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okay guys it's been awhile and I wanted to ask anyone with some good or any Leonardo x female reader fanfics? Either here, ao3 or Wattpad. Cause I've been missing TMNT for awhile and I'm also rewatching the 2k12 series.
Btw this is any type of TMNT universe either bayverse, 2k12 or 2k18/03 either way, I think my favorite one is the bayverse and 2k12? But ehhh, any is good. Oh and Raph as well
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he’s so handsome, i’m pissed
Tape 01: Interview w/ Mr & Mrs Jackson
Michael Jackson
Synopsis: An achieved tape of Michael and you being interviewed for the first time after your wedding and honeymoon. Reader is not media trained and is a bit naive.
Pairing: Dangerous!Michael Jackson x Black fem!reader
Word Count: 1k
Warnings: Language, age gap.
LOVE ITTTTT
You Are My Peace Masterlist
Michael Jackson x Fem!Reader
Status: COMPLETE
Summary:
After a difficult childhood in foster care, she’s built a life grounded in independence, not trust.
Meeting Michael changes that.
Their relationship begins quietly, but as it deepens, so do her fears of being left behind. When an unexpected pregnancy, media attention, and her past collide, she must learn to accept a kind of love she’s never known before.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐘 𝐌𝐀𝐌𝐀 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗂𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗋! 𝗆𝗂𝖼𝗁𝖺𝖾𝗅 𝗃𝖺𝖼𝗄𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗑 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗅𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗆! 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋
a/n ur son is based off emmanuel lewis !
𝓐fter the tragic Pepsi incident, Michael was against returning to Hayvenhurst or isolating himself in a hotel room. Fortunately for him, he was more than welcome to stay at your place.
Your son was a child prodigy in the making. His career began in commercials— such as Campbell’s soup and Burger King. Emmanuel L/n became an household name after staring was Webster in sitcom Webster. You were familiar with stardom— doing some background work or starring in a few commercials when you were a girl.
In the flatlands of LA you and your son, Manny you called him, resided in your one story, Tudor revival style home. It was a cozy place with family portraits strewn wood paneled walls, a sunken living room, carpet floors, plants, colorful tiles and warm lighting. You kept your lawn freshly mowed while you rid your garden of any weeds and pests.
You and Manny prepared the spare bedroom for Michael with attentive care— Manny on his tippy toes dusting the shelves, you spraying down the bathroom, washing the bedsheets with that new fabric softener you purchased, and vacuuming the floor. You cracked open the window for fresh air and he even lit a candle. You were pulsing with nerves— you wanted Michael to feel comfortable.
And maybe because Michael freaking Jackson is staying in your house! You’ve been following his career ever since his J5 days and have been a fan since. Your twelve year old self is currently giggling and kicking her feet. But of course, you promised not to fan out.
In the first weeks of Michael’s arrival, he was mostly quiet, but appreciative.
“You have such a beautiful home,” he said with his soft cadence, big eyes taking in the new environment.
“Thank you so much,” you clasped your hands together to calm your nerves, “I’ll show you to your room then give you a tour, yeah?”
He smiled and bit the inside of his cheek, “that sounds perfect.”
Even during dinner, he’d nod and mumble a quiet: “dinner was delicious, thank you. Do you need help with dishes?”
You’d shake your head as you gathered everyones’ plates, “there’s no need— I’d rather have you get some rest.”
He was radiating with shy energy, but it didn’t stop him from giving thanks or softening whenever your son was around. Manny was star struck that Michael Jackson was staying at his house, buzzing around him and never leaving his side. You’d apologize and had to peel your son away so Michael could “get some rest” but he made it clear that he enjoyed Manny’s presence (anyone’s really) and was more than happy to have him around.
You spent the first couple of weeks bringing him trays of food when he was bedridden, making sure he took his medication, checking his bandages and adjusting the temperature in the room. Michael felt so spoiled— having this pretty lady trip over her own feet for the sake of his comfort.
Michael loved sitting in your backyard. Not only because of the butterflies that seemed to flutter whenever you stepped outside, or how the air seemed sweeter because of those pretty flowers you planted. But sitting next to you on that swing sofa, watching Manny catching a butterfly with that toolkit Michael got him at the zoo. At first, you always kept a respectful distance, but the afternoons were chilly, and Michael’s warmth drew you in. And if Michael was feeling extra brave, his arm would rest on the back of the sofa, brushing against your upper back. He was so greedy.
He knew he was falling for you in the way his heart skipped a beat whenever he walked into the kitchen to see you cooking breakfast, or the way you laughed as Manny put gem stickers on your face and calling you a disco ball, or the way Michael’s touch lingered when he squeezed past you or placing a hand on your shoulder “for comfort” when you’d come into his room to talk about your day.
And you felt dammed for feeling the same. It was undeniable the way warmth spread through your body when Michael’s skin would brush yours as you washed dishes, or the way the three of you bundled on the couch— Manny in the middle— for a movie night. As much as you loved your son, it was nice breather to have him away for the weekend.
And it was a perfect opportunity to spend more time with Michael. You felt too grown to call it a crush, but liking Michael felt like you were a teenager again. You loved catching those sparkly auburn eyes across the room, leaving you two giggling and looking away, and spending the afternoons with wine and orange juice in a champagne flute on the swing sofa.
He felt so human being with you. He felt heard and comfortable. He felt like a father, like a husband.
You can recall a random Tuesday when you came home to the sound of Billie Jean pulsing through the walls. When you emerged into the living the sight truly warmed your heart.
“It takes some practice,” Michael said, glancing down to Manny, “shift that weight like I told you. And slide on that heel— like this.”
Manny looked at Michael like he hung the stars as he performed a flawless moonwalk against your hardwood floor. The night ended with a cam recorder over your shoulder, laughing as Manny and Michael spun across the floor to the music.
Your son was undoubtedly bright, but he burned brighter when he was around Michael. Ever since Michael came about, Manny has been smiling harder and laughing louder. You loved the way he felt so comfortable around Michael, sharing his comics, babbling about his favorite films and shared experiences even in the entertainment industry.
You and were son weren’t lonely at home, you had each other, but having that extra presence at the dinner table, engaging in conversation and giving his compliments to the chef, felt like you had a whole family. You can tell Manny felt it too.
Michael treated Manny as his own. You remember when the boys came back from a trip to the Los Angeles Zoo. The trunk was loaded with a bunch of stuff neither of them truly needed, like stuffed animals, books, candy, and souvenirs like animal themed pencils, notebooks, toys, and all that jazz.
One night when Michael was about to depart to his room, Manny ran up to him and hugged his legs. “Good night, Michael,” he gave the man a toothy grin. Michael returned a gentle smile and he picked him out, giving him a light squeeze before setting him down. “Night Manny,” his eyes flickered to yours, “get a good’s night rest.”
“Sleep well Michael,” you cupped a hand over your son’s head, “if you need anything, just speak into the intercom. I’ll be up.”
His eyes never left yours as he nodded, “Goodnight.”
Another sight made your head ache is when you went to check on Michael one afternoon. Cartoons and gleeful giggles bubbled from his room all day, and from your spot on the couch you saw Manny across the hall bring more and more comic books and toys from his room. When the laughter subsided, you decided to pop your head in, and you nearly cooed. The two were bundled up on the woven egg chair, a fluffy blanket draped over them as open Peter Pan was splayed across Michael’s lap. Manny, who had his stuffed lion tucked beneath his arm, was fast asleep on Michaels shoulder.
