock just like that.” Michael hums, and you whine. Every word assuring, every moan filling your ears like a delicious melody you never want to get rid of. 

“You’re mine.” You shamefully mutter, and it brings Michael to tears. Your words hit him like a brick, not stopping him for his pleasure, however, and using that to bring him to his finish. His thrusts become messy, and you bring his fingers to your clit, demanding more pleasure. He gives in, and you feel the heat pooling in your back, crawling to your neck, and down your stomach, where your legs begin to shake. Michael nips at your lip, and he licks your tongue, every breathy moan filling him so perfectly. 

Your gut tightens, and shockwaves run through your body as you come, and Michael follows, hips stuttering as he lets out a whiny groan, eyes rolling back. He bites your lip, drawing blood and licking it, every tremor making his skin heat up. You fall into his chest, head resting onto him as your knees buckle, Michael’s release running down your thighs. The room is silent, your breath being the only muse as proof of what just happened, setting into reality. You’re still scared to move. Michael hesitantly brings his hands to your face and pulls you to his face. 

Your eyes are closed, scared to find anything you don’t want to see in his eyes. However, Michael holds onto your face, whispering, “Open them, please.” 

You shake your head at first and feel regret. You open them eventually, and tears spring up to your eyes. “I’m lost.” 

Michael nods and bites his bottom lip. “I know.” Your body shakes, silent sobs erupting out of you as you feel every piece of your heart wash away in a lost wind. Michael sits still, allowing your cries to relieve. He doesn’t want to stop you, because he knows you feel that way for a reason, but he feels a sharp pain in his chest. 

“We need to talk about this, baby.” Michael pleads, and you wipe your eyes. 

“Michael, what is there to say? You hate me. I hate you. That’s it. That’s.. all.” You get off his lap, and Michael’s skin cools without your warmth. You feel the chills crawl down your body, but you shake them off, choosing distance over comfort. 

Michael’s silent, because you’re right. He kept replaying that in his head over and over as every kiss and thrust felt familiar against his body. That fueled him to go faster, and now, he regrets it. 

“You don’t hate me, and you know that. That’s why you’re searching for that distance right now, isn’t it?” 

You shake your head, tears falling down your face. “I will not talk about this with you, I won’t.” You say, and grip onto your dress, heading towards the bathroom. Michael steps in front of you, stopping you from moving any further. 

“You do damage to me, that I can admit. But I love it. After tonight, there is nothing better for me out there.” 

“This is abuse, Michael. We do nothing but damage each other. That isn’t healthy; this will not work past tonight.” 

“Then I may just die if you walk into that door.” 

Your heart drops, but you choose yourself. You walk past Michael and go into the bathroom. You turn on the faucet, sobbing as you put on your dress and wash your face. You lay your head against the cold skin, water still running as you pay it no mind. You hear the door open, and your sobs grow louder. After some time, you stand and walk out of the bathroom. The room is empty, no trace of Michael. No trace of anything, besides your heels. You put them on and walk out the door. You close it, leaning against it before you pull out your clutch, and take out a cigarette. 

You smoke it as you walk down the halls and downstairs, finding your driver waiting for you at the front. You get inside the car and direct him to your hotel. 

You walk into your room, heart empty and cold, as you sit on your bed. You knew you made the right decision, so why does your heart sit in a pile of black liquid, lost and unable to find satisfactory beating? 

﹏﹏﹏

Bill groans, shaking his head as he sits beside Michael. “This is a bad idea, son.” 

“Everything about her is a bad idea. Hell, she is a bad idea. But I think I want this.” 

“You think, or you know?”

Michael doesn’t respond, looking out the window as the car pulls into the side of your hotel. He strolls in, not caring about the cameras and microphones pushed into his face as he rides the elevator and walks to your door. He stands outside it, ear pressed up against the door before he knocks. 

“Come in.” He hears, and he assumes you must be waiting for someone. Yet, he walks in, and he finds you reading a newspaper while sipping coffee.

You point to the chair across from you and nod. Michael sits down, silent. He opens his name, breathing out your name before clearing your throat. 

“Sign.” You say, handing him a paper.

“NONDISCLOSURE AGREEMENT,” in big, bold letters. Michael reads over the first and last paragraphs, letting out a laugh. 

“You knew I’d come to chase you, didn’t you?” 

You hum. “Don’t you always?” 

Michael licks his lips, taking the pen from you and signing his name. 

“So…” Michael begins, and you softly smile. 

“I couldn’t sleep last night. Not because I was tired or sore, but because I sat there, my heart feeling lost. Dumbfounded. And I hate feeling that way. I hate you for making me feel like this. But, I also can’t be apart from you without feeling whole. Seeing you walk into that door made me the happiest I’ve been since you last touched me.” 

Michael’s silent, unsure of what to say. What exactly were you trying to say?

You read his mind, because you bite your lip, set down your cup, and let out a shaky breath. “What I’m trying to say is that I still hate you. Maybe I always will. But every touch you linger on me is a molecule that washes in attraction and love, and it scares the shit out of me. But I need more, which means I-“

“You need me.” Michael finishes, and you hesitantly nod. Michael softly smiles, and his soft features build up on his face, making you squirm, but you mirror his smile. 

