✿

you had been determined to never have children. you were content with that, confident in your decision. absolutely positive. that was, until you met jaafar jackson, at least.

you had made your peace with it a long time ago.

no kids. not for you. you’d thought about it seriously, the way you thought about anything serious, and the answer kept coming back the same. you liked your life. you liked your space. you liked waking up on a saturday with nowhere to be and no one needing anything from you. it wasn’t sad. it wasn’t something missing. it was just who you were.

people had opinions about it, of course. they always did. but you’d gotten good at smiling and letting it move through you without sticking.

after all, you were twenty seven. you knew what you wanted. or what you didn’t want.

and then jaafar happened.

jaafar jackson x 𝒇!𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 ✦ w.c. 1.1k

contains: ❤︎ oral sex f!receiving, face-sitting, riding jaafar’s pretty nose… mhm!!

jaafar wakes you up with his head buried between your thighs. :P this was requested by a lovely anon last night, so here you go my love! .✦ ݁˖ i very much enjoyed writing this to begin my day…

⁀➴ on borrowed time, you and michael are tucked away in the solitude of his hayvenhurst home. as time mocks your momentary peace, he devotes those fleeting seconds to implant the words i love you without actually saying it. and when the time comes? well, he doesn’t want you to leave!!!

⁀➴ off the wall! clingy! michael x actress! secret girlfriend! reader

⁀➴ fluff , making out

michael jackson x fem!reader

your best friend is dating one of the jackson brothers and one summer day she invites you over. who knew playing a game of twister would lead to this. (up to bad era).

t/w: smut, 18+ mdni, oral (fem receiving), fingering, p in v, breeding kink i guess? but also no?

wc: 5k

— type: this is a two-part series requested by an avid reader! @amilliongoodfish

— genre: romance.

— pairing: michael jackson in his mature era x foreigner!reader

— contains: a tiny bit of age gap..? HEAVY TENSION between Michael and the reader. A heavy make out session. dryhumping, if you’d really squint. Comfort. Strangers to something more…?

SUMMARY: Going through a breakup made your life a mess, which is understandable. As any stressed adult would do, you headed straight for a bar. Unbeknownst to you, this decision could have been either the best thing that ever happened to you, or the worst.

(A/N: I had soooooooo much fun writing this! The reader who requested this had hinted at some smut, but I doubt Michael would engage in such an action immediately. (watch out for the 2nd part.) Therefore, I decided to create something suggestive, although not explicitly smutty. AGAIN, THIS IS NOT A SMUT FIC, BUT STILL VIEW WITH DISCRETION.)

PLAY LIST:

Luxurious by Gwen Stefani

Sad Girl by Lana Del Rey

Ultraviolence by Lana Del Rey

Heartbreaker by Michael Jackson (our baby)

By the third week after the breakup, your life had begun to fall apart in embarrassingly ordinary ways. Not dramatic enough for people to notice immediately. Just small things.

Laundry piling up because you couldn’t find the motivation to separate colors anymore. Coffee growing cold beside your bed because you kept forgetting you made it. Sleeping on one side of the mattress because the other still felt occupied somehow.

You still went to work. Still answered texts with dry little “LOL”s and “I’m fine”s. Still smiled when people asked how you’d been.

But grief had a strange way of hollowing you out quietly. Especially when it came from someone you built your future around.

You met Daniel when you were twenty-four.

He wasn’t breathtaking or mysterious. He wasn’t the kind of man women turned their heads for in restaurants. That was why you trusted him.

He was steady. Predictable. Safe. He remembered your coffee order. Held your hand while crossing streets. Kissed your forehead when you got headaches from working late. The kind of love that looked dependable instead of cinematic.

And maybe that had been enough for a while. Until it wasn’t.

The cracks didn’t appear overnight. Looking back now, you realized they’d been there for months — maybe years. Tiny moments you ignored because loving someone often meant becoming talented at excusing things.

The way he stopped looking at you when you talked. The way his compliments turned absent-minded. The way your accomplishments became inconveniences to him instead of things worth celebrating.

You spent so much time trying to become easier to love that you didn’t realize how much of yourself you were shaving away in the process. Then came the final night.

Rain hammered against the apartment windows while you stood in the kitchen asking him the question you already knew the answer to. “Do you even want this anymore?”