“Hello,” Michel greeted softly, looking up at you with those pretty eyes.
“Hey,” your tone mirrored his own, sitting on the edge of the bed, “you read Peter Pan for him? That’s— that’s so sweet of you.”
“He was stuck to my side like glue. I could tell he was getting a little sleepy,” Michael said fondly as he looked to the sleeping boy beside him, “I promised him I’d teach him a few dance moves tomorrow.”
Was this man a godsend? Why is he so beautiful? Why does he have to be so perfect? Can I marry him?— You cleared your throat before your mind could cross any sort of dangerous territory. “Well, I’ll get him off your hands and put him to bed,” you slid off the bed, standing in front of them. Michael enjoyed the view.
“Sleep well, little prince,” Michael whispered sweetly before you scooped your baby boy in your arms, his smaller ones immediately wrapping around your neck.
The lights in the room dimmed when his favorite pair left. A sorrowful sigh escaped his lungs and what replaced it was loneliness.
Across the hall you tucked your son into bed, thumb stroking his cheek. You leaned down to press a kiss to his forehead before pausing when Manny asked: “Can Michael be my dad?”
You pulled back and blinked. “What?
“Micahel. Can you marry him so you can my dad?”
Marry? Marry Michael? Marry Michael Jackson? You would’ve brushed it off if he was maybe five years younger, but even age can’t shake the fact that your son yearned for that extra parental figure in his life. Especially that “figure” being Michael, who has been nothing but good to him for the past couple of weeks.
“Uhm—“ a huff of nervous laughter escaped from you, “You’re tired, okay? Goodnight. I love you,” you kissed his forehead one last night, silencing him from any other ridiculous ramble.
Pft, marry Michael Jackson…..
Michael nearly slipped down the hallway as he scurried back to his room. He only stepped out for a glass of orange juice, but gravitated to the sound of your voice and the words “Michael” and “dad” and even “marry” being in the same sentence.
Michael never stopped dreaming of being a father one day. Living in a big house with his pretty wife and his eighteen kids.
He closed the door behind him with a soft click! before biting down onto his fist and silently screaming. What he wouldn’t give to be your husband and a father to Manny.
To say it stroked his ego was an understatement.
“Hmph, I’d be a great father…” he whispered to his reflection, striking a pose.
He struck another that was supposed to make him appear “manlier.”
“Son,” he deepened his voice, tilting his chin upwards and clamping a hand on his hip and pointing a finger, “go to your room this instant— no I wouldn’t say that…”
He tapped his chin before tuning to his right, kneeling down and speaking in his own voice this time, “I’m so proud of you son, good job. Let’s go get some ice cream,” his hand wafted the air, like he was patting his imaginary future child’s or Mannys’ head. He rose to his feet with a shit eating grin, “yeah, that’s more like it.”
And because he was feeling extra special, he turned again, going one knee and opening his imaginary, velvet lined box with the most prettiest rock inside. “Will you marry me, (Name) ?”
After that? Michael slept like a damn baby.
The three of you were exhausted after spending the entire day at Disney.
The car ride home was peaceful. Bill drove smoothly across the freeway. A quiet, instrumental jazz filled the space, bleeding towards the back seat where Manny was tucked between you and Michael. Manny was wrapped in his new Mickey Mouse jacket Michael bought him, the hood having those two signature, black circular ears stitched on the top. Michael wore his own red Mickey sweatshirt with his collared polo beneath. You sported a Minnie one yourself— which Michael was more than happy to purchase for you.
The way Michael’s arm snaked around your shoulders was a complete mystery, but shared the warmth between you and Manny.
The past couple of weeks caught up to you, and your appreciation and adoration for Michael grew fonder. Your words escaped you before you could second guess yourself, “Michael.”
He turned to you, like he was waiting for you to call his name.
The way the city lights sparkled in those big eyes and accentuated the curves on his face, nearly made your heart stop. You could tell Michael felt the same, like he was more focused on your features rather than what you were actually going to say. “Hi,” he whispered.
For a second you ogled at the stars swimming in his eyes, before blinking the thought away. “Thank you again. You have been incredible to Manny and I’d be an idiot not to notice how much Manny loves you and how you love him— I mean you’re so patient and kind and compassionate, and it’s just so refreshing to have that extra hand, that extra presence in the house—“
His cheeks felt so warm, “You’re flatterin’ me—“
You reached out instinctively grabbed his hand on your shoulder, “I’m being so serious Michael. You’ll make a great father, someday.”
To our children, he wanted to say. Instead, his fingers intertwined with yours, “Thank you, I’m really striving towards that. Manny is so smart, so bright and full of wonder. He’s such a sweet boy and knows how to light up a room.” He looked down to your fingers, suspended in the air like time itself slowed to prolong this moment, “and you’re an incredible mother. I see where he gets it from.”
With a flushed thank you and turn of your head, Michael teasingly tilt his head to catch your wandering eyes. Manny shifted between you both, letting out a contented sigh.
Michael loved his little family.
The three of you were headed to some high profile, industry event. Despite Michael wanting to protect you from such a public eye though simultaneously he felt silly since he’s not your man, Manny insisted that you came. But of course, you planned to split up, Manny and Michael embracing their friendship while you stood in the limelight. Plus, you had a few friends in the attending, so you had company.
Your heels clicked on the hardwood floor as you emerged from the hallway like it was your runway. God, you looked like a dream. Michael immediately straightened up before standing entirely. He gulped as he eyed your dress, fitting you like a second skin with that color that he loved on you. You didn’t notice (or did you) and only checked yourself in the frames mirror, touching up your updo and fixing your lashes with your finger.
Manny tugged on his sleeve leaned in to whisper to Michael who leaned down to his level, “isn’t my momma so pretty?”
“Yeah…” Michael licked his lips, eyes scaling your figure through the tint of his shades, “pretty mama…”
a/n i haven’t posted fics lately so i wanted to get something out😅😅 hope i like i prolly wont b publishing for a while cus im so busy
+++ not proofread so if sum don’t make sense tell me 🙏🏽🙏🏽
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― Just Friends
note: i could never handle being fwb with michael. like nooo mooore big daddy !! anyways sorry it took me so long to drop sumn new..been busy giving my acct a bbl.
"M-Michael!" you yelled out, your voice fracturing into the heavy, heated air of your bedroom.
Hearing you scream his name was his absolute favorite sound, and it instantly made him work even harder, his hips driving into yours with a frantic, desperate rhythm because he knew that was exactly what would get you there. His large hand was tangled fiercely into your messy curls, while his other hand was gently but firmly wrapped around your neck, anchoring your body entirely to his. Sweat glistened over your beautiful brown skin, making you look like you’d been sun-kissed by God Himself as the explosive wave of pleasure finally crashed over you both.
.✦ ݁˖ details through the eras ━ off the wall
since you did the text with niece!reader, can i ask you for a similar one but with daughter!reader? pleaseeee
WISDOM TEETH REMOVAL — DAD!MICHAEL JACKSON
featuring: dad!michael x daughter!reader synopsis: reader finds out her dad set up an appointment for her wisdom teeth to be removed and she's not happy about it. reader is bigi's twin sister. warnings: reader getting creative with nicknames. there will be a part two with an actual fic for this one.
