⋆.𐙚 ̊ ꒰ 𝖽𝗈𝗏𝖾 ꒱ 🕊️

summary: Michael wants the girl he likes to see him as sexy, and an impromptu photoshoot leads to awkwardness, awakenings and questions

era: 'cause this is thrillerrrr, thriller night, and no one's going to--okay I'll stop. More specifically, the 'it's a wonderful day!' interview

warnings/tags: suggestive/sexual content, poetic descriptions of degeneracy, sub!michael, inexperienced and touch deprived michael, jealous michael, female reader, hair pulling, praise k!nk, unravelling/coming untouched

If someone had told Michael that on a sweltering day nearing the end of summer, a pretty girl would be preparing for a potential nude photoshoot in his bedroom, he would have thrown his head back in laughter.

“I didn’t say nude, Michael. Just take off your sweater.”

“You’re mad,” he said, because he was starting to think she was.

“Aren’t you hot, anyway? It’s like a furnace in here.” She fanned herself with a pointed look.

The room temperature was reaching an unimaginable high, with the kind of heat that clings to the skin like film. Days like these were ones where his siblings strode around the compound practically naked while he stayed snug in his long sleeves and shirts, a barrier of comfort. Thank God they had taken their shamelessness with them to the beach trip Michael had opted out of.

“I’m fine,” said Michael, trying to sound convincing despite the single drop of sweat forming on the tip of his nose. He swiped it away quickly.

She shook her head at his stubbornness. “You said you wanted sex appeal, right? Well, no one’s going to get that if you’re dressed like a kindergartener on his first day.”

For a moment, Michael was shocked into silence. A kindergartener? He liked this outfit. He thought it made him look gentlemanly.

Leave it to her to give him the cut-and-dried truth.

Apart from his parents and maybe his siblings if they were feeling particularly bold that day, no one in the world spoke to Michael with such bluntness. A small part of him, the section of his personality that took on the celebrity persona, the Michael Jackson of it all, was affronted. Who was this girl to come into his room, and insult his choice of outfit?

But the rest of him was flooded with hotness, not from the punishing sun rays filtering through the window shutters, but from the irritating fact that she clearly still regarded him as childish. A kindergartener?

The surrounding stuffed Disney characters really didn’t lend much to his argument.

He didn’t like that at all. He was nearly twenty-five. Things had to start changing.

And so, Michael released an exaggerated sigh and shimmied out of his red sweater, revealing a plaid shirt which was still stubbornly long-sleeved.

“Seriously?” she said incredulously. The upper corners of her lips twitched as she continued. “How much do I have to pay you to take the shirt off too?”

A gazillion dollars is what he wanted to say. Instead he pouted. “I don’t need to take off my clothes to be sexy. Just—just tell me what to do, with the poses and stuff.”

Rolling her eyes, she held up her hands in defeat. “Fine, you win. But unbutton it a little.”

Michael fingered the top button of his shirt nervously. He always had it fastened up to his neck; at first, purely out of preference, but now the depigmented splotches scattered across his lower stomach and wrists roused a fear in him. Whatever it was, it was growing visible by the day. The doctors and their empty promises had provided nothing but surface-level consolation–that they would find out what it was, and they most definitely would help him.

And he would smile every-time, despite wanting to do everything but.

“You don’t have to,” she added quickly. Her demeanor shifted slightly; the playfulness seeped out of her posture leaving behind wary unease as she fiddled with the hem of her skirt.

She was right–he didn’t. That should have been the end of it.

But the way she watched him with captured attention…it was making him feel sick and heady all at once. Tearing his eyes away, he searched the room for comfort, finally finding it in the Mickey Mouse plush toy, wedged between the other Disney characters on his cluttered shelf. Desperately, he tried to send a thought beam towards it.

Mickey, help!

Of course, no response came. Michael tried to imagine what Mickey would advise. Maybe something like:

“Just believe in yourself!”

Well, that wasn’t very useful. How about:

“Imagination is magic!”

C’mon, Mickey! That wasn’t relevant at all–

“Maybe two or three buttons will be okay, so long as you’re comfortable.”

