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⎯ 𝓎ours truly, riri. . twenty-one. miss libra. ׄ michael 𝒿ackson enthusiast. pinkest princess. . ﹒ ❝ົ resident of 𝑛𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑎𝑛𝑑. ﹒⋆ mexicana. ❤︎︎ྀིྀིྀིྀིྀི
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݁ ゛but, hes such a man. ݂
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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❝ 𝒻. popstar!reader 𝑥 thriller!𝒎ichael ❞ 𓂃 m.𝓁ist
intro. ❪ 𝔀.𝐜. 5.8𝑘 ❫ ✐ after michael’s pepsi accident, you find yourself using his phone number after three months of no contact. ᴘʀᴇᴠɪᴏᴜs ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ.
contains 𑣲 ﹕ no use of y/n. hurt/comfort. mentions of the pepsi accident. michael being referred to as ‘jackson.’ sososo much yearning. enemies to friends…for now.
❤︎︎ ゛reblogs are appreciated .ᐟ ( ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ഒ
❛ 𝓳anuary 27, 1984 — 𝓁os angeles, 𝑐alifornia. ❜
The news interrupted whatever mindless television program you had allowed to play in the background.
You had not been paying much attention to it. The television had merely been there to fill the silence of your living room, producing enough indistinguishable noise to prevent you from becoming too aware of how alone you were with your own frustration. You had spent most of the afternoon seated on the carpet, surrounded by crumpled lyric sheets, discarded pencils, and several cups of tea that you had forgotten to finish before they went cold.
You were attempting to write a song. Attempting was the important word. Every line you produced seemed either painfully insincere or suspiciously similar to something you had already written before, and every melody felt borrowed from a younger, more inspired version of yourself. You had been staring at the same unfinished verse for nearly twenty minutes, tapping your pencil against the paper while silently considering whether throwing the entire notebook across the room would count as a productive artistic decision.
It was then that the music on the television stopped abruptly. The change in tone caught your attention first. There was something immediately ominous about the polished seriousness of a news anchor’s voice, the kind which could make even an insignificant story feel worthy of alarm. You continued staring at your lyric sheet for another few seconds, only half-listening, until you heard a name that made every other sound in the room disappear.
“—Michael Jackson has reportedly been injured while filming a commercial at the Shrine Auditorium in Los Angeles.”
Your pencil stilled against the paper as you slowly looked up. A photograph of Michael appeared beside the anchor, one you had seen before in magazines and newspapers, where he was smiling beneath carefully arranged curls as though he did not have a single reason to feel frightened by the world around him.
For one strange moment, you did not understand what had been said. Like the words of the anchorwoman were complete gibberish. Injured. Commercial. Shrine Auditorium. Each word floated separately through your mind, refusing to join into a complete thought because the completed thought was one you did not want to comprehend. Then the photograph disappeared, replaced with footage of an ambulance, crowds pressed around the venue, and people rushing through a side entrance while reporters fought their way closer to the commotion.
You rose so quickly that several sheets of paper slid from your lap and scattered across the carpet.
“During the filming, an apparent malfunction involving stage pyrotechnics caused the singer’s hair to catch fire—” Your stomach dropped.
The anchor continued speaking, but you hardly heard another complete sentence. One witness claimed to have seen flames. Another said Michael had continued performing for several seconds before realizing what had happened. The details seemed to shift depending on who was telling the story, each account somehow managing to sound more horrifying than the one before it.
You moved closer to the television and placed one hand against the edge of the console, gripping the wood tightly enough for your fingers to ache.
The footage kept replaying. You caught a distant glimpse of a stretcher being pushed through a crowd of people. The image was unsteady and obstructed by reporters, security guards, and flashing cameras, making it impossible to distinguish the face of the person lying upon it. You knew it was him anyway.
“Oh my God.” Your voice sounded unfamiliar in the empty room. The telephone sat only a few feet away, and your eyes moved toward it instinctively before stopping.
You could not call him. Could you? You had not used the number once since he had given it to you.
For nearly three months, the matchbook had remained tucked inside the smallest compartment of your purse. You carried it everywhere, transferring it from one bag to another whenever the occasion required a change, all while pretending that its continued presence meant nothing. You told yourself that you had simply forgotten to remove it. You told yourself it was amusing to keep. You told yourself many things, all of them far easier to accept than the truth—that the small piece of cardboard had become strangely precious to you.
You had considered calling more times than you would have ever admitted aloud. After difficult rehearsals, when every person in the room seemed to want something different from you. After cruel articles, particularly the ones which compared you to Michael in ways designed to make both of you look petty and ungrateful. Once, after waking from a dream you could not entirely remember, although his voice had somehow remained with you long after the images had disappeared.
Every time, you found a reason not to do it. It was too late, you were too busy—he was probably busy too. You had nothing really important to say.
Eventually, the excuses became easier to repeat than the real reason. You were afraid he would not want to hear from you.
It was a childish fear, in retrospect, particularly because Michael had been the one to write down his number and instruct you to use it. But affection had already begun to make you irrational. Even before you properly understood that affection was what you felt, it had given him the unique ability to embarrass and reject you in ways no one else could. A newspaper critic could declare you talentless and you would survive it. Michael could sound even slightly disappointed to hear your voice, and you suspected the humiliation might stay with you for the rest of your life.
Now, however, as you stared at the television while strangers speculated about the severity of his injuries, none of those excuses mattered. You hurried toward the chair where your purse had been abandoned and began searching through it with trembling hands. Lipstick, keys, a folded receipt, a compact mirror.
Your fingers finally closed around a thin piece of cardboard, and you pulled it free. The club’s gold lettering had begun to fade around the edges after months of being handled far more often than you would have liked anyone to know.
You opened the matchbook. His number remained written across the inside in dark ink and beneath it, the same three words stared back at you.
Call me sometime.
Your heart pounded painfully. You carried the matchbook toward the telephone and sat beside it, but then you remained there, staring at the receiver as though it were something capable of hurting you.
All you had to do was lift the receiver, dial the seven numbers written inside the matchbook, and ask whether he was all right. It should have been simple—certainly far simpler than the dozens of conversations you had already imagined having with him over the last three months—but now that the opportunity had been forced upon you, every possible outcome seemed capable of frightening you into stillness.
Your thoughts immediately began inventing reasons to delay. Perhaps the number had changed, or one of his family members would answer and demand to know who you were. Perhaps Michael was sleeping, unconscious, or in too much pain to speak. Worse still, perhaps the reporters did not yet know the full extent of his injuries, and dialing the number would place you before a truth you were not prepared to hear. None of these fears were reasonable enough to justify doing nothing, but fear rarely required reason; it merely required the smallest uncertainty through which it could enter and begin multiplying.
You snatched the receiver from its cradle before your mind could construct anything more terrifying. The dial tone filled your ear, and your finger hovered above the first number, then you placed the telephone down again.