Wait.. maybe some texts with nugget telling her uncles shes talking/dating jamal..? 👀
Nugget tells her uncles she's dating a guy.
Nugget "joins" Love Island
to the person that submitted multiple text ideas, thank you. you know who you are.
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PROJECT MOONWALK
Under the code name Margot, you have been assigned by TimeLine Corporation to prevent the death of global icon Michael Jackson. The mission has been attempted by 20 agents prior and succeeded by 0. The future of the commonwealth thanks you for your service.
You’re no one. He’s the world. And his life is in your hands, no matter how many times it takes to save him—no matter how impossible it seems.
In which you have devoted your life to ensuring his.
cont. time travel/multiverse AU , character study, mystery , angst , hurt/comfort , fluff , death , trauma , hollywood corruption , substance abuse , violence , physical + verbal abuse , racism + misogyny , fem!reader , mental health , mature themes and sexual content (18+) , existentialism , multiverse/realities , confusing time laws , prob inaccurate science
AS A TIMELINE AGENT, PLEASE PROVIDE ALL OF YOUR FINDINGS IN THE FOLLOWING FILES:
📁 : mission report 📁 #1 : wanna be startin' somethin' 📁 #2 : the way you make me feel 📁 #3 : whatever happens 📁 #4 : upside down
and more to come…
series playlist author's note questions
𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋 𝐈𝐒 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐄 ────
𓏲 ࣪ ˖ type : one-shot (requested) fluff. michael x reader. tags : offthewall!michael. reader is bill’s daugther and know the jacksons. friends to lovers. mike is so cute and so jealous. 𓏲◞ michael doesn’t seems to enjoy the way his brothers flirt with you, especially when he’s to one who want to be yours…
Michael Jackson ANOTHER PART OF ME (1988)
escapism
synopsis: two years after he broke your heart and married someone else, you finally break your silence. you shatter his world on live television. now, in a private vip booth you make him crawl and beg for an encore.
themes: HIStory era! michael x famous singer! reader, ex boyfriend, angsty michael, he hides his feelings for someone else, breaks your heart, 1995 vma’s, make your come back, michael begs.
note: this is inspired by escapism by raye!! listen along as you read!!
The cameras adored you before you even admitted you were together. To the media, you weren’t just a couple; you were a cultural phenomenon. Every magazine printed the exact same bold headline across glossy covers: The King and Queen of Pop. The impossible couple. The unstoppable couple. The forever couple.
That reality felt largest on the nights you shared the stage. Stepping off the platform after a grueling two-hour set, sweat still glistening under the stadium lights, your chest heaving after another flawless performance. Before your manager could even hand you a towel, Michael materialized from the shadows backstage.
“You were incredible,” he whispered, his voice a breathless rush as he wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling your back flush against his chest.
“You say that every night,” you teased, leaning back into his warmth.
“‘Cause it’s true every night, spread the word.” He kissed your temple, his eyelashes brushing your skin as the blinding pop of paparazzi flashes caught the silhouette of the embrace through the heavy velvet curtains. The next morning, the world woke up to the same image plastered across every major newspaper: KING AND QUEEN OF POP RULE THE WORLD.
Those public triumphs were born in the quiet spaces no one else saw. A year prior, Michael had been sitting cross-legged on the hardwood floor of the Neverland library, helping you scratch out lyrics on a crumpled legal pad while Bubbles wandered through the room, occasionally swipe-grabbing pens off the coffee table.
“No,” Michael had laughed, a high, musical sound that filled the room. “No, no, hold on. That line needs to hit harder. Don’t cheat yourself. It’s too soft for what you’re trying to say.”
“You think everything needs to hit harder,” you grumbled, chewing on the cap of your pen. “Sometimes a whisper works, Michael.”
“Because you’re capable of a roar!” he said, his playful demeanor instantly shifting into something intensely serious. He leaned forward, his dark eyes locking onto yours with absolute sincerity. “I mean it. I believe you’re the greatest artist of our generation. You have to show them that.”
Your cheeks flushed, a warm heat spreading down your neck. He smiled, that soft, dimpled expression that belonged only to you, far away from the stage lights. “And one day,” he murmured, reaching out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear, “they’ll realize I wasn’t exaggerating. Just wait.”
The world seemed to agree, turning every public appearance into an interrogation about your future. By the time the 1992 MTV Awards rolled around, the red carpet was a chaotic sea of screaming fans and blinding white flashes. Hand in hand, you and Michael moved through the press line like royalty until a bold interviewer thrust a microphone toward him.
“Michael, the rumors are flying! Do you think wedding bells are next for the King and Queen?”
Michael laughed shyly, burying his face slightly in your shoulder to hide his burning cheeks. “Oh, gosh… I don’t really discuss my private life, you know that..”
The interviewer pushed, sensing a headline. “But she’s the one? Come on, Michael, give us something.”
Michael stopped walking. He looked over at you, the chaotic roar of the red carpet seemingly fading into background noise. His eyes softened into something so deeply tender it made the breath catch in your throat. “I think she’s… very special. More than special.”
The world exploded, and with that explosion came the vicious teeth of the industry. Yet, he defended you constantly. He was your fiercest protector, a barrier between you and the gossip. When executives questioned your risky artistic choices, Michael would slam his hand on the boardroom table and tell them, “They don’t understand her. Let her create. She knows exactly what she’s doing.” When gossip columns claimed your sudden success had made you difficult on set, he snapped at reporters, “They’ve never met her. She is the kindest soul in this business.” And when a prominent reporter sleazily suggested that your chart-topping success was merely a byproduct of dating the most famous man on earth, Michael’s polite smile vanished. The air in the room turned to ice.
“No,” Michael said, his voice dropping to a terrifyingly cold, razor-sharp register, staring the reporter down until the man visibly fidgeted. “She’s successful because she’s extraordinary. Don’t ever confuse her brilliance with my presence. She commands the stage all on her own.”
You loved him for that. You worshipped him for it. He always stood between you and the world, until the day the storm inside Neverland grew louder than the noise outside.
It started on a night when the rain was battering violently against the panoramic windows of the sunroom. “You cancelled another dinner,” you said, your voice trembling with a toxic mix of exhaustion and hurt. “That’s the third time this week, Michael. We live in the same house and I have to schedule a meeting to see you.”
Michael was pacing, his boots clicking sharply against the floor. He looked frayed, his curls damp with sweat, his leather jacket thrown carelessly over a chair. “I was recording! I told you, the tracks aren't blending well, the mixing is all wrong. I’m running out of time, I have people breathing down my neck!”
“I was recording too! We share a studio calendar, Michael, I know when you left the booth. You were gone by four.”
“You don’t understand the pressure I’m under!” he suddenly shouted, his voice cracking, pitching high into that raw, strained register he only used when he was completely unraveling. He spun around to face you, eyes wide and frantic. “The labels, the press, the tour prep, everyone wants a piece of me! Everyone is draining me! I don’t need this from you too!”
You laughed, a bitter, hollow sound that cut through the room. “Oh, don't give me that. Don't play the martyr with me. Don't make me out to be the villain just because I want my boyfriend back.”
Michael stopped pacing. He took a deep breath, rubbing his temples aggressively, his fingers burying into his hair. “I’m exhausted,” he pleaded, his voice dropping to a broken whisper. “I am so, so exhausted. Please, just let it rest tonight.”