Daniel didn’t answer immediately. And somehow that silence hurt more than if he’d screamed.

“I don’t know,” he finally admitted. Three words. Three stupid words that destroyed three years of your life. You remembered laughing afterward. Not because it was funny.

Because there was something humiliating about realizing you’d been fighting for someone who had emotionally left you months ago.

You remembered staring at him while thinking, Oh. You already gave up on me. The breakup itself wasn’t explosive. No plates shattered. No dramatic crying. Just exhaustion. Two adults sitting across from each other realizing love had rotted into obligation.

By the end of the week, half his belongings were gone. By the second week, your friends were encouraging you to “get back out there.” By the third week, you found yourself sitting on your bathroom floor at midnight crying because his favorite mug was still in the cabinet. That was the moment you realized you needed to leave your apartment before it swallowed you whole.

Which was how you ended up standing outside a bar in downtown Los Angeles on a rainy Thursday night. You almost didn’t go in. The neon sign buzzed softly overhead while people laughed somewhere inside, and for a moment you felt ridiculous. Pathetic, even.

You weren’t someone who went to bars alone. You were someone who stayed home, made tea, and rewatched old movies under blankets.

But tonight, the silence in your apartment felt too hard to ignore. So you pushed the door open. Warmth hit you instantly.

The soft atmosphere drifted through the room beneath the quiet murmur of conversation. The lighting was dim enough to feel intimate without being sleazy, golden reflections dancing across polished bottles behind the bar.

Your mind wandered somewhere dangerous — memories of Daniel laughing in your kitchen, Daniel asleep beside you, Daniel saying I don’t know like your relationship had become a chore he was too tired to finish.

Three years together, gone in one ugly conversation. And somehow, the worst part wasn’t even missing him.

It was the humiliation of realizing you had spent so long loving someone who had already begun leaving long before he walked out the door.

So naturally, like every emotionally exhausted adult in existence, you ended up at a bar at nearly midnight.

The place was dimly lit and expensive enough that nobody bothered each other. Jazz hummed softly through the speakers while crystal glasses clinked against polished wood. It smelled like whiskey, expensive perfume, and rain drifting in from outside.

You sat at the counter with your third drink and your dignity hanging by a thread.

“Another?”

You looked up at the bartender and sighed. “Please.”

“Careful,” a soft voice beside you said. “That fourth one’s usually where people start texting exes.”

You turned your head, annoyed by the sudden stranger’s intrusion into your personal affairs. “It’s not your business to meddle on to my business.”

He was taken aback by your casual demeanor. He couldn’t believe it. “What? I-I’m sorry…?”

He felt flabbergasted.

You’d hate to admit it but he looked too pretty with those sharp cheekbones that softened slightly with age. Dark curls resting against the collar of a fitted black shirt. Silver rings catching the low amber lighting every time he moved his hands. There was something dangerous about how calm he looked, like he already knew the effect he had on people and had stopped pretending otherwise.

You stared for a solid three seconds too long.

“Oh,” he murmured, amused. “You know who I am.”

“Huh?” You couldn’t place a finger on who he was. He acted like he personally knew you, or that he was some superstar. “Do I know you?”

The man stared at you for a moment, visibly caught between confusion and amusement. “You really don’t know who I am?”

“No?” you answered flatly, taking another sip of your drink. “Should I?”

A quiet laugh escaped him under his breath, almost disbelieving. “Well,” he murmured, leaning back against the stool, “that’s a first.”

You narrowed your eyes slightly at the smugness in his voice.“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.” His smile widened faintly. “Just not used to introductions going this way.”

You scoffed softly. “Maybe because you interrupt strangers at bars like you know them.”

“Ouch.” His exclamation was genuine.

“You did meddle.”

“I made one comment.”

“You made a damn judgment.”

His eyebrows lifted at that. Sharp. Defensive. Pretty. You hated that last part most.

The stranger tilted his head, studying you more carefully now. Not mockingly — curiously. Like he was trying to figure out whether you were genuinely irritated or simply drunk enough to stop filtering yourself. Maybe it was both.

“Alright,” he said after a moment, voice softer now. “Fair enough. Bad night?” You let out a humorless laugh. “Bad month.” Something in your tone must’ve shifted because his teasing expression faded slightly.

The jazz music hummed quietly around you while rain tapped against the windows behind the bar. For a moment neither of you spoke. Then he followed up with: “Boyfriend?” he asked gently.