“Damn it.” The television continued speaking behind you, the reporters offering update after update in voices so composed that they almost sounded detached from the reality of what had happened. They spoke of a stable condition, of a specialised burn unit, of family members arriving at the hospital and representatives requesting privacy while investigations continued into the accident. Every new piece of information was intended to reassure the public that Michael Jackson was alive, conscious, and receiving the best care available, yet none of it brought you any comfort.
None of those carefully rehearsed statements had come from him, and until they did, your imagination insisted upon filling every silence with possibilities far crueler than the facts. It was astonishing how quickly fear could distort a person’s thinking. Only minutes ago, you had been irritated with yourself for failing to finish a song, and now you found yourself wondering whether the owner of the telephone number tucked inside your purse was lying unconscious somewhere across Los Angeles.
You returned to the telephone and picked it up again. This time, you dialed three numbers before hanging up.
It was ridiculous. You had stood before thousands of strangers without allowing your nerves to show. You had endured interviews designed to embarrass you, smiled through criticisms that would’ve broken less stubborn people, and argued with Michael Jackson himself in the middle of a crowded soundstage without surrendering so much as an inch of ground. Somehow, however, the simple act of asking whether he was all right felt infinitely more terrifying than any of those things ever had. Because this was not an argument. There would be no clever remark to hide behind and no public rivalry to explain your interest. You could not pretend you were calling because a manager had instructed you to or because some shared obligation required it.
You would be calling because you cared, and there was no rivalry, sharp remark, or convenient excuse capable of disguising that fact from you anymore. The realization settled painfully beneath your ribs, exposing something you had spent the last several months refusing to examine too closely. Whatever Michael had become to you, it was no longer something harmless enough to ignore, because the thought of him hurt and frightened somewhere across the city had already reduced every reason you had invented for keeping your distance into complete insignificance.
His photograph appeared on the television again, smiling beside the grave expression of the news anchor, and that was finally enough to push you beyond your fear. Before you could reconsider, you lowered yourself beside the telephone, lifted the receiver, and dialed every number written inside the matchbook. Your fingers trembled as they moved, but you did not allow yourself to stop this time.
The line began to ring. With each unanswered tone, your courage weakened. By the third, you were already preparing to hang up and convince yourself that you had tried, that perhaps he was asleep or surrounded by family, and that calling again tomorrow would somehow be easier. But then, just as your hand began to move toward the cradle, the ringing stopped.
“Hello?” You went completely still.
It was him. His voice sounded quieter than usual, roughened slightly by exhaustion and whatever medication the doctors had administered, but it was unmistakably his. The relief of hearing it was so immediate that, for several seconds, you forgot you were expected to respond.
“Hello?” he repeated, sounding more alert now. “Who is this?”
“It’s me.”
Silence greeted you from the other end, and your fingers tightened around the receiver as you wondered whether those two words had been hopelessly presumptuous. There were hundreds of people who might have introduced themselves to Michael Jackson that way, but a small, unreasonable part of you had assumed that he would know.
“You?” he asked, and the recognition in his voice almost caused your eyes to burn.
“Yeah.”
Another pause settled between you before he said, very softly, “You actually called.”
Under any other circumstances, you would have teased him for sounding so surprised after practically ordering you to use his number. Tonight, however, the familiar instinct to hide behind some clever remark failed you, because the fear had not yet loosened its grip around your chest.
“I-uh.. I saw the news.”
His breathing changed slightly. “Oh.”
“Are you okay?” You finally asked.
“I’m fine.”
The answer came far too quickly, delivered with the same automatic composure he used whenever an interviewer asked something invasive and he wished to discourage any further questioning. It awakened an anger in you that was not truly anger at all, but fear taking on a sharper shape because fear itself felt too vulnerable to expose. Michael had just been injured in front of hundreds of people, yet he was already attempting to make the situation easier for everyone else by reducing his own suffering into something harmless. You hated that instinct in him, perhaps because you recognized it so well.
“Jackson,” you said firmly.
“What?”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Tell me you’re fine like I didn’t just watch you get carried out of a building on a stretcher.”
He went quiet, and you immediately regretted the sharpness with which the words had escaped. It was almost defensive, as though somebody had insulted him and you were preparing to argue on his behalf, except the person dismissing Michael’s pain was Michael himself. You had spent months pretending that you found him irritating, but the prospect of him neglecting his own well-being seemed to irritate you far more than anything he had ever said to you.
“I wasn’t carried out,” he corrected after a moment.
You stared ahead in disbelief. “That is absolutely the part you’re choosing to focus on?”
“They wheeled me out.”
“You are unbelievable.”
You rubbed a hand across your forehead, pushing several loose strands of hair away from your face, and then heard a faint sound through the receiver. It took you a second to realize that he was laughing.
The laugh was weak and brief, hardly more than an amused breath, but hearing it released something inside you that had been painfully restrained since the news report began. You pressed your free hand against your eyes, suddenly afraid that the relief might make you cry.
“This isn’t funny.”
“I know.”
“Then stop laughing.”
“You sound mad.”
“I am mad.”
“At me?”
You hesitated, because you did not know how to explain that you were angry at the pyrotechnics, the commercial, the people who had continued filming, and every person currently telling him to be grateful rather than allowing him to admit that he was frightened. Most of all, you were angry because he had been hurt and you had possessed no way of knowing whether he was safe.
“I don’t know yet,” you answered.
“I didn’t set myself on fire.”
“Really, Jackson?”
“Sorry,” he murmured, his voice shrinking in a way that betrayed the fact that he was still trying not to smile.
Despite yourself, a laugh escaped you, although it sounded dangerously close to a sob. You attempted to swallow the sound before he could recognize it, but Michael had always been far more perceptive than you gave him credit for.
“Hey,” he said, all amusement disappearing from his tone.
You lowered your hand from your face. “What?”
“I’m really okay.”
This time he did not sound dismissive. Instead, he spoke as though your fear had become another thing he felt responsible for easing, and you realized that if you continued sounding frightened, he might spend the entire night reassuring you instead of acknowledging what had happened to him.
“They treated me,” he continued. “I’m resting now, and everybody keeps checking on me every five minutes.”
“Good.”
“It’s annoying.”
“Good,” you repeated, without the slightest sympathy.
“You want me to be annoyed?”
“I want somebody watching you.”
“There are plenty of people watching me.”
“That isn’t what I meant.”
“I know.”
The words rested gently between you. He understood that you did not mean doctors, nurses, security guards, or family members moving in and out of his room. You meant that you wanted somebody near him who would notice if he was hurting and refuse to accept the first easy answer he gave them.
You heard the quiet rustling of sheets on his end, followed by a strained exhale as he attempted to adjust himself. The sound caused your irritation to vanish as quickly as it had appeared.
“Does it hurt?” you asked, and you hated how small your voice became.
Michael did not answer immediately. “A little.”
“A little?”
“More than a little.”
Your chest tightened again. “Did they give you something?”
“Yeah.”
“Is it helping?”
“Some.”
You nodded even though he could not see you, your eyes drifting back toward the television. The report had moved on to another story, but the ambulance, the crowds, and the brief glimpse of the stretcher remained fixed in your mind.
“I was scared,” you admitted before you could stop yourself.