“So am I,” you whispered, the anger giving way to a devastating grief. “It means you’re disappearing. You’re right here, and you’re entirely gone.”
The silence that followed was suffocating. Michael looked down at his hands, his voice barely audible. “I’m trying. I swear I’m trying.”
“No,” you snapped, the truth ripping out of you. “No, you’re pretending.”
The distance only grew, mutating into a toxic paranoia over the weeks that followed. The breaking point arrived in the main house when a phone began ringing on the antique side table. Michael, who had been sitting on the sofa, practically leaped across the room to grab it. The moment he saw the caller ID, his body went completely rigid. He didn't answer it there; he turned on his heel toward the hallway.
“Who keeps calling?” you demanded, standing up.
Michael froze at the threshold of the room. He didn't turn around. “What? It’s nobody. Just the office.”
“Every time that phone rings, you leave the room. You look like you’ve seen a ghost, and then you vanish into the office for an hour. Who is it? Is it a woman?”
His jaw tightened so hard you could see the muscle flexing in his cheek as he finally turned to face you. His eyes were dark, guarded, reflecting a side of him he usually kept reserved for his enemies. “It’s business. Don't do this. I said it’s business, leave it alone.”
“Bullshit, Michael! Don't lie to me!” You folded your arms, your heart hammering against your ribs. The suspicion that had been rotting in your gut for weeks finally formed into a name you had seen pop up in the logs. “Is it Lisa? Is she the one calling you at midnight?”
Michael’s face changed. It was subtle slight widening of his eyes, a momentary parting of his lips, a sudden drainage of color from his face. But then he recovered, his expression hardening into defensive anger. “No! No, it’s not! Why are you doing this? You’re making up stories in your head!”
“You don’t trust me,” Michael groaned later that same night, throwing his hands in the air as he paced the length of the bedroom.
He was sweating now, the nerves rolling off him in waves. He looked cornered, defensive, like a man desperately trying to protect a secret that was already bleeding through his fingers. “You’ve become so suspicious of everything I do! I can’t even have a private conversation without you treating me like a criminal!”
“Should I trust you?” you yelled back, tears finally stinging your eyes. “You’ve become a stranger to me, Michael! You look at me like I’m an obligation, like you're just waiting for me to leave the room!”
“You make everything into a crisis!” he yelled, his voice cracking violently. He gripped the edge of a dresser, his knuckles turning white. “You’re projecting your own insecurities onto me! I can’t even breathe in my own house without you analysing it! There is nothing going on! I told you, she’s just a friend, we are talking about a project!”
“Because there IS something!” you screamed, your voice breaking.
“There isn’t! I swear to you, there isn't!” Michael roared back, his chest heaving, his face contorted in a mask of defensive fury.
“Then look me in the eyes,” you challenged, stepping directly into his space, forcing him to face you. Your voice dropped to a deadly, trembling whisper. “Look me in the eyes right now and tell me there’s absolutely nothing between you and Lisa Marie Presley. Tell me you don't feel anything for her.”
Michael opened his mouth to speak. To repeat the denial. To yell at you again.
But he couldn’t.
He looked at you, and the lie died in his throat. He choked on it. His gaze broke, his eyes darting frantically to the floor, his breathing shallow and ragged. That hesitation, that agonizing, five-second silence, shattered something inside you that could never be pieced back together.
The quiet that followed that fight was the prelude to the end. One evening, you drove back through the heavy wrought-iron gates of Neverland after a grueling fourteen-hour session at the recording studio. You walked into the main lounge and stopped. Michael was sitting entirely alone on the edge of the large sofa. The television wasn’t on. There was no music playing. He looked smaller than usual, his head bowed, his hands clasped so tightly between his knees.
He looked up when the door clicked shut. “Oh… hi. You’re back.”
“…Hi?” The air in the room was thick with impending doom.
He stood up slowly, his movements stiff, almost robotic. “Can… can we sit down for a minute? Please?”
You frowned, dropping your keys onto the side table. “What the heck is going on, Michael? Just tell me.”
He gestured to the sofa, his eyes swimming with a desperate, agonising anxiety. He looked physically ill. You sat down, the silence stretching for a minute. Two minutes.
“…Michael?” you whispered, a cold dread pooling in your chest.
He stared intently at the pattern of the carpet. “I’ve been thinking a lot… about us. About everything.” Your stomach dropped into a bottomless pit. “I…” Another agonizing pause. Michael swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. “…you know you’re my best friend. You’re the closest person to me.”
“No.”
He blinked, finally cutting his eyes to you. “What?”
“Don’t start with that,” you said, your voice deadpan, completely hollow. “Don’t do the 'best friend' speech. If you're going to break my heart, just do it.”
Silence. Michael’s lower lip began to tremble, a deep, painful angst taking over his features. He looked like he was suffocating under the weight of his own words. “I’ll always care about you. No matter what happens, I will.”
Your breathing quickened, panicking. “No. Stop it.”
“I just…”
“No!”
“I don’t know how to say this,” he choked out, a single tear finally escaping and tracking down his pale cheek.
“Then don’t say it.”
He closed his eyes, took a ragged breath, and finally spoke the words very quietly. Very clearly. “I don’t love you anymore.”
Everything stopped. The wind outside. The ticking of the grandfather clock. The very beating of your heart.
“…What?” you whispered.
He kept his eyes glued to the floor, his voice shaking but resolute. “I don’t love you anymore. I’m sorry.”
“What the fuck?”
Michael’s shoulders flinched violently at the profanity, a soft gasp escaping him as he curled further into himself.
“No,” you laughed, a broken, hysterical, confused sound that ripped from your throat. “No… no… why? Michael, look at me! Why?”
Nothing. He just sat there, taking the blows of your words, his head bowed in absolute shame.
“Michael!” you screamed.
Nothing.
“WHY?”
He couldn't answer. Not a single word. He couldn't give you a reason because the reason was a betrayal he didn't have the courage to voice. You stood up so quickly your knees slammed into the coffee table, rattling the crystal coasters. “Oh my God… Oh my God.”
He finally looked up at you. His face was entirely streaked with tears, his eyes red-rimmed and brimming with a profound, heavy misery. He looked broken, but he wasn't changing his mind.
You pointed a shaking finger at him. “It’s her. You lied to me. It’s her, isn’t it?”
Silence.
“It’s her, damn it!”
His lips trembled violently. He looked like he wanted to scream, wanted to beg for forgiveness, but he remained completely paralyzed. “Lisa.”
He looked back down at the carpet. He didn’t deny it this time. He didn’t defend himself. He didn’t even say your name to comfort you.
You let out a ragged laugh that dissolved into a heavy, devastating sob. “I knew it. I knew it all along.”
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice cracking completely, a pathetic, broken sound. “I didn’t mean for it to happen, I swear I didn’t…”
“You let me think I was crazy!” you shrieked, the betrayal burning through your veins. “You made me feel like I was insane! You stood in this room and lied straight to my face!”
“I never wanted to hurt you—” Michael cried out, standing up, reaching a frantic hand out toward you. “Please, you have to understand, I was so confused—”
“You LOVED HER!”
“I…”
“You loved her while you were sleeping in my bed! You loved her while you were looking me in the face!”