He shouldn’t have–oh. That might have been legit.

Two or three buttons. Michael could do two or three. Two or…actually, he’d stick with two.

Exhaling shakily, Michael unfastened one button, then the other. It only exposed the skin some centrimeters below his collarbones and yet he took several seconds to recover and breathe like he’d just come down from a runner’s high.

Her laugh trickled like piano keys. “So dramatic,” she muttered, but there was an intensity in her eyes as she fixed them upon the newly visible skin. He tried to ignore the churning sensation in the pit of his stomach.

“Alright, Mr Jackson. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Evidently nothing.

“Just, try to relax. Shake your shoulders, or something.”

Stiffly, Michael jiggled his arms and legs.

“Um, sure. Okay, I want you to look at me like you want to devour me.”

Too much.

Wincing, Michael stiffened. “I can’t.”

“Why?”

“I–I just can’t. I’m sorry.”

“Michael.” He despised the fatigue in her voice, the tightness in her grip on the camera. She was tired of him.

The past twenty minutes had been a downward spiral. Michael had tried–he really had–but her presence had made it impossible to calm down. He felt like he was being tickled with barbed wire every time she suggested another supposedly sexy pose.

“It’s not like you’ve never done a photoshoot before,” she said with a sigh. “What about the Thriller album cover? That was attractive!”

She didn’t even know–she just didn’t know that these ‘compliments’ and encouragement weren’t being taken to heart. They were circulating in his ears and shooting straight downwards.

“How about we try a version of that, Michael? But sexier, hm?”

Dumbly, he nodded and allowed her to push him back on the bed (he had to screw his eyes shut to will away the arousal that the action brought him) and position him on his side, lounging. It was similar to the Thriller cover pose, except that photoshoot didn’t feel like battling a seductress while she bit her lips and–oh gosh why did she do that–and snapped a photo with a blinding shutter.

“Okay! This one isn’t too bad!” she announced optimistically. “Getting better!”

“You said that with the last pose,” Michael pointed out wearily.

“Yeah, well–well–I don’t know.” She placed the camera down and rubbed her eyes blearily.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Move up.”

Hesitantly, Michael rolled over and felt the bed sink as she joined him with her legs crossed. She didn’t say anything, only stared at him intently.

Fleetingly, he drank it in– her gaze, her focus– because he wasn’t sure if her pupils were really dilating or if it was a cruel trickery of light. But then she was growing too quiet, too still, and the intoxicating feeling was smothering him and making him very, very scared.

He had to look away.

Why did she have to be…her?

The very fact that he was here, and she was here, with the possibility of depravity hovering inappropriately over his head was because of her. Inviting her over had been a mistake; he’d known it as soon as he’d opened the door, the fruity scent of her perfume wafting into the house. Her greeting him with a “Hi, cutie,” had brought a bitter taste to his mouth which only got stronger throughout the day with every tug on his cheek or ruffling of his curls.

The final straw came hours later, when they’d been sitting on opposite ends of the living room couch, legs intertwined in a way that made his skin prickle with alertness.

Michael had been flicking distractedly through a fairytale collection when a throaty noise caught his attention. Lowering the book, he peered at her hungry gaze. She looked like she wanted to dive into her magazine. The sight twisted his intestines.

“What is it?” he asked distastefully. When she didn’t answer, he prodded her with a socked toe.

“Hm? Oh, sorry,” she replied almost obnoxiously. Leaning forward, she brandished the magazine–some silly gossip one that Latoya had left on the coffee table–and showed him a double spread of a shirtless Leo Andre.

“Isn’t he just so sexy?”

Michael had stared and stared with the hope that the burgeoning feeling of annoyance would flee. It didn’t.

Leo-freaking-Andre? Seriously?

He shouldn’t be jealous–jealousy was a sin, and a very damaging one at that. But, really?

It wasn’t like he didn’t get it. The worst part was that he did–sorta. Sure, the guy was a talentless hack who couldn’t act his way out of a paper bag, but he was attractive. Maybe even sexy, with his blue eyes and evenly tanned skin. He didn’t look real, more like a prince who leapt out of Walt Disney’s mind.