Michael seemed to become completely still on the other end of the line. “You were?”
You could have retracted the confession. You could have blamed the dramatic coverage or laughed about how the reporters had managed to frighten half of Los Angeles, but the matchbook was resting on your knee, reminding you of every occasion when you had wanted to call and refused to do so.
“Yes.”
His answer came so quietly that you almost missed it. “Me too.”
Until then, Michael had always seemed almost impossible to frighten. You had watched him step onto enormous stages as though they belonged to him, performing beneath blinding lights with a confidence you secretly envied. Even when he became nervous during interviews, he knew how to fold the discomfort beneath careful smiles and gentle answers, allowing the public to mistake his self-control for fearlessness.
“When?” you asked.
“After.”
You waited without interrupting him.
“When it happened, I didn’t understand what everybody was doing,” he explained slowly. “People started runnin’ toward me, and somebody pushed me down. I could smell somethin’ burning, but I didn’t know it was…”
He stopped, and your fingers curled around the telephone cord.
“You don’t have to tell me.”
“No, it’s okay.” Michael inhaled carefully before continuing. “I didn’t feel it at first. Not really. Then everything started hurting at once, and everybody was lookin’ at me. There were so many people there.”
His voice no longer carried any trace of the humor he had used earlier. He did not sound like Michael Jackson, whose face covered magazines and whose records seemed to play everywhere you went. He sounded painfully young—just Michael, hurt and frightened, while attempting desperately not to allow anyone around him to hear it.
“I kept thinkin’ I had to stay calm,” he whispered. “Because if I looked scared, everybody else would panic.”
“You were allowed to be scared,” you told him, and the protectiveness returned to your voice with such force that it nearly surprised you. You could not understand how anyone had allowed him to believe that even this moment had required something from him. “You were the person who got hurt, Jackson. You didn’t owe anybody a performance.”
The word lingered between you because performance had come to define almost every aspect of both your lives. You performed happiness at parties, confidence during interviews, and gratitude whenever somebody crossed a boundary. Apparently, even pain required the correct presentation.
“I don’t know how to turn it off,” Michael admitted.
You leaned further back into the chair. “Turn what off?”
“The part of me that knows people are watching.”
You understood him immediately, and perhaps that was what frightened you most.
“Sometimes I don’t think it turns off,” you said. “Even when you’re alone.”
“You feel it too?”
“All the time. I’ll be sitting by myself and still wondering what I look like, whether I’m behaving the way everybody expects me to, or if I’m wasting time when I should be working.”
“Yes,” he answered so quickly that your heart ached.
“It’s like somebody’s always waiting for you to make a mistake,” he continued. “And if nothing goes wrong, they wait for somethin’ anyway.”
“Then they make something up.”
“Exactly.”
“And tomorrow, there’ll be a dozen different stories about what happened today.”
“They already have some.”
You frowned. “You’ve seen them?”
“Somebody turned the television off, but I heard people talking in the hallway.”
“Don’t listen to any of it.”
“You’re telling me not to read the papers?”
“For once, yes.”
“You read all of them.”
“This isn’t about me.”
“You told me you only read some of them.”
“That isn’t important right now.”
“So, you admit you lied?”
You released a disbelieving laugh, recognizing the deliberate distraction for what it was. Michael had successfully moved the conversation away from the accident and onto you, which was likely exactly what he had intended.
“You nearly caught fire today, and you’re using this moment to prove I read articles about you?”
“I told you, I didn’t do it on purpose.”
“You are exhausting, Jackson.”
“But you called.”
There was something delicate beneath his teasing, and the softness of it caused you to look down at the matchbook again.
“I did.”
“Why?”
Your lips parted, but the honest answer remained lodged somewhere behind your ribs. You had called because seeing him on that stretcher had made the entire room tilt, and because, for several terrible minutes, you had believed that your last genuine conversation might have ended with a telephone number you were too frightened to use. Somewhere between your first argument and the night at the club, he had become important to you, but you were not prepared to give him the satisfaction of hearing that yet.
“You told me to call sometime.”
“It took me getting burned?”
“Apparently.”
He laughed again, slightly stronger this time, and you smiled despite yourself.
“I’m sorry,” you said. “I should’ve called before.”
“I could’ve called you.”
“You don’t have my number.”
“I could’ve gotten it.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
He hesitated before answering. “I didn’t know if you wanted me to.”
“You gave me your number.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
“Because then it was your choice.”
Your expression softened. Of course that was how he saw it. Michael had spent most of his life surrounded by people who made choices for him, deciding where he would go, what he would wear, what he would say, and which version of himself the public was allowed to see. When it came to you, he had handed over the decision entirely, perhaps because he knew better than most how uncomfortable it felt to have someone force their way into your life.
“I wanted to,” you admitted. “I just didn’t know what I was supposed to say.”
“You could’ve said hello.”
“Very helpful, Jackson.”
“It worked tonight.”
“Barely. I almost hung up.”
“I know.”
You straightened in surprise. “How?”
“You were breathing into the phone.”
Your face warmed. “I was not.”
“You were.”
“Maybe that was somebody else.”
“Calling my private number?”
“You could have another secret rival.”
“One is enough.”
You smiled by happenstance before immediately wiping it clean. “You really think I’m your rival?”
“Sometimes.”
“Only sometimes?”
“Tonight, you’re not.”
The answer settled somewhere unexpectedly deep inside you. “What am I tonight?”
Silence followed the question. For a moment, you worried that you had crossed a line neither of you was prepared to acknowledge, because there were some questions that only revealed their intimacy after they had already been spoken.
Then Michael answered quietly, “My friend.”
You lowered your eyes. Friend was such a simple word, but neither of you had used it before. You had been colleagues, competitors, annoyances, and, according to the press, enemies. Friendship had formed privately beneath those labels, growing during the few moments when neither of you felt obligated to perform for the other.
“Is that what we are?” you asked.
“I think so.”
“You don’t sound very sure.”
“I’ve never had a friend who insulted me this much.”
“Maybe your other friends aren’t honest enough.”
“Maybe.”
The warmth in his voice made you smile again. “All right then friend, you need to rest.”
“I am resting.” He protested before you argued back.
“Talking to me isn’t resting.”
“It is a little.”
The answer disarmed you completely. He had said it without flirtation or calculation, simply confessing that your presence, even delivered through a telephone line, made the night easier to endure. You heard him shift again, followed by another quiet breath of discomfort.
“Jackson?”
“I’m here.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m sore.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
Michael sighed. “I don’t know.” The honesty silenced you.
“Everybody keeps telling me how lucky I am,” he continued. “They keep saying it could’ve been worse, and I know that. I’m grateful it wasn’t worse.”
“But?”
“I keep seeing it.”
You drew the receiver closer to your ear. “Seeing what?”
“Everybody runnin’ toward me. The lights. I close my eyes, and it’s still bright.”
Your heart ached for him. The accident had ended hours ago, but some frightened part of him remained inside it, trapped beneath the lights and surrounded by people whose panic had told him that something terrible was happening before his own body could.