He couldn’t answer. He just stood there, tears pouring down his face, his chest heaving under the weight of his own guilt. That silence was your final answer. You grabbed your handbag from the chair. Michael took a frantic step forward. “Please… don't leave like this.”
“No.”
“Can we just—can we please talk tomorrow? When we're both calm?”
“No!” Tears finally spilled freely down your cheeks, hot and blinding. You looked at the man you had built your life around, the man you thought was your forever. “I chose you,” your voice cracked, breaking into pieces. “Every… single… time. No matter what they said about you, I chose you.”
Michael was crying openly now, big, heavy sobs shaking his entire frame. He covered his face with his hands, the picture of absolute, unadulterated angst. “I know,” he wept into his palms. “I know you did.”
“And you couldn’t even look me in the eyes.”
You turned and walked straight to the grand front doors. He didn’t stop you. He didn’t chase you down the driveway. He didn’t fight for you. He just stayed in the center of that massive, empty room, weeping into the silence. The heavy oak door clicked shut behind you. You never returned to Neverland.
The split absolutely broke Hollywood. Every entertainment news show ran 24-hour coverage, and fans chose sides across global forums. The King and Queen of Pop were dead. And then, you simply vanished. No press releases. No promotional singles. You pulled the plug on your public life entirely. For two long years, the music industry was a ghost town, wondering where its Queen had gone, even as Michael moved on publicly, marrying Lisa Marie Presley under a storm of relentless headlines questioning if their fairytale was already over.
The answer came at the Video Music Awards in 1995. Michael sat in the front row of the packed arena, Lisa sitting stiffly beside him. Their smiles for the flashing cameras looked entirely rehearsed, brittle and hollow. Michael looked exhausted, the spark missing from his eyes, his mind clearly a million miles away from the awards ceremony until the presenter walked up to the podium with a knowing smile.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen… a surprise performance.”
The arena lights died instantly. Complete, pitch-black darkness enveloped the venue. Confused murmurs broke out across the thousands of celebrities and fans. Then, a massive, heavy bass beat boomed through the stadium speakers. A slow, deliberate inhale echoed through the microphone, sending a collective chill down the audience's spine. From somewhere hidden deep in the dark stage, a voice purred…
“Sleazin’ and teasin’, I’m sittin’ on him…”
Gasps erupted like wildfire across the arena. Michael’s head snapped toward the stage so fast he nearly strained his neck. His entire body went completely, terrifyingly rigid. His breath caught in his throat. No… it couldn’t be.
The voice continued, oozing with an effortless, dangerous confidence.
“All of my diamonds are drippin’ on him…”
Michael stopped breathing entirely. He knew that voice. He had spent years helping train that voice. He had fallen asleep to that voice. He would know it in the middle of a warzone.
“I met him at the bar, it was twelve or somethin’…”
Lisa looked over at him, her brow furrowing as she noticed his sudden, deathly pallor. “…Michael?” she whispered, reaching for his hand. He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His hand was trembling.
“I ordered two more wines ’cause tonight I want him…”
The audience was screaming now, a deafening, hysterical roar as the realization swept through the crowd. A single, blinding white spotlight burst to life on the center stage.
You stepped forward, flanking a line of synchronized dancers. You looked breathtaking. A skin-tight, floor-length black dress that fit like a second skin, towering heels, your hair cascading over one shoulder in perfect waves. The diamonds dripping from your neck and wrists caught every single flash of the media pit. The arena exploded.
Michael couldn’t move. He sat frozen in his seat, a man watching his past life return to haunt him in full high-definition glory. His dark eyes found yours instantly across the sea of thousands of screaming faces. And across the distance, you found him too. Neither of you looked away. The music suddenly softened, dropping to a sultry, rhythmic pulse. You lifted the microphone to your lips, a faint, dangerous smile touching your face. You stared directly into Michael’s soul, and you sang to him.
“A little context if you care to listen…”
Michael swallowed hard, his throat dry, a look of sheer, agonizing vulnerability passing over his features.
“I find myself in a shit position…”
His jaw tightened, a muscle leaping in his cheek as the lyrics began to register. Next to him, Lisa went entirely stiff.
“The man that I love sat me down last night… and told me that it’s over.”
The crowd collectively gasped, a massive wave of realization washing over the stadium. This wasn’t just a comeback performance. This was a public execution. Your eyes never left his as you delivered the final, devastating blow of the verse, your voice ringing out crystal clear and mocking over the microphone.
“Dumb decision.”
The shift into the chorus was a physical explosion, a seismic shockwave that rattled the steel beams of the arena. The heavy, syncopated bass line dropped like a hammer, the speakers vibrating so violently that the floorboards beneath the front row trembled. You tore your gaze away from Michael, severing the heavy thread of tension between you, and did exactly what you were born to do take absolute, unapologetic ownership of the room.
You strutted down the long catwalk, every step calculated, dangerous, and dripping with an untouchable, lethal confidence. The two years of agonising silence, of hiding away and nursing a shattered spirit, evaporated under the heat of ten thousand stage lights. You were fully, blindingly alive, soaking in the electric thrill of the crowd, riding the high of a woman who had survived the worst of the wreckage and lived to flaunt it.
Your voice cut through the stadium, raw and laced with a venomous, triumphant joy as you belted the melody.
“Just a heartbroke bitch, high heels, six inch, in the back of the night club sippin’ champagne!”
The arena went completely feral. The sound of thousands of people screaming the lyrics back at you was deafening, a wall of noise that fueled the fire in your chest. You danced down the stage, hips swaying with a hypnotic, predatory grace, your movements fluid yet violently sharp as the dancers flanked you in flawless, tight synchronisation. You spun on a dime, catching the main camera’s lens with a wicked, teasing glint in your eyes before delivering the next emotional shrapnel.
“Drunk calls, drunk texts, drunk tears, drunk sex, I was lookin’ for a man who was on the same page!”
Down in the front row, the air left Michael’s lungs. It felt like a physical blow to the sternum. His eyes widened, his chest locking up as the words hit him like a bucket of ice water. He knew exactly what that line was about.
It had happened precisely five weeks after you packed your bags and walked out of the Neverland gates. The initial wall of his defensive anger had finally crumbled, leaving behind a hollow, terrifying reality. Alone in the sprawling master bedroom, suffocated by the quiet and fueled by a rare, desperate fog, Michael had unraveled completely. He had spent that entire night hunched over his phone in the dark, his hands shaking as he sent you a relentless barrage of frantic, pleading texts. Messages typed through a blur of tears, full of embarrassing typos and raw, naked desperation, begging you to just answer him, to come back, to tell him what he needed to do to fix it. You had never replied. You had left him floating in that silence. And now, he was forced to sit in a room full of the most powerful people in his industry, under the glaring scrutiny of rolling television cameras, while you broadcasted his private breakdown to the entire world. His hand gripped the armrest of his chair so tightly the leather groaned.
You didn't give him an ounce of pity. You were already moving, launching into the next complex choreography block, completely mesmerising the venue. You dropped low to the stage floor, the skin-tight black dress catching the moody purple and crimson hues of the stage lights, before rising up with an effortless, gravity-defying power to deliver the melodic, sweeping pre-chorus. You locked eyes with him once again, your voice soaring, thick with a beautiful, devastating irony.
