ᝰ.ᐟ description: one spin on a 2010 video game rips you from your living room into 1980s hollywood. suddenly, you're a global pop titan co-starring alongside michael jackson—forced to fake a legendary life while fighting an intoxicating spark brewing between you.
content: time travel, time jump, badera!michael jackson, popstar!reader, slow burn, sci-fi???
authors note: i think this has been my greatest idea yet, once i lock in… it’s over with. i think this story will have 5 chapters. gotta keep yall fed.
↝ the floorboards of your living room were icy cold against your bare, socked feet. it was 2010, the tail end of another draining, monotonous workday at your desk job. your reward sat on the coffee table: a plastic container of bland, lukewarm meal prep that tasted like nothing at all. you scarfed it down in three minutes flat, not because you were enjoying it, but just to check off the box of having eaten.
you needed endorphins. you needed an escape. anything to pull you out of the gray, repetitive drone of your daily routine.
walking over to the console, you turned it on, the bright glow of the television screen illuminating the quiet dimness of your small apartment. you picked up the motion controller and navigated through the main menu of the michael jackson experience. sliding through the colorful tracklist, your thumb stopped on your absolute favorite: speed demon.
you loved everything about it—the pure, kinetic energy of the baseline, the wild creative absurdity of the claymation motorcycle sequence, the sheer thrill of stepping into the rabbit disguise on screen. selecting your player, you stood up in the middle of your living room in your oversized gray sweatpants and faded tank top, letting the deep, heavy 80s synthesizer baseline fill the room and reverberate through the floorboards.
you sang along at the top of your lungs, laughing at yourself in the dark as you matched the rhythm prompts floating across the display. i wish you were still here, you thought, that familiar, lingering ache tightening in your chest as your mind drifted back to june 2009. i wish i could have seen you live. just once.
then, the neon prompt flashed brightly across the center of the screen: the spin.
usually, this was the part where you’d give up halfway through to keep from stumbling into your furniture. but tonight, your feet moved on pure instinct.
you didn't stop. the room began to blur into a soft, dizzying smear of shadow and tv light. your head throbbed with a sudden, intense pressure—a split second of pure panic hitting you as you wondered why a silly video game move was making your head spin so violently. the music swelled, instantly doubling in volume until it was no longer coming from your small television speakers—it was vibrating directly through the floor, rattling your ribs, echoing with live studio depth.
you finally landed, throwing your arms out wide to catch your balance, braced to hit the sharp edge of your coffee table.
instead, your socked feet hit heavy, polished hardwood.
the air in your lungs smelled entirely different—warm, thick, and rich with the unmistakable scents of ozone, hairspray, expensive perfume, and professional stage fog.
the music was deafening. crisp brass, heavy bass, and the distinct, syncopated hit of an authentic 1980s studio recording session. your heart slammed violently against your ribcage as your eyes blinked open, trying to adjust to the blinding brightness. you were still wearing your faded tank top and gray sweats, but you were nowhere near your apartment.
you were standing in the middle of a massive, high-ceilinged dance studio framed by wall-to-wall mirrors, heavy rolling film equipment, and a full production crew dressed in vintage leather jackets, high-waisted denim, and bulky headsets.
and standing less than ten feet directly in front of you, drenched in sweat and holding a sharp dance pose, was michael jackson.
not a hologram. not a digital remaster. michael in the mid-1980s—his hair dark, glossy, and wet, wearing a fitted red button-down shirt and black trousers, his chest heaving with deep, measured breaths.
"and... cut!" a voice boomed loudly through a plastic megaphone from behind the camera rig.
the music snapped off instantly. the sudden silence in the room was suffocating. you stood completely frozen, your soul practically hovering outside your physical frame as you stared at him.
michael dropped his tight frame, wiping his brow with the back of his wrist, his dark eyes turning directly toward you. he blinked, a faint flicker of confusion crossing his features as he noticed you staring at him as if you had just seen a ghost.