“You’re poison, you know that, girl?” Michael laughs and stands, pulling you into a hug. He leans his forehead against yours and closes his eyes. 

“And yet we’re still here.” You whisper. 

Michael nods, eyes still closed. His fingers trace your face, familiarizing himself with the face he never wants to stop seeing, kissing, loving. His heart clenches a bit, anxiety and attraction creeping into his system. However, as he holds onto you, he lets out a breath. He’s right where he wants to be, and he can’t complain. You smile against him, eyes admiring his details. You’re in awe of him, of you, but most of all, the will to still yearn for something that isn’t guaranteed to ever work. 

A/N; I just know this story is going to break my heart 💔 If love could have saved you Michael, you’d still be here today 🤍

The first thing you noticed about 1984 was the smoke.

Not metaphorical smoke. Not “the air felt thick with destiny” smoke. Actual smoke curling against the rafters of a soundstage in Los Angeles while production assistants shouted over one another and cables tangled beneath hurried feet.

You stood perfectly still in the middle of it all, heart slamming against your ribs.

Because twenty feet away was Michael Jackson.

Alive.

Young.

Beautiful in a way old videos never managed to capture properly.

And unknowingly seconds away from one of the moments that would alter the trajectory of his life forever.

Your stomach twisted.

You knew exactly how this went.

The pyrotechnics would misfire during the sixth take. His hair would catch. People would react too slowly because they wouldn’t realize immediately. He would suffer second and third degree burns across his scalp. Painkillers afterward. The beginning of a dependency nobody around him would stop in time.

A thousand tiny dominoes.

You had spent years thinking about those dominoes.

Years wondering if anyone could have saved him if they’d just gotten there fast enough.

And somehow—

through circumstances you still didn’t fully understand—

you had.

“Miss?” a crew member barked at you. “You can’t stand there.”

You blinked hard, forcing yourself back into motion.

Right.

You weren’t supposed to be frozen in existential horror.

You were supposed to be the newly hired production assistant whose forged credentials had somehow passed scrutiny after you woke up in 1984 three days ago with nothing but future knowledge and a desperate sense of purpose.

“I’m moving,” you muttered.

The set buzzed around you. Bright lights. Camera equipment. Pepsi logos plastered everywhere. Assistants rushing with makeup kits and clipboards.

And Michael—

God.

He looked impossibly soft off-camera.

Smaller than you expected too, despite the way everyone seemed to orbit him like he generated his own gravity.

He laughed quietly at something one of his brothers said, head ducking shyly. The sound barely reached you over the noise, but it still hit like a punch to the chest.

Because you knew what happened to him.

Not just tonight.

Everything after.

The scrutiny.

The loneliness.

The hunger to be loved so badly it hollowed him out from the inside.

You knew all of it.

And somehow that knowledge made you feel dangerously protective.

“Resetting for another take!” someone yelled.

Your pulse spiked.

This was it.

You moved before your brain fully caught up.

Michael stepped into position beneath the staircase while makeup touched up his face one final time.

The pyrotechnics team adjusted equipment nearby.

You watched one technician fiddle too long with a cable.

Your skin prickled.

Wrong.

Something was wrong.

Every instinct screamed at you.

Then—

“Hold on!”

Your voice cracked across the set louder than intended.

Everything stopped.

Several heads turned toward you instantly.

Including Michael’s.

His dark eyes landed on yours in confusion.

The pyrotechnics coordinator frowned. “What?”

You swallowed hard.

Think.

Think fast.

“The sparks are too close to the back mark,” you said quickly, pointing. “If he lands there after the spin, it’s gonna hit higher than intended.”

Silence.

You could practically hear your own heartbeat.

The coordinator looked irritated more than concerned. “That’s where they were during rehearsal.”

“Yeah,” you said. “And rehearsal didn’t have the full charge loaded.”

A bluff.

A complete bluff.

But it worked.

The man hesitated.

Michael glanced between both of you, suddenly attentive.

“Can we just check?” you pushed. “Please?”

The room shifted with reluctant annoyance as crew members moved toward the rigging setup.

Seconds ticked by.

Then one of the effects guys suddenly swore under his breath.

Another walked over quickly.

Your knees nearly gave out.

“What?” the coordinator demanded.

“There’s a feed issue,” the technician said. “Timing delay.”

The coordinator’s face drained of color.

“If we fired this as-is…” He stopped speaking.

Nobody finished the sentence.

Nobody needed to.

The room erupted into motion immediately afterward.

People talking over each other. Equipment being shut down. Executives getting angry.

But you barely heard any of it.

Because Michael was staring at you.

Not casually.

Not politely.

Directly.

Like he was trying to solve something.

You looked away first.

Bad idea.

Because moments later, a soft voice appeared beside you.

“Excuse me?”

You turned.

Up close, Michael Jackson somehow looked even younger. Long curls framing his face. Brown eyes enormous and curious.

“You noticed that before everyone else,” he said quietly.

Your throat tightened.

“Lucky guess.”

He smiled a little.