He looked entirely opposite to Michael.

Michael didn’t care. Why should he? Just last week, there was a television poll for the most handsome celebrities of the year, and Michael won. Take that Leo Andre.

But handsome wasn’t ‘sexy’. They weren’t interchangeable. And he certainly didn’t feel handsome a lot of the time.

Noncommittally, Michael shrugged and pushed the magazine back towards her. “He’s okay.” He hated how he sounded like an insolent child.

She lingered closely, her perfume wrestling with his nose. “Okay?” she repeated disbelievingly. “He’s gorgeous!”

“I guess.”

“What’s your problem? I hate it when you get all moody on me.”

“There’s no problem,” Michael said monotonously. He picked up the book to cover his stinging eyes. No way was he going to cry right now; he’d rather die.

In his mind, he replayed the moment like a horror movie.

Sexy. Leo Andre. Everything Michael was not.

It wasn’t like he needed to be. Thriller was getting more and more popular by the day. Motown 25 was still being talked about months after. He was doing fine without posing provocatively for women’s magazines.

Yet.

Yet he still felt like he was being pummelled in the gut all because his childhood crush said a terrible actor was sexy. Boohoo Michael, there’s people dying.

Seeming to take the hint, she settled back onto her end of the couch with one more furtive glance. An awkward silence stretched its legs between them, until her hoarse chuckle shooed it away.

“Mr Michael himself.”

Internally, he swore to ignore her, but she kept on making more strange sounds with her throat that eventually he snapped, “What?”

“They’ve got a spread about you. Called ‘husband material’.”

“What?”

“Look.” She shuffled back over and dropped the magazine into his lap. The spread’s background was a bleeding, bright pink, with various photos of Michael scattered across the page; one was him from the Billie Jean music video, another was him posed with Bubbles. Under each picture there was some kind of description, calling him handsome, kind, cute–

“Ugh,” he said as he pushed it back towards her for a second time.

Her eyebrows furrowed. “Okay, you definitely have a problem. Spit it out.”

“There’s no–” Michael started, but then he realized that sharp gaze of hers had grown to know him too well. Lying was pointless, so he picked his words carefully.

“There isn’t a problem, I promise. It’s just…I’m just…” His tongue seemed to have swelled to twice its original size.

“You’re just…?”

Was there even a way to say this without humiliating himself? I hate how everyone–especially you, actually only you really–thinks I’m super unsexy?

“Husband material…it’s not really a compliment. Well–it is, but it feels…”

This time she offered no aid to his fumbling, only an arched brow.

“Patronizing,” he finished indecisively. Her unfazed look made him add, “Not that it matters. It doesn’t. I’m really grateful for everything and–”

“I get it.”

The admission halted his collapsing thoughts. “You do?”

“Yeah. I mean, kinda?” She scooted closer and Michael’s heart stuttered when he realized he was near enough to notice his reflection in her gleaming eyes. “But I also don’t.”

“W–what do you mean?”

“You’re talking about sex appeal, right?”

Oh, gosh.

Somehow, despite her not actually referring to it, the word sex tumbling from her mouth was more perverted than anything Michael had ever heard. It ignited something in multiple areas of his body; his chest, his gut, his–

So, so dirty.

His mother was right to warn him about how perverse the world of fame could be, but she failed to help him anticipate that he’d be the corrupted one, drawing his long legs into his chest and praying that it wasn’t obvious.

His lack of verbal reply didn’t deter her. She placed her hands on his knees (he wished she wouldn’t touch him, why did she have to touch him, he hoped she’d never stop) and mused, “You want people to think you’re…sexy? But why? Every girl in America would genuinely murder for a night with you.”

Every girl…?

Michael looked for something, anything in her eyes that indicated that she was including herself in the sentiment. And sure, there was a softness blurring the outer edges of her irises, but that had always been there. It was an expression of fondness, platonic love, and it made him feel sick.

Every girl isn’t you, he would have said if he had the nerve.