“Then don’t close them yet.”
“I’m tired.”
“You don’t have to sleep.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
You glanced toward the clock and realized that it was already nearing midnight.
“Talk to me.”
“About what?”
“Anything that isn’t today.”
He considered the suggestion before asking, “What were you doing before you saw the news?”
You looked toward the lyric sheets scattered across the carpet. “Trying to write.”
“Trying?”
“It wasn’t going very well.”
“Why?”
“Because everything sounded awful.”
“Sing it to me.”
Your eyes widened. “Absolutely not.”
“Why?”
“Because it isn’t finished.”
“So?”
“So, you’re not hearing it.”
“You said we could talk about anything.”
“Talking and singing are two different things.”
“Not to us.”
You became quiet because, whether he had meant to or not, Michael had touched upon an intimacy neither of you had acknowledged before. Music was the one language you had both spoken before learning how to explain yourselves in any other manner. It existed before the rivalry and before the industry had taught you to treat vulnerability as something dangerous.
“Come on,” he urged gently. “Just a little.”
“You’re using your injury to manipulate me, Jackson.”
“Is it working?”
“No.” You paused, looking down at the unfinished verse. “Maybe.”
You lifted one of the lyric sheets from the carpet and scanned it with growing uncertainty. “It’s rough.”
“I won’t judge it.”
“You judge everything.”
“Not tonight.”
Something about the promise made you give in. You balanced the receiver between your ear and shoulder before singing the first few lines quietly, your voice trembling slightly at the beginning—not from stage fright, but from the intimacy of being heard without any instruments, studio effects, or roaring audience to hide behind.
When you finished, Michael said nothing.
“Well?” you asked, suddenly regretting the entire thing.
“Do it again.”
“Why?”
“Because I liked it.”
“You don’t have to say that because you’re injured.”
“I’m still capable of havin’ an opinion.”
You sang it again, and this time Michael began humming beneath you, discovering a harmony before you had even reached the second line.
You stopped immediately. “What was that?”
“Nothin’.”
“You changed the melody.”
“Only a little.”
“You said you wouldn’t judge it.”
“I’m not judging. I’m helping.”
“You’re impossible, Jackson.”
“Sing it again.”
You did, and he joined you once more. The unfinished song gradually became something different between you, where Michael suggested holding one note longer and you argued that the change made it unnecessarily dramatic. When he reminded you that you had once accused him of being dramatic first, you changed the subject before he could enjoy winning the argument.
From there, the conversation wandered naturally. Music transformed into childhood memories, where you told him about the first time you performed in front of your family by standing upon a coffee table while everyone attempted not to laugh at your seriousness. Michael spoke about watching performers from the side of the stage when he was little, studying every movement before trying to recreate the routines alone.
You discussed the records you loved, the films you could watch repeatedly, and all the places you wished to visit without being recognized. You even spoke about the foods you missed eating without someone commenting on your body afterward, which was the sort of admission neither of you would have made during daylight.
The conversation moved without effort. Sometimes you spoke over one another, and sometimes neither of you spoke at all. You discovered that Michael did not mind silence; he appeared to settle into it whenever he no longer possessed the energy to speak, trusting that you would not mistake quietness for disinterest.
At some point after two in the morning, his breathing began to slow.
“Are you falling asleep?” you asked.
“No.”
“You took ten seconds to answer.”
“I was thinking.”
“About what?”
“Sleepin’.”
You smiled, unwillingly this time.. “Then go to sleep.”
He did not answer for several moments, and you wondered whether he had finally drifted away until his voice returned, quieter than before.
“Will you hang up?”
Your fingers stilled against the telephone cord. The question had been entirely absent of pride, exposing the fear beneath it before Michael had time to disguise it. He did not want to be left alone with the images waiting behind his closed eyes.
“Do you want me to?” you asked.
“No.”
Your chest tightened. “Then I won’t.”
“You don’t have to stay.”
“I know.”
“It could be a while.”
“I know that too.”
A tender silence passed between you as you pulled the blanket from the back of the chair and draped it over yourself.
“I’m not going anywhere, Jackson.”
The surname left your lips more softly than it ever had before. You usually used it to irritate him, withholding his first name because you knew he wanted to hear it and because teasing him allowed you to keep some emotional distance between you. That night, however, it no longer sounded dismissive. It sounded private, almost affectionate, and Michael seemed to recognize the difference.
“Okay,” he whispered.
Every few minutes, one of you began speaking again. Michael asked whether you believed people could know each other in another life, and you told him it was a strange question to ask after three in the morning. When he complained that your observation was not an answer, you admitted that you liked the idea of it—he did too.
You asked what he would have become if he had not been a performer. Michael listed several possibilities before deciding that none of them felt right, and when he asked the same question of you, you realized that you could not answer either. Music had taken so much from both of you, yet neither of you knew who you might have been without it.
“Maybe that’s the problem,” you said.
“What is?”
“We’ve spent so much time being what everybody needs us to be that we don’t know what’s left when they go home.”
Michael remained quiet for a long moment before asking, “Who are you when everybody goes home?”
You looked around your living room at the abandoned tea, the lyrics scattered across the carpet, and your bare feet curled beneath the blanket.
“I don’t know yet.”
“Me neither.”
“Maybe that’s okay.”
“You think so?”
“We’re still young.”
“Sometimes I don’t feel young.”
“Neither do I.” You rested your head against the chair, thinking about how strange it was that the world considered both of you old enough to carry entire careers while neither of you felt certain of who you were. “Maybe we can remind each other.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. We can do stupid things and talk until four in the morning when we both have schedules the next day.”
“You have something tomorrow?”
“Rehearsal.”
“You should’ve told me.”
“Why?”
“You need to sleep.”
You laughed softly. “You’re the one who asked me not to hang up.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“You heavily implied.”
“That isn’t the same.”
“Do you want me to go, Jackson?”
He answered without hesitation. “No.”
You smiled into the darkness. “Then stop worrying about my rehearsal.”
“You’ll be tired.”
“I’ll survive.”
“You’ll blame me.”
“Probably.”
“See?”
“But I won’t hang up.”
His voice softened. “Thank you.”
You closed your eyes, and the silence lasted for several minutes. You listened to him breathe until the panic that had controlled you earlier finally began to loosen. He was alive, he was safe, and although he was hurt, every slow inhale offered proof that he was healing.
On the other end of the telephone, Michael shifted faintly.
“Are you still there?” he murmured.
“Yes.”
“Just checking.”
You pulled the blanket more tightly around yourself. “I’m still here, Jackson.”
Outside the window, the dark sky gradually began to soften into a pale shade of blue. The city remained mostly quiet, suspended somewhere between night and morning, and you had no idea how many hours had passed since you first dialed the number.
“You called,” Michael said sleepily.
You smiled. “We established that hours ago, Jackson.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you saying it again?”
“Because I’m glad.”
Your heart stumbled, producing the same strange confusion it had whenever his words sounded too intimate to belong within the rivalry you had created. You turned toward the window even though there was no one in the room from whom you needed to hide your expression.