“No,” he said gently. “I don’t think it was.”

For one horrible second you thought:

He knows.

Which was impossible.

Time travel wasn’t supposed to be recognizable in someone’s eyes.

“I just…” You scrambled for composure. “I saw the positioning.”

“That may’ve saved me.”

The words landed heavily between you.

You couldn’t breathe properly.

Because he had no idea how true that was.

“Anybody would’ve said something,” you lied.

Again, that tiny smile.

“I’m not sure they would’ve.”

There was something unbearably sincere about him. No ego. No arrogance. Just honesty delivered softly enough to make you ache.

You hated how quickly your chest reacted to it.

This wasn’t why you came here.

You weren’t here to fall in love with a tragedy.

You were here to stop one.

“You should probably sit down,” you said. “Everybody’s freaking out.”

A quiet laugh escaped him.

“You sound calmer than everybody else.”

If only he knew.

You’d spent years grieving him before ever meeting him.

Nothing on this set could compete with that.

“You okay?” you asked before you could stop yourself.

His expression flickered slightly at the question.

Like he wasn’t used to people asking and actually meaning it.

“Yeah,” he said automatically.

Future knowledge twisted painfully inside you.

No, you thought.

You won’t be.

Not unless something changes.

And maybe that something was you.

—

After the incident was prevented, the production schedule halted for days while executives investigated the malfunction.

You should’ve disappeared afterward.

That had been your plan.

Save him.

Leave.

Don’t interfere more than necessary.

Instead, somehow, you kept ending up near him.

Partly because he requested you specifically for set assistance afterward.

Partly because he seemed fascinated by you in a quiet, cautious way.

And partly because every time you tried to walk away, he looked at you with those eyes.

Like he trusted you already.

Which felt catastrophic.

“You’re mysterious,” he informed you one evening.

You nearly choked on your coffee.

The two of you sat in an empty rehearsal space while he worked through choreography long after everyone else had left.

“You barely talk about yourself,” he continued.

“That’s not mysterious. That’s private.”

He grinned.

“That’s what mysterious people say.”

You rolled your eyes despite yourself.

“You know,” he said, stretching against the mirrored wall, “most people around me talk constantly.”

“That sounds exhausting.”

“It is.”

His smile softened.

“With you it’s… quiet.”

Your chest hurt.

Because you knew this version of him still believed quiet could be safe.

You wondered how long before the world ruined that.

“You trust people too easily,” you blurted suddenly.

His brows lifted.

“That came outta nowhere.”

You looked away.

“You just do.”

A thoughtful silence settled.

Then:

“Did somebody hurt you?”

The question nearly shattered you.

Because the answer was technically yes.

Him.

Or rather—

the future.

the headlines.

the footage.

the tragedy of watching someone unravel while the world made entertainment out of it.

“You could say that,” you murmured.

Michael studied you carefully.

“You look sad sometimes,” he said softly.

You laughed once under your breath. “That’s because I know things I can’t fix.”

“Maybe you can.”

God.

There it was.

The dangerous thing.

The exact reason you were beginning to lose yourself around him.

Because every time he looked at you, you started believing maybe history wasn’t inevitable.

Maybe he didn’t have to become the man crushed beneath impossible expectations.

Maybe you really could fix him.

No really.

—

The first time he touched you, it was accidental.

Sort of.

You were helping pin fabric during a costume fitting when he turned too quickly, catching your wrist lightly.

“Sorry,” he said immediately.

But neither of you pulled away.

The room suddenly felt smaller.

Warmer.

Your pulse stumbled beneath his fingertips.

His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth before snapping away again.

“Oh,” he breathed quietly, like the realization surprised even him.

You stepped back first.

Dangerous.

This was becoming dangerous.

Because the more time you spent with him, the harder it became separating the Michael in front of you from the man history turned into myth.

This Michael laughed loudly when he got comfortable.

This Michael doodled on napkins.

This Michael got insecure after rehearsals and asked if certain dance moves looked stupid.

This Michael carried loneliness around like a second shadow.

And worst of all—

he looked at you like you made him feel normal.

You couldn’t survive that.

Not when you knew how this story ended in your timeline.

Not when every soft moment came with invisible grief attached.

One night he found you crying in an empty hallway at Hayvenhurst.

You hadn’t meant to.

A news segment playing downstairs mentioned fame, pressure, public scrutiny—

and suddenly all you could think about was future interviews, future accusations, future pain carved into his face year after year.

“Hey,” he said gently.

You wiped your face immediately. “I’m fine.”

“You’re really bad at pretending.”

You laughed shakily.

Michael stepped closer slowly, like approaching a frightened animal.

“What happened?”

Everything, you thought.

Everything happens to you.

Instead you whispered:

“I just wish people were kinder to you.”

Confusion crossed his features.

“That’s sweet,” he said softly. “But people are usually nice to me.”

The irony nearly killed you.

Your eyes burned again.

And suddenly he understood something was deeply wrong.

“You talk like…” He frowned slightly. “Like you know something.”

Your heartbeat stopped.

Too close.

Way too close.

“I don’t,” you said quickly.

But he kept staring.