“I…I don’t think that’s true,” he remarked dejectedly. “For some, yeah. But I think a lot of them still see me as…pure maybe. Like the same kid from the Jackson 5.”

“With hair so big, he could reach the stars,” she said with a smile, and he knew she’d say exactly that. Twelve years ago, and she still remembered one of the first things she’d said to him.

“Yeah,” he grumbled, not even attempting to match her enjoyment. “But I’m not a little kid anymore.”

The words hung real and heavy in the warm air between them. Michael hoped she didn’t take it rudely; they’d always agreed to be honest with each other, and he found that as the stars became more and more within reach, he needed that grounded honesty once a while.

“You’re right,” she said finally. Her hands moved from his knees to his calves seemingly absent-mindedly as she collected her thoughts, but the movement set him on fire. He’d almost kicked her off in fear of himself when she said, “I have an idea. You’re going to have to walk with me, though.”

Immediately, Michael made to rise when she knocked him back gently. “I meant, mentally. Not actually.”

“Oh,” he said, embarassed.

Reaching for the magazine, she turned back some pages, humming an off-key tune. She made a satisfied noise and uttered a question that he’d hoped she wouldn’t. “Before I tell you, has any of this got to do with Leo Andre?”

A perfect answer would be a breathless, “Yes. I was incredibly jealous that you showed him attention because I love you, I do. I think I always have.” And then she’d kiss him and he’d sweep her away from Hayvenhurst and they’d ride on horseback towards a Happily Ever After.

But just like any other fairytale villain, cowardice isn’t easily overcome. “No,” Michael scoffed. “Why–why would it be?”

She eyed him suspiciously, perhaps because he was an idiot, or a bad liar, or both. “You did get a little moody when I showed you his photo.”

This would have been a wonderful opportunity to crack a joke at Leo’s expense. Something about his stilted performances, about the way he seemed to mouth-breathe constantly. But all humor died on Michael’s tongue. “I guess…I guess it’s because I was already annoyed. About–about the…”

“Sex-appeal?” she offered. He wasn’t sure what he was going to finish his sentence off with but it definitely wasn’t with that. He nodded anyway.

“That’s good, in a way. Not that you’re annoyed, just that…” she trailed off blankly. “What I’m trying to say is…Leo Andre’s our inspiration, you’re my muse.”

“Sorry?” he asked, trying to ignore the bubbly feeling at the possessive.

“I’m going to be your photographer!” she exclaimed.

“Huh?”

“Sex-appeal begins gradually. Madonna wasn’t built in a day, you know? You have to kind of…take baby steps until you master it. So today is the first baby step. We can practice taking pictures.”

Michael gawked at her. Two nightmarish scenarios filled his mind; one, with him stark naked and her jeering at him, mocking his body and its frailty. The second, less pessimistic but almost equally as frightening: him, stark naked and her hovering over him with a lusty gaze, her fingers straying too close until they’d sunken into his flesh and his eyes had rolled into the back of his head.

Which one was worse? They both brought him terror, but the second moreso, because he knew it would take all his strength and will to refuse her.

“I…I don’t know,” he said as he fought down incoming nausea. “I don’t think I can.”

“I’m not saying you should strip down like he did. Unless, you want to, because then by all means, be my guest,” she teased with a grin.

“Still, I…” His mouth went drier than sandpaper.

Almost instantaneously, her shoulders sagged with defeat. “It’s fine. Sorry, it was a weird suggestion anyway.” Then she withdrew to her corner of the couch but this time it felt like the distance was even further than before.

He could see the beginnings of disappointment forming on her face: first, it rested on her brow and crumpled it; then, it pulled the corners of her lips downwards into a frown; finally, it wrinkled her nose upwards. The same countenance for twelve years.

There were fewer things Michael hated more than disappointing people. Those things were spaghetti, his father’s fits of rage, and…he was sure there were more. Or maybe there weren’t. Maybe that indicated how much he hated disappointing people.

“I’ll do it,” he declared with zero confidence. Even a mouse wouldn’t have heard him with how quietly he’d squeaked it.

“Huh? Did you say something?” she said, craning her neck.

“No.”