“Cause I don’t wanna feel how I did last night, I don’t wanna feel how I did last night…”
Michael’s chest heaved, his breathing shallow and ragged. He looked utterly paralysed, his gaze pinned to yours like a man facing a firing squad. Every single muscle in his jaw was flexing, a visible pulse jumping in his cheek as he fought with everything in him to keep his face a mask of stoic composure for the broadcast. But the sheer, unadulterated angst in his eyes was blinding. He could feel the heavy, suffocating weight of the room shifting; he could hear the subtle whispers as the people around him began looking between him, Lisa, and the stage, effortlessly putting the pieces of the puzzle together.
Next to him, Lisa pulled her hand away from his entirely, her posture turning to solid stone as she stared straight ahead, refusing to look at him.
You transitioned seamlessly into the next verse, your tone dropping into a conversational, biting rhythm as you moved right to the absolute edge of the stage, towering directly above where his seat was positioned.
“Last night really was the cherry on the cake, been some dark days lately and I’m finding it cripplin’…”
Michael’s breath hitched, a faint, fractured gasp escaping his lips. He leaned forward just a fraction of an inch, his eyes burning with a volatile mixture of heartbreak, guilt, and an intense, suffocating longing. Hearing you publicly acknowledge the dark days was tearing him apart in real time. He looked like he wanted to jump out of his seat, like he wanted to scream, his eyes begging you for a shred of mercy you had no intention of giving.
You gave him a look that was pure, unfiltered heat and malice, leaning over the stage monitor as you delivered the final lines of the verse straight into his face.
“Excuse my state, I’m as high as your hopes that you’ll make it to my bed, get me hot and sizzling!”
The beat exploded again, throwing you right into a massive, high-energy dance break. The choreography was relentless, sharp, and undeniably powerful declaration that you were back, completely unbroken, and dominant in your element. The arena erupted into a roaring sea of cheers, the applause rising like a physical wall of sound as you hit every single beat with flawless, devastating precision.
As the music began to decelerate, winding down into a sparse, echoing rhythm, the dancers melted away into the shadows behind you. A single, dramatic spotlight trapped you in its beam, painting you in stark, sharp contrast against the darkness. The track slowed to a crawl, leaving your voice bare, vulnerable, and completely commanding.
“Lipstick smudged like modern art, I don’t know where the fuck I am or who’s drivin’ in the fuckin’ car…”
Michael watched you through a thick, agonizing blur of unshed tears, completely captivated, utterly unable to look away even if the world depended on it. He looked like a man drowning in plain sight, his throat bobbing heavily as he swallowed down the massive lump forming there. The absolute, raw honesty of the lyrics was stripping away every single ounce of his carefully built public armor.
You took a slow, deliberate step forward, your towering heels clicking sharply against the stage right at the absolute edge of the catwalk, looking straight down into his ruined expression as the song drew to its absolute close.
“Spilling secrets to the stranger in my bed, I remember nothing, so there’s nothing to regret…”
You paused, letting the heavy, breathless silence hang in the air for a fraction of a second, before delivering the final, echoing line:
“…other than this four-four kick drum poundin’ in my head.”
The final electronic beat thudded through the massive speakers and cut out entirely, leaving a vacuum of pure tension. You stood perfectly still, bathed in the blinding white light, your chest rising and falling heavily from the exertion. Down in the front row, Michael was completely breathless, his eyes locked onto yours, his heart hammering against his ribs in a painful, chaotic rhythm. He looked entirely wrecked, utterly exposed, his lips parted slightly as he stared up at you in a state of tragic, hopeless defeat.
You caught his shattered gaze, held it for one final, devastating second, and let a slow, triumphant smirk spread across your lips.
The stage lights slammed into pitch black, and the entire arena went completely, utterly wild.
The suffocating heat of the stadium lights gave way later that night to the exclusive, low-lit velvet luxury of the official VMA after-party. You didn’t run backstage, and you didn't hide. Instead, you glided into the venue like a conquering monarch, peacefully letting the compliments slide off your shoulders as you retreated to your private, heavily guarded VIP booth. The bass from the club speakers thudded softly through the thick curtains, a dull reminder of the storm you had just unleashed on live television.
You stood near the back of the dimly lit booth, looking out through the smoked glass at the crowded dance floor. You swirled a glass of champagne in your hand, watching the bubbles rise, entirely at peace with the chaos you'd left in your wake.
Then, the heavy velvet curtain behind you rustled. The security guard outside didn't make a sound because there was only one person in the world who could bypass your detail with a single look.
The air in the small booth shifted instantly. A familiar, clean scent of expensive cologne and ozone cut through the musk of the club, making the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. You didn't turn around. You kept your back to the room, your fingers tightening just a fraction around the stem of your champagne flute.
Silence stretched.
The intruder didn't storm in. There was no shouting, no dramatic scene. This was someone who fiercely guarded their privacy, who loathed airing dirty laundry in public spaces, keeping their composure tightly coiled.
“That was quite a performance,” a voice murmured from the shadows behind you.
It was low, velvety, and laced with a dangerous, quiet gravity. It was a voice used behind closed doors when wanting absolute control.
A slow, deliberate smirk spread across your lips. You kept your back to him, facing the glass, letting him look at the sharp silhouette of your shoulders. “I learned from the best.”
A heavy pause. You could hear the faint rustle of a jacket as he moved a step closer, though he kept a respectful, agonizing distance. “The lyrics,” the voice said softly, dropping an octave, carrying a raw, jagged edge of hidden angst that couldn't quite be masked. “The text messages. You told the whole world.”
“I told the truth,” you replied smoothly, taking a slow sip of your champagne. “I thought you loved a good story.”
“Not when it's mine,” he countered. He took another step, his shadow falling over yours against the glass. You could feel the heat radiating off his body, thick with two years of buried longing and unspoken regrets. “And certainly not when it's incomplete.”
Your smirk widened slightly, though your heart hammered against your ribs. “Oh? Did I miss a verse?”
“You forgot the part where I never stopped looking for you,” Michael whispered, his voice finally thick, cracking just enough to let the agony bleed through the armor. “You forgot the part where I still wake up in the middle of the night reaching for someone who isn't there.”
The words hung in the dim air of the booth, heavy and toxic with unresolved history. You finally turned around, slowly, deliberately, bringing yourself face-to-face with him.
Michael stood under the dim amber light of the booth his shadowing eyes that were dark, intense, and absolutely swimming with unadulterated heartbreak.
He looked proper, perfectly put together on the outside, but his bottom lip trembled slightly. The sheer, desperate love he had tried to bury under a massive public marriage was burning right on the surface, practically begging you to touch it.
You looked him up and down, your face a mask of beautiful, cruel indifference. You stepped closer, tilting your head up until you were inches from his face, your eyes locking onto his.
“The song is already a hit, Michael,” you whispered, your voice a teasing, lethal purr. You reached out, your manicured finger tracing a slow, agonising line down the silver trim of his jacket, right over his racing heart, before gently tapping the rim of your champagne glass against his button. You leaned in closer, your lips almost brushing his ear as you exhaled, “But don't worry. If you play your cards right tonight... I might let you help me write the encore.”
Before he could capture your hand, before his fingers could close around your waist to keep you from slipping away, you glided past him. Your dress fluttered against his leg like a whisper as you vanished through the velvet curtains and into the flashing lights of the club.