“Ex.”

“Recent?”

“Unfortunately.”

He nodded once, as if he comprehended more than he was willing to admit. “That sucks.” His expression didn’t convey mockery; it was all he could muster.

You stared down at your drink. “…Yeah.”

The stranger’s fingers tapped lightly against his glass. Silver rings glinted beneath the amber lighting. “He’s stupid, then.”You barked out an unexpected laugh. “You don’t even know me.” A sigh had left his lips. “I don’t have to.” His eyes met yours again. “Anybody crying alone in a bar this late usually got played hard.”

Your chest tightened unexpectedly. That was dangerous. Not the flirting. The understanding.

You looked away first. Unfortunately, he noticed that too. “There it is,” he murmured.

“What?”

“The part where you pretend you’re tougher than you are.”

You rolled your eyes, though weakly. “You psychoanalyze strangers often?”

“Only interesting ones.”

Heat crept into your face despite yourself. The stranger smiled immediately, catching it. “You blush easy.”

“You’re annoying.”

“And yet,” he said smoothly, “you’re still talking to me.”

Before you could answer, the bartender returned with another drink. You reached for your wallet automatically, but the bartender shook his head.

“He already covered it.”

You looked sharply toward the man beside you. “I didn’t ask you to do that.”

“I know.”

“Then why did you?”

His expression softened just slightly. “Because you looked like you needed one.”

“Am I that pathetic?” A breathless laugh escaped your lips.

There was something unfair about the way he spoke. Calm. Smooth. Intentional. Like every sentence was chosen carefully before leaving his mouth. Older men shouldn’t be allowed to flirt like that. “You do this often?” you muttered.

“Do what?”

“Talk women into trusting you.”

A low laugh slipped from him. “Trust me?” His eyes flickered over your face slowly. “Sweetheart, you barely tolerate me.” The nickname sent warmth straight down your spine. You hated that too.

The rain outside intensified, streaking the windows with silver. A few people began leaving the bar, murmuring goodbye beneath umbrellas and coats. You checked the time and sighed softly. Too late. Too drunk. Too emotionally exhausted to deal with the train ride home. “You alright?” he asked quietly.

“I have to get back to my apartment.”

“You drove?”

“No.”

“Good.” He stood smoothly from his stool, grabbing his coat. “I’ll take you.”

You blinked immediately. “What?! No!”

He paused. “No?”

“You’re still technically a stranger.” His mouth twitched. “Technically?”

“You’re attractive enough to qualify as suspicious.”

That made him laugh outright. Warm. Rich. Real. “You say things people normally don’t say to me.”

“Maybe people around you are weird.”

“Maybe.” He slipped his coat on slowly. “Or maybe you’re refreshing.”

You hesitated. Every logical part of your brain told you this was a terrible idea. You were tipsy. Emotional. Alone in a foreign city. And yet… Something about him felt strangely safe beneath all the confidence. Not harmless, definitely not harmless, but controlled. Like he knew exactly how much space he occupied around people. “I’m not going to murder you,” he said suddenly.

Your eyes widened. “I wasn’t thinking that!”

“You looked like you were considering escape routes.”

“…Maybe a little.”

His grin returned. “C’mon.” He nodded toward the exit. “I’ve got a driver waiting outside. I’ll take you home.”

You stood slowly, grabbing your coat. “Fine,” you muttered. “But if you kidnap me, I’ll be very upset.”

“I’d hate that.” The rain outside hit cold against your skin as soon as the doors opened.

A sleek black car waited near the curb. You slowed slightly.

“…You weren’t lying about the driver.”

“Told you.” The driver stepped out immediately to open the back door, and you froze for half a second when you noticed how respectfully nervous he seemed around the stranger beside you. Who was this man?

You slid into the leather seat cautiously. He followed in after you. The door shut. Warmth surrounded you instantly.

For a moment, silence settled between you as city lights blurred across rain-speckled windows.

“So,” he said casually, loosening the collar of his shirt slightly, “you really don’t know who I am?”

You looked over at him up close in the dim car lighting, he somehow looked even prettier. Older, yes, but in a way that made him devastating instead of aged. Soft curls brushing his jaw. Long fingers resting against his knee. Tired eyes hidden beneath amusement. You frowned slightly. “You’re famous?”