“Me too.”
His breathing evened not long afterward. You waited several minutes before speaking again, although your voice came out little more than a whisper.
“Jackson?” He didn’t answer. This time, you knew he had finally fallen asleep.
You should have hung up, but instead you remained in the chair with the receiver pressed gently against your ear, listening to the quiet proof that he was all right. You thought of the night at the club, the matchbook, and the challenge in his eyes when he told you not to make him regret trusting you.
Your thumb traced the telephone cord. “I won’t,” you whispered, knowing he could not hear you.
Or perhaps it was easier to say because he could not.
You would later understand that this was the night your rivalry truly began to lose its shape. There would still be arguments, jealousy, public denial, and enough stubbornness between you to cause months of unnecessary suffering, but the change had already occurred. Michael had permitted you to hear him frightened, and you had allowed him to know that the possibility of losing him frightened you too.
Morning light crept slowly across the living room, illuminating the discarded lyrics and forgotten cups of tea. For the first time since the news interrupted your evening, you could breathe without feeling the same terrible ache in your chest, because although the walls between you had not disappeared completely, sometime between midnight and sunrise, they had begun quietly falling apart.
© honeysmoonave. ❘ Definitely one of my favorite chapters I’ve wrote (◜ ㉨ ◝ʃƪ) my babies are finally getting around to each other ! I’ll be posting the next chapter tomorrow hehe! Get ready for the angst 🫣
🏷 : @gorgystarr, @daphne020708, @floralsightings, @swe3tyann, @18lkpeters, @valky4e, @justfaefaeee, @xxxercess, @sorasomi, @bbyjjunie, @rosiiee3, @iluvbeingdelulu4evaaa, @mochimommy2002, @cyb3rsw1rls, @kyumiiee, @ch3rrybl0ssomtree, @scknights, @lavendernightsky, @iris-xoxo-juhu, @bouncylikebouncyball, @lotuspetalss, @nata-de-coconuts, @slugstarzz, @michaeljacksonsonlylady, @inbredfawn, @popzeenat, @rlm-11
dottedseven ▸ honeysmoonave
sorry yall... i was feeling a change, smth that fits into my stans more ૮ ྀིᴗ͈ . ᴗ͈ ྀིა
also guys i am still experimenting with my layout so if it changes in between posts … shhh.
i’m so indecisive ok..
𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒐𝒚 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒐𝒆 𝒆𝒚𝒆𝒔 ⋆ ₊˚✧ﾟ. ❛𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐞, 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐧 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬❜
𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨 𝜗𝜚˚⋆ ( 5.1k ) thriller!michael 𝓳ackson x childhoodbsf!popstar!reader ( ˘͈ ᵕ ˘͈♡) on the night of the grammys, after two rounds of sex michael begins to cry, overcome by both insecurity and an intense adoration.
𝟏𝟖+ ; 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 ⋆ ₊˚✧ﾟ. sub!michael. established relationship: husband n wife of 3 years. together for 6. notice how mike says 'sometime’ instead of sometimes, for realism hehe. . . body dysmorphia. post-coital tears. a lil angsty given the context. comfort. handjob. oral m!receiving. holding hands n talking him through it. m!orgasm. the softest blowjob u could imagine. n so many soft words. . . ;; author put her heart n soul into this btw!
♡ 𝐟𝐞𝐛𝐫𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟒, 𝓵𝒐𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒍𝒆𝒔…
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spotlight.ᐟ ᢉ𐭩 𝓂.jackson
⏖ ׄ ❛ thriller.era 𝑥 popstar.rea ❜ ⧽ 𝒸hapter three ﹕ at a private hollywood club, you and michael finally meet without cameras or industry pressure, allowing your rivalry to soften into an unexpectedly intimate conversation that ends with him giving you his number.
𝓬ontent ❤︎︎︎︎ ﹕ tension﹐ industry rivals﹐ emotional intimacy﹐ vulnerable michael﹐ petty banter (ofc)﹐ slow burnnn﹐ yearning begins hehee ￫ navigation. ⎯ 𝓌c. 2.9𝑘
fall 1983 — hollywood, california
you almost didn’t attend the afterparty.
your publicist had spent most of the evening insisting it would be good for you to show your face, shake a few hands and pretend you enjoyed being trapped in a room full of executives searching for their next profitable connection. you had already done enough pretending for one night.
you smiled for photographs until your cheeks hurt, answered the same questions from at least six different reporters and listened patiently as strangers explained your own career to you. the last thing you wanted was another crowded room.
still, your car arrived outside the private club shortly after eleven.
the place was hidden behind an unmarked black door tucked between two buildings on sunset boulevard. there were no flashing signs or crowds gathered outside, only a velvet rope and a large man holding a clipboard beneath the soft glow of a wall lamp.
membership was supposedly exclusive. the kind of place actors, musicians and producers visited whenever they wanted to be seen without actually being seen. most importantly, cameras weren’t allowed inside.
you handed the doorman your invitation and stepped through the entrance. the noise from the street disappeared behind you.
inside, the club was dim and warm, glowing beneath amber lamps and scattered candles. red velvet booths curved along the walls while smoke drifted lazily toward the ceiling. music played quietly enough that no one had to compete with it, a soft mix of jazz and soul spilling through speakers hidden somewhere in the dark.
it was crowded, but not suffocating. no reporters. no microphones. no one shouting your name from across the room.
for the first time that night, you felt yourself breathe.
“there you are.” your publicist appeared almost immediately, looping her arm through yours before you could escape. “i was starting to think you’d gone home.”
“i really considered it.” your voice smooth and calm.
“well, don’t. there are people here you should meet.”
of course there were.
she guided you through the room, introducing you to producers, managers and people whose exact jobs remained a mystery even after they explained them. you smiled when expected, laughed when appropriate and accepted a glass of champagne from a passing waiter even though you had no intention of finishing it.
after twenty minutes, you managed to slip away.
you found a quieter section near the back of the club, hidden beyond a heavy curtain and a narrow hallway. a balcony stretched behind the building, overlooking the scattered lights of hollywood below.
the cool night air hit your skin as soon as you stepped outside. you closed the door behind you, silencing the conversation and music inside.
finally.
you leaned your arms against the railing, staring out at the city as you kicked one heel loosely against the floor. from a distance, los angeles always looked peaceful. the lights glittered beautifully enough to make you forget how exhausting it was to exist beneath them.
“hiding?”
you insantly stiffened, that voice had become impossible not to recognize. you turned slowly.
michael stood near the doorway with one hand still resting against the handle. his curls framed his face beneath the faint balcony light. he had abandoned the jacket you’d seen him wearing earlier, leaving him in a pale button-down shirt with the sleeves pushed slightly above his wrists.
of course.
even in the one quiet corner of hollywood, he managed to find you.
“i was here first,” you said.
michael released the door and stepped onto the balcony. “i didn’t say you weren’t.”
“you were thinking it.”
“you don’t know what i was thinking.”
“you usually make it obvious.”
his eyebrows lifted.
“do i?”