Michael stayed frozen in the dark booth, staring at the empty space you’d left behind, his chest heaving as your perfume lingered in the air, mocking him. The Queen was back. And you were going to make him crawl for it.
the only real thing
summary: After throwing a punch at a reporter for harassing you with questions accusing your ex boyfriend, you land yourself in jail. Now he's the one signing your bail papers.
꧁⎝ 𓆩༺✧༻𓆪 ⎠꧂
For years, you and Michael had been the couple. The papers called it a fairy-tale romance, the kind of rare, deep love that felt entirely untouchable. You were seen at every event by his side, paparazzi shot photos of you two at your many dates at Disneyland, dinners and even simpler places like the grocery store, cafes and shopping malls. You did everything together, and in every photo of you two, both of you were always smiling, staring at each other with nothing but adoration. In every interview, he never failed to find an excuse to bring you up, and go on and on about how deep his love is for you. In every video footage, your voice is the loudest one heard cheering him on. You were meant to be, and the both of you had always known it was always going to be each other.
But then came the gruelling tour schedules, the distance, and the heavy, suffocating silence that followed. As Michael’s personal and mental health struggles began to consume him, he shut you out entirely. You tried everything to save the relationship, but eventually, you had to make the agonising choice to walk away just to keep yourself afloat.
༻✦༺
You hadn't spoken a single word to him since the breakup. Now, the year was 1993, and the world was burning around him as the first allegations hit the news.
The day you heard the news about allegations against Michael you were shocked. The headline so ridiculous you almost laughed at how far from the truth it was. You were furious, the first page printed photo of him used on the magazine was enough to make you tear up. he looked so sad in it, so defeated. Your heart broke for him, you knew how devastating this must be for him, as all he's ever done was try and make the world a better place. You almost picked up the phone to call him, to go over to his house you once shared and just hold him, let him sob and let it all out to you. But of course, that's not your place to be there for him anymore.
But because of your history, you were suddenly the media's prime target.
༻✦༺
You were just trying to run a simple errand, stepping out of a bakery to be faced with a ginormous crowd. A mob of paparazzi shoved cameras into your face, blinding you instantly.
"Have you seen the recent allegations against your ex boyfriend?" you kept your head down and continued walking.
"Did you ever see inappropriate behavior from him while you were together?!" one reporter screamed, shoving a furry microphone toward your mouth.
Your eyes shot up, glaring at the reporters with a deadly stare, warning them that you were clearly not interested in supporting their money hungry agenda.
"Was this the reason for your breakup?" you could feel your heart quicken with nothing but rage as the anger was building up inside you to the point you had lost complete control of all your senses.
"Did he ever touch you inappropriately?!" another voice bellowed from the crowd.
that was it.
The world stopped. A hot wave of pure, unfiltered rage crashed over the grief you had been carrying for months. How dare they? How dare they twist the beautiful, gentle love you two had shared into something grotesque for a headline?
How dare they try and use you to ruin Michaels character, they should have known by now that your loyalty is unbreakable, and that you would never let anyone disrespect someone special to you.
Before you could even think, your fist connected squarely with the reporter's jaw. Crack.
The man crumbled to the pavement, knocked completely cold. The crowd gasped, the camera shutters going into an absolute frenzy. Within minutes, the sirens wailed, and you were being cuffed by the LAPD for assault.
༻✦༺
Across town, the sanctuary of Neverland Ranch was dead silent. Michael sat in his office, the blinds drawn, overwhelmed by the chaos of his own life.
Michael’s gaze drifted down to the silver frame resting on the desk, the one piece of the past he couldn't bring himself to lock away.
It was a candid photo, slightly grainy but vibrant, captured backstage in 1983 right after the Motown 25 special. He was still wearing the iconic rhinestone jacket from his "Billie Jean" performance, though the top buttons were undone, his skin still glistening from the stage lights. He was slouched back in a dressing room chair, looking completely exhausted but radiantly happy.
You were sitting on his lap, perched sideways, caught in a moment of pure, unscripted joy. Michael had taken his trademark black fedora and placed it onto your head. It was far too large, tilting over your eyes, and the camera had caught the exact second you threw your head back in a helpless giggle, trying to balance the brim. Michael’s arm was wound tightly around your waist, his face split into a wide, breathtaking smile as he watched you laugh.
Looking at it now, the silence of the room seemed to fade, replaced by the ghost of your laughter ringing in his ears. It was a snapshot of a time before the world had grown so heavy, when they were just two young people completely wrapped up in each other, entirely untouched by the storm outside.
His eyes shifted from the desk to the wall beside it, landing on another framed photograph hanging in the quiet shadows.
This one was different. It wasn’t glamorous, it was raw, grounded in a moment of terrifying vulnerability. It had been taken in 1984, inside the sterile white walls of the hospital room where he had been admitted after the horrific Pepsi commercial burn accident.
In the picture, he was propped up against the pillows, bandages swathing his scalp. You were leaning over the guardrail of the hospital bed, your arms wrapped around a massive, oversized Mickey Mouse plush toy that you had hauled into the ward as a surprise get-well gift. The camera had caught a quiet, tender moment: your lips pressed gently against his, the giant Mickey Mouse squeezed tightly between your chests.
Looking at the photo, the ache of those severe burns flickered in his memory. He remembered the excruciating pain that had consumed him back then, and he remembered exactly how it had vanished the very second you walked through that door. You had filled that clinical, scary room with warmth and light. You had made it better, just by being there.
That was the truth of your history. You hadn't just been there for the sold-out stadiums and the gold metal awards, you had been his anchor during the lowest, most painful chapters of his life.
A heavy ache settled in Michael's chest as his thoughts dragged him back to the crushing weight of the present day. If only you were still together. If only he hadn't let his own demons push you away. He knew with absolute certainty that if you were still by his side, you would be the one sitting next to him right now, holding his hand and shielding him from the monsters outside.
Instead, there was only empty space and a quiet house. he knows he should have taken all those photos down by now, the room was filled with them. but it was the only thing that reminded him of a life worth living.
He stared at your face in the photograph, wondered what you were thinking right now, in this exact moment, as his name was dragged through the mud on every television channel. He closed his eyes, offering a silent, fervent prayer to the universe that you didn't believe the terrible things they were saying about him. He was dying to know where your head was at, terrified of the silence between you, and aching for the only person who had ever truly known how to heal him.
The phone on his desk rang sharply. He hesitated, then picked it up.
"Michael?" Janet’s voice was breathless on the other end, laced with panic. "Michael, have you turned on the news?"
"Dunk... I can't look at the television right now," Michael sighed, his voice sounding incredibly small and tired. "You know what they're saying about me."
"No, Mike, it’s not about you. Well- t is, but it's about her. Turn on the TV. Right now."
Michael’s heart skipped a beat. With a trembling hand, he grabbed the remote and flicked on the monitor. The local news anchor was speaking over chaotic footage of a crowded sidewalk.
"former partner of the King of Pop, arrested this afternoon after a violent altercation with a reporter who questioned her regarding the allegations against Jackson..."
The screen cut to a video of you trying to push through the crowd, violent screams of the reporters invasive questions that made Michael wince at the sight. A wave of guilt flood over him, he never wanted you to be affected by this, nor be harassed and verbally attacked on the street. he was furious.
Then it cut to a shot of you being put into the back of a police cruiser, your head held high but your eyes dark, not a single tear or look of remorse. Michael couldn't help but feel a type of way at the photo of you, you looked sexy. He always liked it when you got angry and heated during your many arguments. Your hair was a little messed up and a sly smirk was pasted on your lips, a satisfied one.