“A little.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He smiled.

The ride should have felt uncomfortable. It didn’t. That was the problem. Rain slid down the tinted windows while the city blurred into streaks of gold and silver outside. The soft hum of the engine filled the silence between you, but it wasn’t awkward silence. It was aware silence.

The kind that thickened every time you accidentally looked at him. Or every time you caught him already looking at you first.

You sat with your coat folded over your lap while the stranger beside you rested lazily against the leather seat, one arm stretched comfortably near the window. The dim lights passing outside carved sharp shadows across his face, softening and sharpening him all at once.

He really was unfairly attractive. And worse — he knew it.

“You stare a lot,” he murmured suddenly. Your eyes snapped away from his hands immediately. “I wasn’t staring.”

A quiet laugh. “You were lookin’ at my rings for a full minute.”

Heat climbed your neck. “They’re distracting.”

“Mhm.” His voice carried amusement now. “That why you keep lookin’ at my mouth too?”

You nearly choked on air. “I was not—”

“You sure were.” The smugness in his voice made you glare at him. Unfortunately, it only seemed to entertain him more. Damn.

You crossed your arms tightly and looked out the window instead, trying to ignore the warmth spreading through your chest from the alcohol. “You always flirt this much?” you muttered.

“Only when it’s working.”

“It’s not working.”

“Mmm.” He tilted his head slightly. “Keep telling yourself that.”

Your stomach flipped. You hated how calm he stayed saying things like that. Most men your age flirted too aggressively — desperate to impress, too eager to prove themselves. But this man moved differently. Spoke differently. Patient. Like he already knew tension didn’t need to be rushed.

The car eventually slowed in front of an enormous high-rise building glowing against the rainy night sky. You blinked up at it. “…You live there?”

“Sometimes.” That was not a normal answer.

Before you could question him further, the driver opened the door for you both. The rain had softened into a mist now, cool against your skin as you followed the stranger inside. The lobby alone looked more expensive than your entire apartment building. Marble floors. Gold lighting. Quiet elegance.

You slowed slightly beside him. “What exactly do you do for work?”

The stranger glanced sideways at you, amused again. “You ask a lotta questions.”

“You avoid answering them.”

“That’s because it’s funnier.”

You rolled your eyes, but your pulse quickened when his hand briefly touched the small of your back to guide you toward the elevator. The contact lasted barely a second. Still, you felt it everywhere. The elevator ride upstairs was worse. Or better. You couldn’t decide.

The space felt too small suddenly, filled with the scent of his cologne and expensive wine lingering faintly on his clothes. He stood beside you with his hands in his pockets, relaxed as ever, while you became painfully aware of every inch separating you.

Then his eyes drifted toward you again. Slowly. “You get quiet when you’re nervous.”

“I’m not nervous.”

“Your breathing changed.”

You stared at him. “Are you always this observant?”

“Usually.”

“That sounds exhausting.”

“For other people maybe.” The elevator doors opened before you could answer.

His penthouse looked unreal. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the glittering city skyline below, rainwater streaking softly against the glass. Warm lighting glowed across dark furniture and polished wood floors. Somewhere low jazz still played faintly from hidden speakers, smooth and intimate. The entire place felt lonely in a beautiful way. Like it belonged to someone who hated silence but lived with it anyway.

You stepped further inside slowly. “This place is so fucking crazy.”

“You think so?”

“You don’t?”

He shrugged off his coat carelessly onto a chair. “I’m used to it.” There was something quietly sad about the way he said that. Before you could think too hard about it, he moved toward a sleek bar area near the windows. “Wine?”

You hesitated only briefly. “…Yeah.”

He poured two glasses with practiced ease before handing one toward you. Your fingers brushed his accidentally as you took it. Both of you noticed. The tension shifted instantly. Subtle, yet unforgettable. You took a sip too quickly just to distract yourself.

He watched you over the rim of his own glass. “You trust strangers pretty easy.”

“You brought me to a penthouse overlooking the entire city.” You glanced around. “If you were harm, I think I’d know by now.”

His eyebrows lifted slightly. “That confident?”

“No.” You smiled faintly into your wine. “Just tired.” For the first time all night, his teasing expression softened completely. He leaned one shoulder against the counter quietly studying you. “Tired of what?” The question should’ve been simple. But something about the way he asked it made your chest ache. You looked down at your glass.