Then quietly:

“Who are you?”

The question hung between you.

Not accusatory.

Just honest.

Who are you?

Someone who came from decades ahead carrying grief for you.

Someone who knows the shape of your future.

Someone stupid enough to think love might rewrite destiny.

You should’ve lied.

Instead you whispered:

“Someone trying to save you.”

Michael’s expression shifted.

Not fear.

Not disbelief.

Something sadder.

“From what?”

You looked directly at him then.

“All the people who only love pieces of you.”

Silence swallowed the hallway whole.

His eyes glistened slightly.

And before you could panic about how insane you sounded—

he kissed you.

Soft.

Careful.

Like he was asking permission and apologizing for wanting it simultaneously.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt instinctively.

You kissed him back because apparently self-destruction came naturally to you.

The kiss deepened slowly, emotionally more than physically. Months of tension unraveling at once.

When he finally pulled away, his forehead rested against yours.

“You talk like your heart’s already broken,” he murmured.

You almost told him the truth then.

Almost.

Instead you closed your eyes and held him tighter—

like maybe if you loved him hard enough here, in this moment, the future would finally loosen its grip.

Taglist: @mrsj4cks0n @pinkdreamerbailliflawyer-blog @swaggiesz @lotuspetalss @lalaloopsysstuff @kirsteing
@ifilosemyselfagain @booklovr32
@michaeljacksonsbuckles @blackpanthershawty

first christmas part 3.

michael jackson (off the wall era) x reader

part 1 / part 2

6k words

SUMMARY = Michael spends another day with her family and slowly discovers what a normal life is supposed to feel like. But the closer he gets to happiness, the harder it becomes to return to the life waiting for him at home.

WARNINGS = fluff, hurt/comfort, slow burn, emotional intimacy, soft moments, comfort fic, healing themes a little of emotional abuse, controlling parent, childhood trauma, crying, emotional vulnerability, loneliness, unhealthy family dynamics.

The house was already quiet when Michael came in. The warmth hit him first but it didn’t feel comforting tonight, it felt heavy.

He closed the door gently behind him still carrying the calm of the café in his chest, still hearing faint echoes of laughter in his head.

For a moment he even smiled like he was still somewhere else.

“Where were you?” The voice cut through everything.

Michael went completely still, his father was standing in the living room waiting.

Michael straightened. “I was out,” he said carefully. “With someone.”

The atmosphere changed immediately, his father’s expression hardened. “Out where.”

Michael hesitated. “…Around the neighborhood.”

“For how long?”

Michael swallowed. “The afternoon.”

“You don’t just disappear all day,” his father said firmly. “You don’t leave without telling anyone where you are going.”

Michael lowered his eyes a little. “I didn’t think it was dangerous.”

“That is not the point,” his father cut in sharply. “You are not a normal boy walking around without consequence. You are recognized everywhere you go.”

Michael didn’t respond because he already knew that part. He always knew that part.

His mother appeared near the hallway softer and cautious. “He was just-”

“No,” his father interrupted again. “This is exactly what we cannot allow, distraction and decisions without control.”

Michael’s hands curled slightly at his sides. “I wasn’t doing anything wrong,” he said quietly.

That line made his father pause, after that “You don’t decide that.”

~~~

The room shifts, it was the same house but different night. Christmas.

Michael walks through the door holding something in his hands, the gift he received wrapped carefully.

Voices come immediately. “Where have you been?”

He stops. His father was waiting.

But this time was just worse because Michael is litteraly holding the proof of where he has been.

His mother behind his father immediately noticing his expression, already trying to soften the air before it breaks. “He was invited,” she says gently.

That word lands badly.

His father’s eyes drop to the gifts in his hands. “Invited by who.”

Michael hesitates. “…A family in the neighborhood.”

“You don’t go into strangers homes ! Even more on Christmas!”

Michael looks up slightly.“It wasn’t like that.”

But it doesn’t matter because the structure of the world in that house is already fixed.

There was no moments, no feelings. The house feels too small for how loud the tension is.

His father steps forward slightly. “You don’t understand what this means. You cannot just leave and participate in things without thinking.”

Michael looks down at the gifts again and for a second, he looks younger than he is. “I just wanted to…”

Then he stops because there is no correct ending to that sentence here.

His mother tries to help him again, softer: “He just wanted to experience Christmas.”

But that only makes it worse, his father’s answer is immediate: “No! This is not how we do things!”

Michael’s fingers tighten slightly around the paper.

He doesn’t argue anymore because something inside him understands that this moment will not be understood.

~~~

The memory fades and Michael is back in the living room, standing.

His father’s voice is lower now, controlled. “You cannot afford distractions like this. Not now.”

The word hits differently again.

Michael nods slightly. “I understand.”

But his voice is flat and empty of everything he felt earlier that day.

His mother watches him carefully but doesn’t interrupt anymore because she knows this version of the conversation too well.

Michael turns toward the stairs and leaves quietly.

Upstairs in his room he finally closes the door.

And the silence changes again, it was not like with her, it was not peaceful.