“Oh,” she faltered. “Thought you did.”

Michael let her turn back to her magazine reluctantly while he considered whether this was worth working up courage for. Ah, screw it.

“Actually,” he asserted voluminously. “I said I’d do it. The shoot.”

Rapidly, she dropped the magazine and balled up her fists. “Really?” Her voice had climbed up several octaves.

“Yeah,” he said softly, reclining back when she practically pounced on him and squealed.

“I don’t even know why I’m so excited. Actually, nevermind, I lied. I do.”

“Because you’re a bully?” Michael half-joked.

“Because, the global superstar Michael Jackson,” she purred, pinching his cheek. “Still can’t say no to me.”

If he was paler, Michael was certain he would have blushed an embarrassing shade of scarlet. He wasn’t totally sure there wasn’t any red bleeding into his brown skin anyway, because the comment had sent him reeling, spinning and lurching all at once. He could not reply so he closed his eyes and tucked his chin into his chest, for once uncaring of her gaze which no doubt observed the hypnotic effect she had on him.

When Michael looked back up, she was still staring.

“Don’t,” he said weakly.

“Don’t what, Michael?” she questioned quietly. Her tongue made a brief appearance, snaking out to run over her lips before retreating.

He ducked his head. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

He didn’t answer. He nestled his head on the green comforter and started to mentally count down from one hundred.

He’d reached seventy two when she asked, “Is it me?”

He stopped. What little air remained in the stifling room was snatched away.

Michael had to gulp to remind himself how to breathe. In, then out, in, then out. He probably looked real strange, lying down and opening his mouth like a fish.

“Michael?”

He never noticed how crooked the Pinocchio figure looked on the shelf. Normally, he had an eye for keeping things neat and tidy, no matter how busy. Come to think of it–the whole shelf needed rearranging.

“You ignoring me, Jackson?” she said lightly, and this time she was impossible to ignore because her hand had come to rest in his hair, shifting tenderly.

Michael wished for the kind of self-restraint the knights in his stories displayed: resilience in their resistance of obedience as they rally against all odds to save the princess. Even the princesses themselves were to be admired–refusing to even insult their captors despite provocation.

But Michael was unfortunately not a knight or a princess, and so when he released a breathy gasp at the feeling of her fingers on his scalp, he could only sigh at the predictability of it all.

“Sorry,” he was quick to say, but even that apology sounded like he was fighting for air. He covered his eyes with a hand. And still her fingers remained.

“That–that’s alright,” she stammered, and was it just him or did she sound affected too?

“It’s not you,” Michael said, his voice weirdly hoarse. “It’s–it’s me.”

“You sure?” she said, her voice also taking on a weird quality. His covered eyes protected him with a layer of darkness, but he did wonder whether she was still peering at him with undivided attention.

“Yeah. I’m not usually like this.”

“I know. Which is why I know it’s my fault.”

“No…I was just nervous.”

“Do I…make you nervous?”

The question was accompanied with a tug of his curls which brought out a louder sound, more akin to a wounded animal. Mortification swelled in his chest.

“Can I take that as a yes?” she said teasingly. Michael could picture the smirk she was sporting. Bravely, he dropped his hand away but still kept his eyes tightly shut.

“N–no,” he panted–he was panting? What was this girl doing to him?

“I’ll take it anyway.”

“I’m–I’m sorry,” he murmured, unsure of what exactly he was saying it for. The bed below him shifted and creaked, and with further investigation he realized that it was his own movements causing it. He wasn’t even sure what he was doing; it just felt like he was pressing down and up, then inching a little left, or a little right. The pressure made him feel like he was going to explode.

“Oh, Michael,” she whispered almost wistfully. He dared to crack open an eyelid; sure enough, her eyes were wide with ardor, her lips plopped open. While she wasn’t unravelling as quickly as he felt he was, her chest was rising and falling speedily, and her hand was gripping his scalp tighter. The sight made him almost lose it–what it was, he wasn’t sure.

Gosh, was this okay? It felt so, so okay, but this foggy feeling clouding up his thoughts couldn’t be a good sign.