“…Feeling unwanted, I guess.”

Silence. Not uncomfortable. Heavy.

The city lights flickered below you both while rain tapped softly against the massive windows. Then, “He made you feel that way?” You nodded once.

The stranger exhaled slowly through his nose, jaw tightening slightly. “He’s a damn fool.” You didn’t caught on to what he said. “What was that?” His eyes lifted sharply toward yours then. Dangerously sharp. “He’s a fucking fool. He didn’t know how to handle all of you.” Your breath caught. “Oh, shut up.”

The room suddenly felt warmer.

He stepped closer now — not enough to touch you, just enough that you became hyperaware of his height, his voice, the slow steadiness of his breathing.

“You walked into that bar lookin’ like somebody took pieces outta you,” he said softly. “And somehow you still sat there polite enough to apologize to the bartender every time you ordered another drink.”

Your heart thudded painfully. “You noticed that?”

“I notice everything about you.” The sentence landed between you like a lit match. Your pulse stumbled. And for the first time all night, the flirtation stopped feeling playful. It became something slower. Heavier. You looked up at him carefully. He was already watching your mouth again. Your breath hitched slightly.

“You keep doing that,” you whispered.

“Doing what?”

“Looking at me like that.”

A faint smile touched his lips. “And how’s that?”

You couldn’t answer. Because honestly? Nobody had looked at you with that much attention in a very long time. Not hunger exactly. Not yet. Something worse. Interest. Real interest.

The stranger stepped closer again until you could smell the wine on his breath now, warm and sweet beneath expensive cologne. “You know,” he murmured softly, “you get prettier every time you stop overthinking.”

Your stomach flipped violently. “You flirt too much.”

“And you like it too much.” His voice had dropped lower now.

Smoother. Like a Criminal.

The tension wrapped tightly around the room, thickening every second neither of you moved away. Then his fingers lifted slowly, Gentle. Careful. Tilting your chin upward just slightly. Your breath got caught instantly. His eyes flickered between yours before lowering briefly to your lips.

Not kissing you. Just close enough to make you think about it.

“You should stop lookin’ at me like that,” he murmured. Your voice came out softer than intended. “How am I looking at you?”

His thumb brushed lightly against your jaw.

“Like you’re forgettin’ somebody broke your heart tonight.”

Your breath caught against his fingertips. The city glowed behind him in blurred gold lights, rain sliding down the massive windows while jazz murmured softly somewhere in the penthouse. The wine in your hand suddenly felt dangerously warm. And he was still looking at you like that. Like he already knew exactly what you were thinking. “You keep getting quiet,” he murmured.

“That’s your fault.”

A slow smile spread across his face. “Mhm.” His thumb brushed your jaw again, softer this time, and your pulse skipped so hard it almost embarrassed you. You should’ve stepped back. Really.

Every logical thought in your head screamed that this was reckless — going home with a stranger, drinking expensive wine in his penthouse while he stood this close looking devastatingly calm. But logic had stopped mattering somewhere between the car ride and the way he said he noticed everything about you.

“You’re thinkin’ too much again,” he said softly.

“You’re very distracting.”

“That sounds like a compliment.”

“It’s a complaint.”

He laughed quietly at that, the sound low and warm enough to make your stomach twist.

The tension between you had become unbearable now. Stretched so tightly that every tiny movement felt intentional. The way his eyes dipped briefly to your lips. The way your fingers tightened unconsciously around your wine glass. The way neither of you moved away.

“You know,” he said softly, “most people get nervous around me.”

You swallowed. “I’m nervous too.”

“No,” he murmured. “You’re curious.” That hit too accurately.

His hand slid from your jaw slowly, fingertips ghosting along your skin just enough to leave warmth behind. Then he took the wine glass carefully from your hand and set it aside beside his own.

Your heart started pounding harder immediately. He noticed that too, of course. “Please tell me to stop,” he said quietly.

“Don’t.”

And somehow that felt louder than anything else. Your eyes lifted toward his again. Something dark and pleased flickered across his expression.

Then finally, he kissed you. Slowly. Not rushed, not messy. Just warm lips brushing yours carefully at first, like he was testing whether you’d pull away. You didn’t. The kiss deepened almost immediately after that.

His hand slid gently to the side of your neck while yours instinctively caught against the front of his shirt, fingers curling into the soft fabric. The taste of wine lingered between you both, sweet and warm and intoxicating.