“painfully.”
the corner of his mouth twitched, but he turned away before you could decide whether it counted as a smile.
he moved toward the opposite side of the railing, leaving a generous amount of space between you.
for a few moments, neither of you spoke. it felt strange.
you had grown accustomed to the noise that followed him. cameras clicking, people calling his name and reporters desperate to pull something interesting from his mouth.
without any of that, he seemed different—quieter and smaller, somehow—not in importance, but in presence. he no longer looked like the impossible figure printed across every magazine cover in the country, he just looked tired.
“you can go back inside,” you said.
michael glanced at you. “so can you.”
“i came out here to be alone.”
“so did i.”
“then you should find another balcony.”
“this is the only one.”
you looked toward the door, then back at him.
“unfortunate.”
“very.”
another silence settled over you. usually, it would have felt like a challenge but tonight, it didn’t.
michael rested his forearms against the railing, looking down at the street below.
“you don’t like these things either?” he finally broke the silence.
you eyed him suspiciously. “what things?”
“parties.” he continued.
“i like parties.” you explained.
“you’ve been hiding outside for almost ten minutes.”
“you’ve been counting?” you questioned him.
he looked over at you, “no.”
“sure.”
“i just noticed when you left.”
the admission slipped out so casually that it took you a moment to understand it.
you looked away first, “well, maybe i like parties in theory.”
“but not in practice?”
“not when every conversation feels like an audition.”
michael’s expression changed, only slightly, but enough for you to notice.
“yeah,” he murmured. “i know what you mean.”
you studied him from the corner of your eye, there was no sarcasm in his voice. no trace of the carefully polished smile he used during interviews. for once, he wasn’t trying to win.
“everyone always wants something,” you continued before you could stop yourself. “a quote, a favor, a photograph. sometimes they don’t even know what they want yet. they just know they want it from you.”
michael nodded slowly, “and if you don’t give it to them, you’re difficult.”
“or ungrateful.”
“or rude.”
“dramatic.”
he looked at you then.
you tried to keep your face straight, but his expression pulled a laugh from you before you could prevent it. it was small and quiet, yet genuine. michael pulled a smile, too. not the tight, passive-aggressive smile you had exchanged at the american music awards or the one he offered photographers whenever they instructed him to look pleased about standing beside you—a real smile. it softened his entire face.
you hated how different it made him look.
“you still think i’m dramatic?” he asked.
“i never said i stopped.”
“you don’t exactly make things easy.”
“for you?”
“for anybody.”
you placed a hand against your chest, pretending to be offended. “i’m a lovely person.”
“that isn’t what the newspapers say.”
“the newspapers say we’re secretly plotting each other’s downfall so..” you trailed off.
“aren’t we?” he rebuttals which caused to you narrow your eyes.
“speak for yourself.”
his soft laughter followed, and the sound surprised you more than it should have. you had heard him laugh before, usually from across crowded rooms or in carefully edited television appearances, but never this close, never because of something you said.
you turned back toward the city, the strange tightness in your chest followed.
“do you read them?” you asked, your voice settled in a softer tone this time.
“what?”
“the articles about us.”
michael hesitated before he answered “sometimes.”
“sometimes?”
“when people leave them around.”
you scoffed. “right.”
“what?”
“you read every single one.”
“and you don’t?”
“absolutely not.”
he gave you a look. you sighed.
“fine. most of them.”
“all of them.”
“don’t push it.”
a comfortable silence passed between you, but that was what unsettled you most. comfort had never existed between the two of you before. every interaction was usually edged with competition. every word carefully chosen so the other person couldn’t claim victory.
now, standing alone beneath the night sky, it seemed ridiculous.
“does it bother you?” michael asked quietly.
“the articles?”
“the comparisons.” he corrected.
you stared at the glass in your hand, watching the bubbles rise through the champagne.
“sometimes.”
he waited in the thick unfinished silence. you could have left it there yet instead, you continued.
“i worked my entire life to get here. then suddenly, everyone decided the easiest way to explain me was by attaching your name to mine.”
michael’s face remained unreadable as he listened to you speak.
“the female michael jackson,” you recited bitterly. “michael jackson’s newest competition. michael jackson should watch his back.”
“i never liked that one.”
you looked at him. “you read that?”
“someone showed it to me.”
“of course they did.” your eyes rolled.
“i didn’t ask them to.”
“i know.” you surprised yourself by saying it, michael looked just as surprised to hear it. you rested your glass along the railing.
“it’s not that i don’t respect you,” you admitted. “which you’re never allowed to repeat, by the way.”
“of course..”
“i just don’t want everything i accomplish to be measured against what you’ve accomplished.”
his gaze dropped toward his hands. “i understand.”
“do you?”
“more than you think.”
there was something in his voice that stopped you from responding too quickly.
michael rubbed his thumb over the edge of the railing.
“when you start young, people decide who you are before you’re old enough to figure it out yourself,” he said. “then, when you try to change, they act like you’re doing something wrong.”
you watched him carefully.
“everyone still expects me to be the little boy they remember,” he continued. “or they expect me to be something bigger than a person. there’s never anything in between.”
the words came slowly like he wasn’t used to saying them aloud.
“that sounds lonely.”
he gave a small shrug, but it wasn’t convincing.
“it can be.”
the honesty of it settled heavily between you.
you looked back toward the city, suddenly aware of how close you had drifted. there was no longer an entire balcony separating you, only a few feet.
“people think fame fixes everything,” you said. “like the second strangers recognize your face, you stop being allowed to feel bad.”
“because you have everything.”
“exactly.”
“even when you don’t.”
you nodded and added, “especially when you don’t.”
the music from inside changed, a slow bass line slipping through the closed door.
michael tapped his fingers lightly against the railing in time with it.
“sometimes i miss going places without having to think about it,” you confessed. “just walking into a store or sitting somewhere without wondering who’s watching.”
“i don’t remember what that feels like.”
you turned toward him while his eyes remained fixed on the street. the simple sentence managed to say more than anything else he had shared.
“i’m sorry,” you said.
michael glanced at you, almost as though the sympathy made him uncomfortable. “don’t be.”
“why?”
“because you didn’t do it.”
“that doesn’t mean i can’t feel bad.”
“i don’t want you feeling bad for me.”
“i’m not feeling bad for you.” his brow arched. “i’m understanding you,” you corrected.
the teasing disappeared from his expression. for several seconds, he simply looked at you. it felt far more intimate than it should have.
“that’s different,” he said eventually.
“very.”
the balcony door opened behind you.
voices spilled into the night as two men stepped outside, neither paying much attention to the two of you. the moment shattered almost immediately.
michael straightened, whatever openness had crossed his face disappearing beneath something more guarded. you understood, the walls returned whenever other people did.
one of the men recognized him and started forward, but michael gave a polite nod before turning toward you.
“do you want to go back inside?”
not are you going back inside?
do you want to.
you glanced toward the strangers, then at the crowded room beyond the glass.
“not particularly.”
“there’s another room downstairs.”
“another balcony?”