“Michael.”

“Hm?”

“Stay right there. Don’t move.”

Her fingers retreated and he almost—almost—moaned at the loss. That coiling sensation in his gut was winding down, the tension less palpable. Good, he thought to himself. He’d never…but from what his brothers had unceremoniously told him, it was messy. Michael didn’t want to have such…filth around her.

He was a little surprised at how easily he’d almost …reached it. Once again, all his knowledge had been jokingly forced down his throat through certain kinds of movies that his Neanderthal brothers had shown him, or the scandalous magazines Marlon used to sneak in.

Michael didn’t know that a few stray touches of his hair could make him lose control. It wasn’t sex (thank God) and yet he was still struggling to catch his breath and he still felt…alert.

Maybe it was just her.

Oh, he was in so much trouble.

The bed sprang up and down, accommodating for her departure and return, this time with the added weight of the large camera.

“Get on the floor. Please.”

No please was needed; he’d already begun sliding to the floor in a daze. The air particles around him hummed and vibrated slowly. He felt like he was in a dream.

“Good. Okay, this is going to sound strange, but kneel. Yes, just like that. Perfect.”

There was something about that mouth of hers. She wasn’t even saying anything that dirty, but it felt so wrong hearing her praises from a position like this. It made him feel sluggish and energetic all at once. His eyelids were drooping and he was struggling to pay heed to her voice.

“Now look up at me. Tilt your head a little, but mainly with your—oh, Michael,” she said breathlessly. She took a photo and he tried not to flinch at the assault of light on his face.

“You look…” She didn’t continue. Look what? Stupid? Weird? Handsome?

Sexy?

Instead, her hand reached to cup his chin caressingly. The action was too fond, too intimate that he squeezed his eyes shut again, and dug his nails into his thighs.

“You won’t look at me?”

He shook his head to the best of his restricted ability.

“I can’t believe this. I really can’t.”

He opened his eyes a little and immediately regretted doing so when he saw how adoringly she was watching him.

“I didn’t know. Why didn’t I know? Twelve years…” She was mumbling, seemingly more to herself than to him.

“I might have been the only girl on the planet that didn’t know,” she went on, shaking her head almost imperceptibly.

“What didn't you know?” he dared to ask softly.

“How fucking sexy you are.”

And then he fell down a mountain.

It sounded dramatic, but the comment sent Michael hurtling over the metaphorical mountaintop and now he was tumbling and tripping down into the white snow. He hit the ground with an odd noise, somewhere between a blissed moan and a strangled yell, and he lay there for some time because the journey took just about everything out of him.

“Michael…”

The voice was so far away that he didn’t bother reaching for it. Let it come to me, he decided.

“Michael, baby…?”

Baby? That felt nice. Maybe he would search for this voice in the darkness after all.

A distant pale light pulsated in the distance. He stretched out his hand and–

She was holding his head in her lap, smoothing his hair.

The brightness of the room was incredibly disorienting. After several blinks, Michael returned to himself and his surroundings, to her gentle touch and the merciless heat and his underwear that felt really sweaty and tight.

Looking down, he spied the wet patch bleeding through his dark jeans. Mortified, he moved to cover it.

“It’s okay,” she said quickly. She pulled out some tissues and offered them to him. He grudgingly accepted and started wiping roughly, wincing from the sensitivity.

“Do you need…help?”

“What?” he snapped. He wasn’t sure why, but his heart was heavy with frustration. Or maybe it was embarrassment. Frustrated embarrassment.

“Nevermind.”

A few vigorous swipes later and she said, “Take it easy, Michael. It’s okay.”

It is?

Michael lifted his head. When he looked at her, really looked at her, the truth of what he’d done rushed through him.

“I’m sorry,” he said, words choking as tears prickled and stabbed at his eyeballs.

“Why? You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I—I didn’t?” Why did he feel like a child again, shrinking away while his father debated whether the branch or the cable wire was better?

“Of course not. If anything, I was the one who—” She waved her hand dismissively. “It doesn’t matter. It’s not your fault.”