He sits down slowly and for a long time he doesn’t move. Somewhere between Christmas Eve and today…he started learning what it feels like to have something that isn’t allowed to stay.

~~~~

The morning didn’t feel like it belonged to anything in particular.

It wasn’t peaceful, not really. It was just… empty in a way that made her notice everything else more sharply. The ticking clock in the kitchen, the faint sound of traffic outside or the way her thoughts kept drifting back to the same place no matter how many times she tried to pull them away.

Michael.

She hated how easily that had become normal in her head.

She stood by the window for a long moment, arms loosely crossed staring at the street like she expected something to change if she waited long enough.

But it didn’t.

Eventually, she exhaled. “I’m going out,” she said already grabbing her coat before she could talk herself out of it.

And no one questioned her.

She knew where Michael lived even though she had never been to his house, after all, it wasn’t a secret, everyone knew where he lived.

After about ten minutes of walking as she turned the corner she slowed down immediately.

The sound reached her first, there were too many voices.

Then she saw them. People crowded against the gates of the house packed tightly together, some calling out, some holding cameras and some just standing there like they had been waiting for hours. It didn’t feel like curiosity anymore.

She stopped walking for a second taking it in properly.

So this was what it looked like from the outside. Michael’s life.

She swallowed and moved closer anyway, instinctively lowering her head slightly as she approached the entrance. Two guards stood near the gate both alert, both used to this kind of constant presence.

She hesitated, then spoke. “Hello, I’m here to see Michael.”

One of the guards barely reacted. “Name?”

Her fingers tightened slightly in her sleeves. “I’m a friend.”

“Everyone say that”

Her chest tightened a little. “No, I really am!,” she insisted a bit more carefully now. “He knows me.”

Still nothing.

The second guard looked at her properly this time, skeptical but not rude, just cautious in the way people become when too many strangers try the same sentence every day. “He went to my house on Christmas,” she added quickly. “I invited him!.”

They exchanged a look and that was when a voice interrupted from behind them. “Is there a problem here?”

She turned then saw a man walking toward them.

He looked at her briefly then at the guards. “What’s going on?” he asked.

“She says she knows Michael,” one of them replied.

The man’s eyes shifted back to her, more observant now. “What’s your name?” he asked directly.

She hesitated again. “Come on I’m just here to see him,” she repeated softly. He sighed slightly like he had heard this exact sentence too many times in his life.

“Listen,” he said more gently, “a lot of people try to get in. You need to understand-”

“I’m not lying!,” she interrupted a bit more firm now. “I invited him. He was at my house on Christmas you can ask him.”

That made him pause cause he knew about Christmas.

He studied her for a moment longer. “Mhh, well, tell me what gift he gave to your family ” he asked slowly.

She looks at him choked. "Is that a joke?? He brought chocolate, flowers, and games!"

He looks at her then nods his head“…Wait here.”

He walked a few steps away speaking briefly with one of the guards. She couldn’t hear anything.

Then he came back. “All right,” he said finally. “You can come in.”

Relief hit her instantly before nervousness replaced it just as quickly.

The man walked slightly ahead of her leading the way without speaking much now.

“You know him personally?” she asked carefully after a moment, still unsure who he was.

He glanced back briefly. “Yeah, since he was little,” he said simply. And then she saw him.

Michael was standing in the garden mid-step like he had been doing something before he saw her

The second his eyes landed on her, he was confused.

“…Hi?” he said like he wasn’t fully convinced this was real.

She smiled immediately. “Hi.”

He looked past her and saw the man behind her "Hi Bill..." He blush as he realized he had met the girl he spoked to him about then he rested his gaze on her “Why- why are you here?” he asked voice softer now.

“I got bored,” she said honestly.

That made him laugh under his breath, as he watch Bill leaving while waving at them

“You came through all of that?” he asked, glancing toward the gate without fully turning.

“I didn’t know there would be that many people,” she admitted.

His expression shifted slightly at that “Mmh,” he said quietly.

Then she stepped closer brushing snow off her sleeve.

“I was thinking,” she said lightly, “you should come to my house again.”

Michael blinked. “Again?”

She nodded. “We can bake something. Or just… do normal stuff.”

The word made him pause slightly. Normal.

He repeated it in his head before answering. “…Yeah,” he said after a moment. “Yeah, okay.”

Her smile softened. “Good.”

They started walking toward the side of the house together, away from the front gate.

The noise faded as they moved further back.

Quieter, somehow, like the world had decided to lower its voice the further they walked away from the front gate. The noise of the crowd was still there, faint and distant, but it no longer pressed against her ears in the same way. Here, it was just wind, snow, and the soft sound of their steps on the ground.

She followed him without really thinking about it, still slightly overwhelmed by how easily she had been allowed inside in the first place. Nothing about this felt normal, even if he was acting like it almost was.

Michael walked a little ahead not fast, just naturally guiding the way hands tucked close to his body against the cold. Every so often he glanced back at her like he was quietly checking she was still there still following.

“You’ve never been here before,” he said suddenly as if it had just occurred to him again.

She let out a small breath of laughter. “Obviously not,” she replied. “You think I just casually hang out in your back gardens?”

That made him smile a little but he didn’t answer.

They turned the corner of the house moving into the side yard where the space narrowed slightly. The fence came into view ahead, it was tall, wooden, unremarkable at first glance, just part of the property like any other boundary.

Michael slowed down near it. “This is where I usually…” he started then stopped like he wasn’t sure why he was explaining it.

She looked at him, then at the fence. “…What?” she asked.

He hesitated for half a second before stepping closer and gesturing lightly toward a small almost hidden gap between the wooden panels and the corner structure. It wasn’t obvious at first glance, it’s something you would only notice if you were looking for it, or if you had seen someone use it before.

“I use this sometimes,” he admitted more quietly. “To get out without… everything.”

She stared at it for a moment processing then she blinked. “You’re joking.”

He looked at her quickly as if worried she misunderstood. “No, I mean- it’s just easier sometimes.”

For a second she just stood there looking between him and the small opening in the fence. The idea of it felt so strangely ordinary and so completely not ordinary at the same time that her brain didn’t quite know where to place it then she laughed.

“You really just have a secret exit in your garden?” she said, shaking her head slightly.

Michael blinked at her reaction “It sounds worse when you say it like that.”

“It is worse when I say it like that,” she replied still smiling.

The tension in his shoulders eased slightly at that like he had been half-expecting judgment and didn’t find it there.

She stepped a little closer to the fence peering at the gap properly now, then looked back at him.

“I can’t believe I just walked through a crowd of people to end up leaving by your secret escape tunnel,” she said.

He shrugged lightly, a small almost shy smile forming.

“It’s not really meant to be secret,” he admitted. “Just… less noticeable.”

She nodded slowly then tilted her head at him. “And you’re just showing me this?”

For a second he looked like he was thinking about the question properly then softly he murmured “I trust you.”

She didn’t answer right away. Instead she just looked at him for a second longer, something softer settling in her expression.

Then she stepped through first, carefully brushing snow off her sleeve as she moved to the other side.

When she turned back around he was still watching her like he was making sure she really was there.