“no. but it’s quieter.”
you hesitated only briefly before following him.
michael led you through the club without drawing much attention. people noticed, of course. people always noticed him. but they kept their distance, either out of respect for the club’s privacy or fear of being removed from it.
the room downstairs resembled an old library. dark wooden shelves covered the walls while leather chairs surrounded a low table. only one other couple occupied the space, too absorbed in their own conversation to care about yours.
michael sat in one of the chairs. you chose the one beside him rather than the one across from him. you didn’t examine that decision too closely.
“so,” you began, settling back. “what do we talk about when we’re not arguing?”
“you started most of those arguments.”
your mouth fell open, “that is not true.”
“you told me i didn’t own the stage.”
“because you were acting like you owned the stage.”
“it was my rehearsal slot.”
“it was mine first.”
“according to the wrong schedule.”
“which wasn’t my fault.”
“it wasn’t mine either.”
you stared at one another then, at exactly the same time, you both began to laugh. it was ridiculous.
months of genuine irritation reduced to a scheduling mistake and two people far too proud to let it go.
“we’re stupid,” you said.
“you are.”
“aaand there he is.”
michael smiled, lowering his face for a moment.
the conversation became easier after that. you talked about music first—safe territory. he asked about the first record you ever bought, then criticized your answer until you demanded his. you argued over arrangements, producers and whether live performances should sound exactly like the record. they shouldn’t, according to him, the stage was supposed to make the song feel new. you disagreed only because he sounded too confident.
somewhere along the way, the conversation shifted, you talked about childhood—not everything—just enough.
he told you stories about performing with his brothers when he was young, keeping the darker parts tucked carefully beneath the surface. you told him about singing into a hairbrush before you ever held a real microphone and the first talent show you lost because your knees wouldn’t stop shaking.
“you get nervous?” michael asked.
“terribly.”
“you don’t look nervous.”
“neither do you.”
“i’m not.”
you rolled your eyes. “liar.”
he grinned.
time passed without either of you noticing. the crowd upstairs slowly thinned. the music softened. waiters began collecting abandoned glasses from empty tables.
when your publicist finally appeared in the doorway, her expression moved quickly between relief and confusion.
she looked at you—then michael—then back at you again. “your car is waiting.”
you stood reluctantly, “i should go.”
michael rose with you. “yeah, me-uh-me too.”
for some reason, neither of you moved toward the door.
your publicist seemed to recognize that she had interrupted something and quietly disappeared back into the hallway. you smoothed your hands over your dress.
“well.”
“well,” michael repeated.
“this was…”
“unexpected?”
“strange.”
he laughed softly. “that too.”
you looked at him—really looked at him.
there were a hundred sarcastic comments you could have made, but none of them felt right.
“i had a nice time,” you said instead.
michael’s expression softened. “me too.”
you turned toward the doorway, but he called your name before you reached it. when you looked back, he was searching through the pockets of the jacket he had left draped across the back of his chair.
“what are you doing?”
“hold on.”
he pulled a pen from one pocket, then reached toward the table and picked up a small matchbook stamped with the club’s name. you watched as he opened it and wrote something across the inside cover. when he finished, he walked toward you and held it out. you looked down.
a phone number stretched across the cardboard in dark ink.
you raised your eyes to his.
“what’s this?”
“what does it look like?”
“a very dramatic way of giving someone your number.”
“you said i was dramatic.”
“ahh, you remembered.”
“i remember everything.”
you accepted the matchbook carefully, causing his fingers to brush yours as he released it. neither of you pulled away immediately. the contact lasted only a second, but it was enough to make your pulse stumble—michael noticed. you could tell by the way his eyes flickered toward your hand before returning to your face.
“that’s my private number,” he said. “don’t give it to anybody.”
“who would i give it to?”
“the newspapers.”
you scoffed. “please. they’d probably print a story claiming i stole it from your dressing room.”
“they might.”
you folded the matchbook closed and tucked it safely into your purse. “i’ll guard it with my life.”
“i’m serious.”
“so am i.”
he studied you for a moment, visibly debating whether trusting you was a terrible mistake.
then he stepped closer, not enough to touch, just enough to lower his voice.
“don’t make me regret this.”
you held his gaze. there it was again—that challenge. only this time, there was something warmer beneath it.
“i could say the same.”
michael smiled, you carried the sight of it with you as you left the room.
your publicist was waiting near the stairs, practically vibrating with unanswered questions, but you ignored every one of them as she followed you toward the exit. the matchbook felt impossibly heavy inside your purse.
outside, your car waited beneath the dim streetlights. you slid into the backseat and closed the door, finally allowing yourself to pull it out again.
you opened the cover. unsuspecting, his number was still there. beneath it, written so small you almost missed it, were three additional words.
call me sometime.
you stared at the message for the entire drive home. for once, michael jackson had left you completely speechless.
what an asshole.
yet you smiled anyway.
← previous.
hi angels!! i hope enjoy this weeks chapter YES i will be uploading chapters weekly since i’ve already pre-written about 4 chapters! the slow burn is burning and the yearners are YEARNINGGG! brace yourselves for the next few chapters hehe!
taglist: @gorgystarr, @daphne020708, @floralsightings, @swe3tyann, @18lkpeters, @ovohanna24, @valky4e, @justfaefaeee, @xxxercess, @sorasomi, @bbyjjunie, @1eliana123-blog, @rosiiee3, @iluvbeingdelulu4evaaa, @liyahhsnuckhere, @mochimommy2002, @cyb3rsw1rls, @kyumiiee, @ch3rrybl0ssomtree, @scknights, @lavendernightsky, @iris-xoxo-juhu, @bouncylikebouncyball, @lotuspetalss, @nata-de-coconuts, @passionsmoon, @slugstarzz, @michaeljacksonsonlylady, @inbredfawn, @popzeenat, @rlm-11, @luv4kook, @its-jennarose, @ilovvesleepp, @choclatechipcookiechloe, @unknwnbrii, @pinkpotss, @solelypyt, @thrilleronvinyl, @premiumgyu, @osugahunnyicedtea, @luluaawm, @llenn002, @a-motherfcking-fish, @pooksterrr, @phantomof-themcu, @multifandom-jumper, @flesheatingvamp, @thegoatmimii, @iamsosexy2, @y4zyxr, @heyitsm4di
chapter 4 coming today !!
in desperate need of a list of your fav authors/ppl whose works you frequent on here (if any)… because idk, lately i’ve been running into too many accts who don’t know how to write 😭 perhaps it’s just my standards… ty queen
everyone has diff taste fs !! but pls show love to all writers regardless. writing takes time n effort, n everyone starts somewhere
off the top of my head, here’s a little list of some of my favs (in no particular order) :
@michaeldiary
@angelcrescent
@reverieglow (prev. @cndybliss )
@dottedseven (prev. @hcwait )
@devushkanextdoor
@mikesbian
@urbanfunkchild
@buckysgirlll
@phia-writes
@glossiercheek
im def forgetting people </3 so if anyone has other favs i didn’t mention, pls put us on too :p
domestic bliss
summary. some instances in which michael and you function as a couple . . . which you guys aren't. just a really, really good team.