"you okay over there?" the director called out, lowering his metal clipboard as he took a few steps into your line of sight. "looked like you lost your mark on that last turn."
"i..." your voice was barely a thread. the air in your throat felt like sharp glass. "i feel sick."
before anyone could ask another question or step closer, you turned on your heel and ran. your socks slipped awkwardly against the slick studio floor, but you pushed through a heavy pair of double doors, desperate for cover. the first sign you caught down the hallway was a set of retro, brass-lettered tiles reading women's restroom. you shoved through the heavy door, ducked into the nearest stall, and slammed it shut, leaning your back against the cool metal panel as you squeezed your eyes tightly shut.
this is a stroke, you thought, panic clawing wildly at your throat. you passed out from spinning in your living room and you're having a stroke.
taking a long, shaky breath, you forced your eyes open and looked down. no watch on your wrist. you looked at the plumbing—an old-fashioned, heavy-duty chrome lever flush toilet.
unlatching the door with trembling fingers, you hesitated, stepping out of the stall and slowly walking toward the wide mirror stretching across the marble vanity.
the breath completely left your body.
the reflection staring back at you was breathtaking. your features were sculpted to effortless perfection—sharp, flawless cheekbones, long lashes, full lips, and an innate, undeniable radiance that practically radiated through the glass. your body had an incredible, tone-sculpted posture—a true superstar silhouette that carried an effortless aura of absolute power and elegance, even dressed in your baggy sweats. you looked practically perfect.
before your brain could process what you were seeing, the restroom door burst open with a heavy swing.
"there you are!" a woman wearing a sharp tailored jacket and massive silver hoop earrings rushed in, her face pale with worry. she came straight up to you, her hands warm and entirely real as she gently cupped your face, her eyes searching yours. "what happened? you looked like you were going to collapse right in the middle of the choreography. do we need to call a doctor? do you need some water?"
she looked at you with deep, genuine affection—the kind of intense, protective concern only a close friend and long-time confidante possessed.
"i'm okay," you managed to say, your voice sounding smoother, richer, and more resonant than you remembered. you forced a subtle, reassuring smile. "just... dizzy. a sudden spell."
"you push yourself way too hard," she sighed, holding your hand tight as she led you back toward the restroom door. "come on. let's tell the director you're done for the day."
when you walked back into the main rehearsal hall, the chatter in the room instantly hushed. the crew was huddled around playback monitors, but michael was standing near the edge of the floor, taking a small sip from a glass bottle of water. as soon as he saw you re-enter, he set the bottle down and walked over, his stride smooth, his eyes searching yours with genuine care.
"hey," he said softly, his voice low, gentle, and melodic. "are you alright? you turned completely pale back there."
you stared directly into his dark, expressive eyes—the ones you’d spent years watching in grainy music videos and remastered documentaries—and your chest tightened. he's alive, your brain screamed in disbelief. he's standing right here in front of you.
"i'm fine, michael," you said, forcing your voice to stay grounded and calm. "just got turned around on that last spin."
"we should call it for the day," the director called out from across the room, waving a hand toward the crew. "we've got plenty of coverage for the duet section anyway."
"i'm gonna stay behind and run the third verse a few times," michael said, turning back toward the director before looking at you again. "you should head home and rest. don't worry about finishing the section tonight."
you offered to stay too, the words slipping out almost automatically because the idea of walking away from him felt impossible. but michael gently shook his head, insisting that you go home so you could recover. you almost fought against it—almost pushed to stay on the edge of that hardwood floor just to watch him work—but as you looked around the room and saw the crew waiting on your cue, reality hit you. you couldn't break character. you had to play the part.
"alright," you nodded softly, giving him a small smile. "don't stay up too late yourself."
he returned the smile—a flash of pure, genuine warmth that nearly made your knees give out—before stepping back toward the center of the dance floor.
walking back toward the private dressing rooms, your manager matched your stride, handing you a heavy silk trench coat to wrap over your oversized sweats. two massive security guards in dark suits immediately fell into formation on either side of you as you approached the building's side exit.