~~~~~

The house looked the same as always from the outside but she still noticed the way Michael slowed down for half a second like he was taking it in again. The warm light coming through the windows, the faint sound of movement inside, the smell of something already sweet in the air.

He didn’t say anything at first and followed her up the path. “You okay?” she asked casually unlocking the door. He nodded once. “Yeah.” But he was still a little quiet.

The second they stepped inside the warmth hit them properly. And so did Lily.

“You’re back!” she announced immediately already appearing in the hallway like she’d been waiting there the whole time.

Michael blinked at her. “Hi,” he said, a little cautious but polite.

“YOU BROUGHT YOUR BOY-” she shouted immediately when she saw Michael behind her sister.

“LILY STOP!” She cut off her sister, blushing, hoping that Michael did not understand their altercation

Michael gave a small smile, glancing between them.

From the kitchen, her mother appeared wiping her hands on a towel. “Oh, you made it,” she said warmly. Then she noticed Michael properly and smiled. “Hello again.”

Michael straightened slightly, polite immediately. “Hello.”

Her mother’s expression softened at his tone. “You two are going to bake?” she asked, glancing between them.

“Yep,” her daughter replied.

Lily raised her hand. “I supervise.”

“No one asked you.”

“Yes they did. I am essential.”

Michael glanced at her quietly, then at the kitchen like he was already mentally preparing for whatever “essential supervision” meant.

She caught his expression and smiled. “Don’t worry,” she said softly. “It’s mostly sugar and chaos.”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah.. That’s… what I’m afraid of.”

The kitchen was warm when they walked in.

With music playing low, counter already half-covered with ingredients. A normal kind of mess.

She tied her sleeves back and grabbed a bowl. “Okay,” she said, “cookies first.”

Lily climbed onto a chair immediately. “I supervise.”

“You don’t supervise anything.”

“I supervise vibes.”

Michael stood a bit to the side at first, watching.

She noticed and just nudged a bowl toward him. “Here. Stir this.”

He looked at it like it required more thought than it did. “Just… stir?”

“Yeah.”

He nodded and started carefully like if he messed up the whole kitchen would explode. She smiled a little to herself not saying anything, just letting him figure it out.

“Chocolate chips?”said Lily as she opened the fridge

“Yes.”

“Extra?”

“No.”

“Wrong answer.” Her mother laughed quietly from the sink.

At one point flour somehow ended up in the air. No one admitted responsibility immediately which automatically meant Lily.

Michael turned slightly and blinked. “…Did it just snow inside?”

That made her burst out laughing. “It’s Lily,” she said simply.

“I didn’t do anything!” Lily yelled instantly.

“You were literally holding the flour bag.”

“I was just inspecting it.”

Michael shook his head slightly smiling now more openly like he was slowly getting used to the rhythm of this place.

She looked at her hands full of flour and without thinking she threw some on him.

It landed on his sleeve, Michael froze then looked down then back at her. “…Did you just do that on purpose?” he asked.

She bit back a smile. “Maybe.”

He hesitated holding the bowl clearly thinking about revenge but he was not moving.

She raised an eyebrow. “You’re not gonna do anything?”

“I am working.”