❛ mature!michael jackson 𝑥 𝒻 nanny!reader ❜ ╱ 𝓶 .list 𓂋 all my readers are intended to be black and or women of color , nanny is no exception . no real warnings , it's just a bunch of fluff . comedy . domestically ofc . pinning . hints at obsessive!michael ℘ 3.802k
𝓻𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐬⠀ ⠀𝐚𝐫𝐞⠀ ⠀𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝⠀!
michael who made an extreme emphasis on his desire to be present in his children's lives and not have them be raised by nannie's. but soon after blanket's birth he knew he needed a little extra help with a newborn and two little ones running around.
pushed buttons
req sent by ? anon : can u please do another like dads best friend michael? but said daughter is way more bratty when it comes to him and likes to watch him from afar and loves putting on cute fits for when he comes over. that one was too good
❛ dbf!michael jackson 𝑥 𝒻 black woc!reader ❜ ╱ 𝓶.list 𓂋 mdni . can be seen as a continuation of this . & again i'd want to preface that michael did not know reader while she was a child, he met her father when she was 21+ . reader is a spoiled brat . stern!michael agenda . sneaking around . drinking . oral (m! and f! receiving) . pussy spanking . video call mutual masturbation . lowkey dumbification . cockwarming. raw penetration . reverse cowgirl . ℘ 3.481k
𝓻𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐬⠀ ⠀𝐚𝐫𝐞⠀ ⠀𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝⠀!
dbf!michael . . . who knows what a massive brat you are. your father talks his ear off about how he raised a spoiled, entitled monster, seeking advice from his friend. which is exactly why he doesn't give into you, not even your freshly manicured hands (curtesy of you father's pockets of course) tug at the collar of his button up, glossed lips in a pout, and breast pushed plush against his chest. "uh huh, sweetheart, you've gotta work f'me."
dbf!mike is truly something i need on a daily basis
also, don’t let this man know about your exes/situationships ohhh would his manties be in a twist knowing other men but him have touched you before…
now.. would yall read if i wrote a lil sum for tyriq withers … or should i just stfu
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Hii I just want to say that I adoree your layout and your writing!
thank you sweetheart! that truly means the world to me :3
⊹ ࣪ ⏖ 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑒𝑔𝑖𝑛𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔 ִ 𐄢
❝ 𝒻. ݂childhood bsf !reader 𝑥 jackson 5!𝓶ichael ❞ 𓂃 m.𝓁ist
intro. ❪ 𝔀.𝐜. 0.6k ❫ ✐ when your pesky pup manages to escape also accidentally leads you to meeting your future best friend.
contains 𑣲 ﹕ no use of y/n. childhood themes. fluff! fluff! fluff! michael's fear of small dogs begins. just a good and sweet meet cute! since this will be a continuous series, y/n will be replaced with ❪ ❤︎︎ ❫ !
❤︎︎ ゛reblogs are appreciated .ᐟ ( ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ഒ
childhood bsf!reader who first met michael when you were only ten years old.
❛ 𝒿une 71’ ⎯ 𝓔ncino, california. ❜
your puppy had slipped out through the front gate that afternoon, disappearing into the neighborhood before anyone could catch her. after searching every familiar street with no luck, you started going door to door, asking anyone who answered if they had happened to see a little puppy wandering around.
eventually, your tiny sneakers carried you up the long driveway of a quiet house you’d never visited before.
you knocked twice against the dark wooden door, rocking back and forth on your heels as you waited.
a tall man answered first—he introduced himself as bill, smiling kindly as he listened to your rushed explanation about your missing puppy. before he could answer, another little boy wandered into the entryway, curiosity getting the better of him after hearing the sound of your voice from down the hall. bill glanced over his shoulder with a knowing smile.
“michael,” he said gently, resting a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “this is…”
you quickly introduced yourself, offering him a small, shy smile. bill chuckled to himself, quietly hoping the two of you might finally have someone your own age to talk to. after promising they’d keep an eye out for your puppy, he wished you luck with the rest of your search.
but michael had barely said a word. he simply stood beside bill, hands tucked behind his back, watching you with those big, curious eyes.
you had already turned to leave before suddenly stopping at the edge of the porch. looking back over your shoulder, you smiled brightly.
“it was really nice meeting you, michael!”
you lifted your hand into an enthusiastic little wave before skipping back down the driveway, continuing your search from house to house.
bill watched you disappear down the sidewalk before glancing toward the little boy beside him.
“she seems like a nice girl.”
he looked down to find michael still standing exactly where you’d left him, quietly watching through the front window until you disappeared around the corner.
after that, you’d often end up at the jackson’s estate looking for michael, asking if he could play. in the beginning, he’d beg his mother to come up with an excuse due to excruciating shyness until she started to encourage him to be a bit open minded. katherine would see you playing outside all by yourself, she knew you and michael would get along very well, so one day she finally forced him.
“really, mother?” he slouched as he heard her accept your invite to come play with some new games you got.
“you’ll be fine, michael.” she held his shoulders and planted a kiss on his forehead before sending him out the front door.
the two of you settled cross-legged on your living room floor, a brand new game of trouble spread between you. at first, michael was careful to explain each rule exactly as the little instruction booklet intended, quietly correcting you whenever you tried to move a piece somewhere it wasn’t supposed to go.
“says who?” you challenged with a grin, nudging one of your pegs a few extra spaces anyway. he blinked at you for a moment before letting out the tiniest laugh, following your lead of disobedience.
before long, the rules had been forgotten altogether. the two of you made up your own as you went, arguing over whose turn it was, popping the bubble far harder than necessary just to hear the loud pop, and laughing until the board looked nothing like it had when you’d started. just then, your tiny puppy came running in from the noise of laughter and obnoxious popping, scattering the board with one clumsy leap before attacking you with kisses. when she turned her attention to michael, he was quick to hold out a hand in surrender. “uht-uh,” he laughed, “you can keep that over there.” he teased, pointing back toward you.
needless to say, you and michael became inseparable after that.
original works by © 𝗱𝗼𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗱𝘀𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗻 ׄ ִ
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thru the phone
req sent by ? anon : sending mature era! michael nudes on ur iphone and the quality is shit but he still be eating that shit up
❛ mature era!michael jackson 𝑥 𝒻 black woc!reader ❜ ╱ 𝓶.list 𓂋 mdni . sending michael nudes . old man michael and his glasses . allusion to an age gap and a sugar daddy sugar baby arrangement along with the public not knowing abt them . mike being a perv in public . reader is spoiled n needy n bratty . ℘ O.955k
𝓻𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐬⠀ ⠀𝐚𝐫𝐞⠀ ⠀𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝⠀!
michael has gotten used to you blowing up his phone. a string of text from you complaining that he's been too busy for you to photos of shopping bags with a text underneath it captioned ⎯ "thanks baby!!!! xxx" ⎯ to details about you day, like how you saw an adorable pomeranian this morning on your walk and know you have it set that you'd be the best dog mama ever. your neediness to captivate the entirety of his attention only worsens when he's away.