Michael stood up so fast his chair rolled backward. His chest heaved as he stared at the screen. Even after everything, after the distance and the silence he had forced between you, you were still fighting for him. You were in a jail cell because of him.
"I have to go," Michael whispered, slamming the phone down.
༻✦༺
The holding cell was freezing, and the hours crawled by. You sat on the metal bench, staring at your bruised knuckles, wondering how your life had come to this.
"Hey. You're free to go. Bail's been posted," a guard announced, unlocking the heavy iron door.
You blinked, confused. You hadn't even been allowed your phone call yet. Who could have possibly known? Who had the kind of power and money to do that so quickly?
The guard led you through the back exit of the station to help you avoid the press waiting at the front. The heavy metal door clicked open, venting the cool night air into the hallway. You stepped outside into the dim alleyway, rubbing your bare arms against the chill.
A single black rolls royce was parked at the curb.
The door opened. A figure stepped out into the faint glow of the streetlamp. He wore a dark jacket, and his signature sunglasses, though the night was pitch black. He took a slow step toward you, pulling the glasses down the bridge of his nose.
Those familiar, sorrowful brown eyes met yours.
"Hi," Michael said, his voice a soft, fragile whisper in the night air.
You froze, the breath catching entirely in your throat. Of all the people in the world, the one person you never expected to see standing outside a jail cell for you was him. God you hated how good he looked, he looked absolutely wrecked, still such a beautiful sight.
The silence between you stretched, heavy and thick with years of unspoken words. Michael stood by the open door of the SUV, his hand resting on the frame, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that made your heart ache.
"get in" he said, breaking the quiet. "The press is still out front. It’s not safe out here. ill take you home"
You looked at the car, then back at him. Every instinct told you to protect your peace, to walk away from the storm that constantly surrounded him.
"I live 5 minutes away its okay you don't have to" you began to protest. But your hands were shaking, your knuckles throbbed, and you were utterly exhausted.
"just get in"
"Okay" you murmured, stepping forward. "Thank you."
༻✦༺
You sat in the passenger of the leather seat, staring out of your respective windows, the space between you feeling like an ocean. You could hear his rhythmic, nervous breathing. Neither of you said a word the entire short car ride until you arrived at the driveway of you house.
Finally, Michael shifted, turning his body toward you. He took off his sunglasses, burying his face in his hands for a brief second before looking up.
"Why did you do it?" he asked, his voice cracking slightly under the weight of the question.
You turned your head to look at him.
"You didn't have to do that," Michael continued, his eyes wide and clouded with genuine confusion. "We... we aren't together anymore. You don't owe me anything. No loyalty, especially not after how I treated you. After how I shut you out. So why risk your reputation? Why did you do that?" his voice desperate for an answer.
You stared at him, a faint, bittersweet smile touching your lips. To you, the answer was so obvious it barely needed stating.
"Did you really think I would just stand there and let them say that? What the hell was I supposed to do?" You say like it's so simple.
you take a beat before talking again.
"I know who you are. I know what your heart is. Even if things ended badly between us, that doesn't change who you are to me."
A tremor passed through Michael’s shoulders. The absolute sincerity in your voice seemed to shatter the last of his defenses. The heavy armor he had worn for months against the world completely crumbled. A single tear slipped down his cheek, followed by a quiet, ragged sob. He covered his face, bowing his head as the tears came freely.
His voice thick with emotion. "I am so, so sorry... for everything. For the way I pushed you away, for making you feel like you had to carry my darkness. I was so scared, and I didn't want to drown you with me. But I shouldn't have shut you out."
You said nothing, just throwing your entire weight over to him, the space between the front seats disappearing completely as your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him in so tightly. He took no longer than a millisecond to hold your waist and pull you in even tighter. it was a passionate embrace, more than a hug, it was a sorry, a thank you and an I miss you all in one embrace.
After minutes of just holding each other, quiet sobs escaping every few seconds, you pull apart and rest your foreheads against one another, just looking into each others eyes for a moment, as if nothing else mattered. He lifts your hand up, examining the swollen purple bruises covering your knuckles. His fingers gently rub your knuckles as he brings them up to his mouth, placing soft kisses against each knuckle.
"I miss you," he whispered, looking into your eyes with a raw vulnerability that stole your breath away. "I want you back. I want us back."
You looked down at his hand, feeling the familiar warmth of it, but you gently shook your head.
"Michael... that wasn't why I did this," you said softly, meeting his gaze. "I didn't punch him to get you back. or to prove anything. I did it because it was the right thing to do."
A soft, sad smile touched Michael’s face, and he nodded, a look of profound reverence entering his eyes.
"I know," he said, his voice dropping to a tender whisper. "I know that. And that’s exactly why I love you. Because I know that even if the whole world turns its back on me, even if I lose absolutely everything... you would still love me just the same."
your heart almost shattered. every thing he said was true, but you had to make sure one last time you weren't making a mistake that would cost you another heartbreak you couldn't bear to relive.
"how do I know you actually love me, and you aren't just saying this because you need someone right now? how do I know when things go back to normal, and this is all over for you, that you wont leave again?" you question.
"No, no - please don't say that," he pleaded, his voice cracking as he shook his head emphatically. He took your other hand, holding them both tightly against his chest. "That’s not true. It’s not. If I wanted someone to be there for me, there's plenty out there that would fill the noise, but it's empty. I only want you next to me. im lonely for you"
a tear slid down your cheek.
"I've wanted you every single day since you walked out that door. When I look at photos of us, when I drive past places we used to go to together, when I can't sleep at night. it was always you before this nightmare even began. it just took today for me to realise you just might still have a piece of me left with you too"
The absolute purity and desperation in his voice completely shattered the last of your walls. The small space between you vanished as you crashed your lips onto his, his arms locking around your waist and pulling you entirely onto his lap as the kiss deepened into a breathless, intoxicating blur. The entire universe narrowed down to the heat of his mouth and the dizzying rush of finally being back in his arms.
When you pulled back just a fraction, his forehead rested against yours,
"They're going to try to break you," you murmured, your heart aching for him. "Don't let them do it alone."
He pressed his forehead to yours, his breathing ragged.
"With you? They don't stand a chance"
༻✦༺
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𝐍𝐨𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐄𝐥𝐬𝐞 𝐈'𝐝 𝐑𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐁𝐞
ᥫ᭡. a michael jackson story
. ݁˖ PAIRING .ᐟ Thriller era x fem!reader
. ݁˖ CONTENT .ᐟ ANGST / FLUFF {8k}
. ݁˖ SUMMARY .ᐟ You're an established supermodel and amateur actress in a secret relationship with Michael. His company doesn't want your relationship to go public, but when you see him take Brooke Shields to the Grammy's as his date, you decide to give Michael a taste of his own medicine.
. ݁˖ AUTHOR'S NOTE .ᐟ Brief mentions of strict eating habits, and slight sexually suggestive themes. I'm tired, so the punctuation is probably ass, but at least it's not AI! Also "Just Like Me" by Summer Walker inspired the title!:)
The Separation .ᐟ
Studio 54 was a getaway for you and Michael. The thumping bass and electric energy broke any barriers that may exist between people in the outside world, everyone was just here for a good time.