“That’s not an excuse.”

He looked at the flour on his sleeve again then shook his head slightly. “No.”

She laughed under her breath. “Wow.”

And that was when Lily jumped in. “Nope. There is no way. ” A handful of flour flew across the counter directly onto Michael’s shoulder. He blinked slowly turned his head. “…Okay.”

And that was it, he put the bowl down.

What followed was chaos.

Michael tried to stay polite at first, dodging, laughing and not really committing to throwing anything back properly until Lily declared herself “team chaos” and suddenly it wasn’t optional anymore.

“Hey!” he said laughing, trying to defend himself as Lily and her sister basically teamed up. “I didn’t start this!”

“You didn’t end it either,” she replied wiping flour off her cheek.

At one point he finally threw a little bit back at her and immediately looked slightly guilty after doing it.

She noticed and laughed. “You can hit harder than that.”

“I don’t want to-”

But Lily cut in again. “WRONG. THROW MORE.”

And suddenly he had no choice.

~~~

By the time they finally stopped there was flour everywhere, on the counter, on sleeves, in hair and on the floor.

Michael leaned back against the counter slightly, laughing under his breath, still a little surprised at himself. “I think I made it worse,” he said.

“You did,” she agreed.

“But it was fun,” Lily added proudly still holding a spoon like a weapon.

Her mother shook her head from the door smiling to herself. “You’re all cleaning this.”

“No,” Lily said instantly.

“Yes,” her sister replied.

Michael just looked at the mess, then at them still smiling.

The kitchen downstairs was finally clean.

It had taken them a while wiping counters, stacking bowls and brushing flour off the floor until nothing really showed what had happened earlier except the faint smell of sugar that still lingered in the air.

Upstairs, her room felt softer now in the late afternoon light. The sky outside was starting to shift toward that winter orange fading slowly through the window. A record was playing some music, the kind that just filled the silence gently.

They were sitting on her bed, not facing each other fully just angled slightly backs resting against the wall legs stretched out comfortable in a way that had slowly built up through the day without either of them really noticing.

At first they were just talking small things like Lily, the cookies, the mess in the kitchen or how he almost dropped the eggs again and how she “absolutely did not trust his cooking skills yet.” Michael had laughed at that, more relaxed than before like the tension from earlier had melted away.

But at some point the conversation slowed and then changed.

Michael went quiet for a while staring at his hands in his lap. She noticed immediately “You okay?” she asked softly.

He blinked like he had to come back to the room. “Yeah,” he said quickly. Then, after a pause: “I just…”

He stopped and looked down at his hands. “I don’t know how to explain it,” he admitted quietly.

She didn’t interrupt and he let out a small breath, almost shaky. “I feel like… I was just a normal kid today.”

The way he said it made her slow down.

It was like the word “kid” didn’t quite fit, but it was the only one that made sense to him.

He gave a small and uncertain laugh. “I know that sounds stupid. I’m not- I’m twenty-one, I know that, I just-”

He stopped again, swallowing while his eyes lowered. “I never had this.”

Her expression softened immediately.

Michael looked at his hand like he was trying not to lose control of the words now that they had started coming out. “When I was younger,” he continued, voice lower, “if I did something wrong… even small things… I would get punished for it.”

He hesitated not cause he didn’t want to say it but because he was choosing how.

“I didn’t really get to be… like this,” he said gesturing vaguely around them. “Laughing, making a mess or not worrying about everything I do.”

His voice cracked slightly on the last part and he laughed again but this time it wasn’t really a laugh.

“I didn’t know it could feel like this,” he whispered.

She didn’t move at first just looked at him. “Michael,”

His voice cracked a little. “It feels good,” he admitted. “But it also… hurts.”

He shook his head slightly, like he was trying to explain something that was impossible to understand. “Because I keep thinking about what I missed,” he said. “What it could’ve been like if things were different,”

“I just don’t know how to carry both at the same time.” That was when his voice finally broke and the tears came before he could stop them.

He turned his face slightly away immediately, embarrassed trying to breathe through it. “I’m sorry,” he whispered quickly. “I didn’t mean to- I’m okay, I just-”

But he couldn’t finish cause she moved closer immediately and took his arms.

His breath caught slightly at the contact like his body reacted before his mind could.

She didn’t say anything at first, she just held his arms tighter.

Michael kept his head slightly down, shoulders tense, tears slipping quietly without him being able to fully control it.

“I just wish,” he said voice breaking again, “I wish I could’ve had one normal day back then.”

That made her eyes water too as she squeezed his arms gently.

And this time, she spoke. “Michael…”

He looked at her then, finally.

“I’m really sorry you had to go through that,” she said softly.

His lips trembled slightly then he shook his head.

“No,” he said quickly still crying quietly. “You don’t need to be sorry. You didn’t do anything.”

He took a shaky breath.“I just… thank you.”

“For Christmas… Yesterday and today,” he added. “For letting me feel like… I was just a person.”

She shook her head slightly, tears spilling now too, quieter but real.

He shook his head slightly like he was embarrassed. “I just- sorry.” he tried quickly.

But she was already pulling him into a big hug, she melted into tears at his touch, she was blaming herself for not having appeared earlier in his life. Someone who did not have a childhood was inconceivable to her? It hurt her heart and at that moment she promised herself to make Michael discover everything he could not have experienced.

She realized that in a short time, she had become terribly attached to him. He was her friend.

Of course she had several friends in her life, but after high school graduation she withdrew into herself while all her friends took different paths.

At the end she only had her little sister and now Michael.

For a second he froze completely like his body didn’t immediately understand what to do with being held without expectation. Then slowly and carefully he leaned into it.

His hands stayed unsure at first, hovering slightly before finally resting lightly at his sides like he didn’t want to break the moment by doing too much.

His breathing was uneven then quieter. They didn’t say anything, they just stayed there.

Then he spoke it was very softly at first. “I’m tired,” he said.

She looked up at him him but he didn’t look at her yet. “It sounds stupid,” he added quickly almost instinctively. “I know I shouldn’t say that.”

She shook her head gently “Don’t do that,” she said quietly.

“I’ve been tired for a long time.” His fingers tightened slightly against each other. “Since I was a kid.”

That word landed differently, he swallowed, eyes still lowered. “My life was different..,” he admitted. “Not like other people.”

A small breath left him shaky. “There was no birthdays. No Christmas, nothing like that.”

He laughed faintly but there was nothing funny in it. “Just… work. Always work.”

The room felt quieter around them. “I love singing, that’s what I like most, but not like that.”

“And now I’m twenty-one,” he said softly, “and I’m experiencing things I was supposed to have years ago.”

Michael finally looked at her but only slightly like he wasn’t sure he could hold eye contact fully.

He then saw that she was also crying, he felt guilty but said nothing when he noticed that she was hesitant to speak.

“Mike, I… I wanted you to know that I’m here for you,” she said softly, still holding his hand between both of hers. “Like really here. Whenever you need to talk, or if you just wanna get out of the house, or do anything… I’m here, okay?”

Michael stayed quiet his eyes fixed on their hands for a second before slowly lifting toward her face.

She gave him a small smile, even though her eyes were still watery. “We’re friends now,” she continued gently. “And friends help each other. You’re not alone anymore.”

The room went completely silent after that. Michael looked at her like he didn’t fully know what to do with words that kind. “You… really mean that?” he asked quietly more tears coming out of his eyes.

She frowned a little immediately “Of course I do.” She say slightly pushing his shoulder while laughing with streaming tears, she didn’t even knew if it was sadness or joy.

He lowered his eyes again visibly emotional now, a small breath leaving him as he tried to compose himself.

“I’m not used to people saying things like that to me,” he admitted softly.

Her expression softened completely at that. “Well, you better get used to it,” she whispered with a tiny smile.

That made him laugh quietly through the tears still caught in his voice then after a small pause, Michael squeezed her hand gently for the first time.

“Thank you,” he murmured. “Really.”

He hesitated before speaking again, almost shy now. “That means more than I can explain.”

For a moment he just looked at her, eyes glossy and unbearably sincere.

And then, very quietly he admitted “I don’t feel alone when I’m with you.”

They hugged for several minutes, it was comforting,