"heavy crowd out front tonight," one of the guards muttered, placing a firm hand on the bar of the heavy metal exit doors.
the moment the doors swung open, a wall of deafening sound hit you like a physical force. blinding camera flashes exploded continuously like lightning in the dusk air. on the other side of a long row of wooden barricades, hundreds of screaming fans were waving posters, pushing forward, and chanting a name—your name.
security ushered you swiftly down the short flight of steps. you dipped your head, slipping into the plush leather interior of a sleek, blacked-out luxury sedan. the heavy door slammed shut, cutting off the crisp night air and instantly muffling the roaring crowd down to a distant, low hum.
your manager slid into the seat across from you, breathing a quiet sigh of relief as the driver smoothly pulled away from the curb.
"absolute madness out there today," she said, reaching into her leather briefcase and tossing a fresh print edition of an entertainment trade paper onto your lap. "look at this. the press is already losing their minds over the collaboration."
you picked up the paper with cold, numb fingers.
sprawled across the front cover was a full-color photograph of you. you were on a massive stadium stage under blinding spotlights, caught mid-performance with a microphone pressed to your lips. you looked completely invincible—an undisputed, unstoppable global pop titan.
below the photograph, the bold headline read:
the queen of pop returns: inside the record-breaking world tour
with three consecutive diamond albums, multi-platinum singles, and an unmatched stage presence, the megastar prepares for her most ambitious project yet alongside michael jackson.
the breath left your chest in a quiet gasp. you weren't an assistant, a back-up dancer, or a casual observer in this era. you were the biggest female artist on the planet, sharing the absolute peak of the music industry right alongside the king of pop.
the rest of the drive passed in a surreal blur of city lights, rain-slicked streets, and smooth leather. the car eventually pulled into the private underground garage of an exclusive high-rise complex. your security detail escorted you up a private, key-card-operated elevator that opened directly into a sprawling, multi-level 1980s penthouse.
floor-to-ceiling glass framed the glowing los angeles skyline. polished marble floors, sleek black leather furniture, and wall-mounted glass display cases filled with your own platinum records stretched out through the grand entryway.
you wandered through the silence of the massive apartment, running your fingers over the cool marble countertops and exploring the grand layout. you eventually found your way into the master suite, stepping into a massive walk-in closet filled with racks of custom designer clothing, silk gowns, and tailored suits.
reaching down, you gathered the clothes you had been wearing when you arrived—your faded gray sweatpants and tank top from 2010. you folded them carefully, feeling the worn fabric between your fingers, grounding you to the world you had left behind.
as you went to put them away on a quiet shelf, a small piece of heavy cream cardstock slipped out from the folds of your jacket pocket and fluttered down onto the floor.
you paused, leaning down to pick it up.
written across the center in elegant, neat handwriting were six words:
“call me when you can - michael”
directly beneath the message was a ten-digit telephone number.
your breath caught in your throat. you gaped at the slip of paper, your thumb gently tracing the dark ink of the digits.
you stood motionless in the middle of the closet, thinking it through. if you two were already close friends—if you were intimate confidantes who talked every single day—he wouldn't have felt the need to write his phone number down for you on a paper note. he would have assumed you already had it saved or memorized.
the realization settled in quietly: right now, in this timeline, you were just elite peers. high-profile collaborators and professional acquaintances navigating a massive project together. nothing more.
you walked out of the closet and over to the bedside table, where a heavy, vintage brass clock sat beside a sleek black landline telephone. the glowing hands of the clock read 11:20 pm.
you stared at the telephone, heart hammering against your ribs, catching your breath as you saw your own unfamiliar, stunning reflection caught in the dark glass of the window pane. your fingers hovered over the heavy plastic receiver. taking a deep, steadying breath to compose yourself, you picked up the receiver, held it to your ear, and carefully dialed the digits written on the cardstock one by one.
on the third ring, the line picked up with a soft static click.
pixelskylines
tangentwithtanner
jimmyeatworldofficial
germansingergirl
areudirty