Visions of his father melted away and left only her. He clung to her shirt suddenly and she embraced him, letting him nuzzle into her chest.

“So…what now?” she asked after a few measured beats of silence. Michael didn’t respond because he didn’t want to think about whatever came after. Now was now, and he wanted to savor every sun-kissed second.

“I learned a lot today, Michael,” she murmured over his hair. “What a scary revelation.”

“Why scary?” he mumbled.

“Because I thought I was different. I don’t want to sound like…one of those girls, the ones who insist that they’re so much better than others. But I really thought that it didn’t work on me. Looks like…I don’t know.”

“It?” he sounded out with his clumsy tongue.

“Yeah. It.”

“I don’t know what it is,” Michael pondered aloud. His eyelids were starting to drift down without his volition.

“Good.”

Was it really? This was all so confusing.

They settled into a comfortable quiet again until Michael asked one last question, emboldened by his drowsiness. “Do you really think Leo Andre is gorgeous?”

Her laugh rang like a church bell. “I knew this was about him!”

“It wasn’t, I swear it.” He was grateful that his smile was concealed by her chest.

“You’re so jealous.”

“I’m not.”

“You so are. I could see it in your face.”

That was the last thing Michael heard before sleep took him in its arms.

Perhaps he would have craved to hear what she said last. Would it have changed anything? Who knew?

It was with a tender pat on his back that she said quietly, “He is. But he doesn’t hold a candle to you. No one does.” She was glad to hear the slowing of his breath as he slept, the confession remaining forever hers.

First post here, kinda nervy!

Shoutout to Leo Andre, my fictitious punching bag! If I ever commit to an MCU (Michael Cinematic Universe) then maybe I'll make him my Thanos.

it's you ✦

summary ⋆ a quiet afternoon at hayvenhurst leads to a surprisingly emotional conversation, forcing two lifelong friends to confront feelings they’ve both been avoiding for years. old habits resurface, boundaries blur, and somewhere between comfort and confession, everything between them begins to change.

content ⋆ off the wall era michael jackson, childhood friends to lovers, mutual pining, emotional hurt/comfort, insecurity discussions, body image issues, awkward yearning, a lot of eye contact, accidental intimacy, first kiss, michael being vulnerable, snake, praise and reassurance, unresolved feelings finally resolving, enough tension to kill a victorian child, british spelling warning, 4.2k words

⊹ ࣪ ˖ ꒰ঌ ♡ ໒꒱ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ off the wall! michael jackson x childhood friend! reader

author's note ⋆ to the person who requested this from me I'M SORRY I TOOK SO LONG. hopefully this matches somewhat you were asking for, i know i went a lil bit off course a long the way i just reached a flow state at some point while writing this and couldn't stop. i really hope to get more requests cuz this one was mega fun to do hehe

you really can’t help it sometimes. even if you wanted to.

some people might find it a little unsettling, the way you keep staring at michael jackson like he’s something between a cathedral painting and a religious experience, but you genuinely can’t stop yourself. not when the afternoon light catches in his eyes like a kaleidoscope of stained glass. not when his mouth curls around absentminded conversations in that tender way it does. not when his hands move with such strange, unconscious grace even while doing an act as mundane as handling snake feed. 

fuck.

you’d be lying if you said you didn’t think he was the most beautiful man on earth. it was truly the world’s biggest tragedy that he couldn’t seem to see any of it for himself.

michael’s room was what you would describe as an organised mess. board games littered the floor in various stages of abandonment, each one a legitimate tripping hazard if you weren’t already familiar with the geography of his bedroom. well-used musical equipment sat clustered near the foot of his bed for easy access: keyboards, tangled headphone wires, cassette tapes with hurried scribbles across the labels, a pair of drumsticks that had somehow migrated beneath the nightstand weeks ago and never moved again. 

records leaned precariously in uneven stacks — off the wall, songs in the key of life, the boss — mixed haphazardly with comic books, children’s storybooks, and other little oddities he’d collected over the years. 

the room smelled faintly of cedar shavings, expensive cologne, and the humid warmth drifting from the reptile tanks lined carefully along one side of the room.