~~~

Eventually the house felt silent.

The music upstairs had stopped at some point and the light outside had dimmed into early evening.

Michael stood near the front door now, coat back on and still a little quiet like the emotion hadn’t fully left him yet, just settled deeper.

She walked him outside onto the porch.

The cold air hit softly again, it was sharp but familiar.

He stopped at the bottom step and not of them spoke.

A second after he looked at her. “Thank you,” he said, softer this time. “For everything.”

She smiled a little through the lingering emotion. “You already said that.”

“I know,” he admitted. “And I mean it every time.”

Then he looked like he wanted to leave but couldn’t quite do it immediately, like something was holding him there.

So she stepped forward instead and this time, it was her that leaned up slightly and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.

It was quick, but gentle and warm

Michael froze instantly, not because it was uncomfortable but cause it surprised him completely.

When she pulled back she was smiling a little. “I’m really glad you came today,” she said softly. “And I can’t wait to see you again.”

His face was slightly red now, eyes still a little wet but his expression softened in a way that looked almost overwhelmed.

“…Yeah, me too,” he said quietly. “Good night...”

He hesitated one last time then finally turned and started walking down the path.

She stayed on the porch for a moment, watching him leave. “Good night Mike” she said to herself.

He walked slowly at first then a little faster.

Hands close to his coat, head slightly lowered like his chest couldn’t decide what feeling to hold first.

Halfway down the street he glanced back once.

And when he saw her still there, he lifted his hand slightly in a small wave.

She waved back then he kept walking.

And even though there was a strange heaviness in her chest from everything he had told her, there was also something else growing quietly under it.

Michael on his side, was probably the happiest person in the world, but he had to come back to reality

He was mentally preparing to get yelled at by his father when he got home for spending the afternoon with "strangers"…

uuuuuuuuhhh okayyyyy

i cried while writing this, so i hope you did too i suppose???

let me know if you liked it and if you have any ideas about things they could do, or discussions etc.

anyway tell me and i’ll include it!