Fuck, he kissed like an older man. Patient and confident.

Like he understood that anticipation could ruin someone far more effectively than urgency ever could. A quiet sound escaped your throat before you could stop it. His grip tightened slightly at your neck.

“There she is,” he murmured against your mouth. The words sent heat straight through you.

You kissed him again before he could smirk about it, and this time he laughed softly into the kiss itself, clearly entertained by your sudden boldness.

The tension that had built all night finally unraveled between you both in slow, dizzying waves.

Your back brushed lightly against the edge of the counter without you realizing it, his body close enough now that warmth radiated through every layer between you. Still controlled. Still careful. But undeniably wanting. One of his hands slid to your waist, fingers spreading there possessively enough to make your breath hitch.

“You blush every time I touch you,” he murmured softly against your lips. “You notice too much.”

“Mhm.” Another kiss. Slower this time. “Can’t help it.”

Your fingers moved upward instinctively, brushing lightly through the curls near the nape of his neck. The reaction was immediate. A low exhale left him as his eyes briefly closed. That tiny crack in composure nearly destroyed you. Because until now, he’d seemed completely controlled. Untouchable almost.

But suddenly you realized he was affected too.

And judging by the way his hand tightened at your waist, he knew you noticed. “Keep doing that more and you’ll see,” he murmured.

“Huh?”

“The way you’re lookin’ at me right now.”

Your pulse fluttered wildly. “How am I looking at you?”

“Like you finally figured out you got power here too.” The air between you felt thick enough to drown in.

Rain continued tapping softly against the windows while the city stretched endlessly below, but neither of you looked away from each other now. Not even for a second.

Then his forehead rested lightly against yours, both of you slightly breathless. And for the first time that night, his voice softened into something almost vulnerable.

“Hey, how about you take a break now?” His voice softened, a stark contrast to his usual taunting tone.

“Mhm…” Your eyes were heavy, and you couldn’t keep yourself awake anymore.

Michael, noticing your limp, gently carried you to bed while you were asleep and laid you down.

Michael absolutely delighted in the fact that you were unaware of his identity.

for @melaninjoys ; i saw your request and immediately had to cook a lil something up

nsfw content. ❝ ‧₊˚ synopsis: jaafar takes your virginity as gently and as perfectly as you could imagine… ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

— genre(s): horror, science fiction, soft angst, and romance.

— pairing: shapeshifter!michael x virgin!reader

— contains: AN ALTERNATE UNIVERSE FOR MICHAEL! SMUT! tons of flirting, cunnilingus, oral (f & m receiving), fingering (all that silly foreplay), penetration (p in v), unprotected sex.

VIEWER DISCRETION IS ADVISED.

SUMMARY: During a violent thunderstorm, you find yourself stranded near the infamous mansion on the hill. This mansion is home to the mysterious ‘Michael’, a man the town has feared for years due to the supernatural rumors surrounding him. People have whispered stories about him since childhood, claiming he is a ghostly figure who can control spirits and make the dead dance.

(A/N: The reader (you) is/are 25 years old, although they have no experience. (A virgin) A few days ago, I came across a snippet of the “Ghost” movie/music video and became obsessed with the idea of writing about it. Michael was incredibly expressive in that particular movie, to the point where it became my favorite music video. I enjoyed the story behind it, and I personally want to create an “x reader” that is heavily inspired by it! I’ve spent a long time making this, ugh. Anyway, ENJOY, MOONWALKERS!)

The first time you heard about the man on the hill, you were eight years old.

Back then, the adults in town spoke about him the same way people spoke about storms — inevitable, dangerous, strange. Mothers pulled their children closer whenever his name was mentioned. Shopkeepers lowered their voices. Teenagers dared each other to walk past the gates of the old estate after sunset.

Nobody ever stayed long enough to see him. But everyone had a story.

Some claimed he could make the dead dance. Others swore they heard music echoing from the woods at midnight, old jazz mixed with screams and laughter. There were rumors that he never aged. That he appeared differently to everyone who saw him. That he had lived in that mansion for over a century and only came down into town during heavy rainstorms.

You never believed any of it.

At sixteen, you climbed the hill with your friends after a school party, drunk on cheap soda and teenage stupidity. The iron gates had already terrified your friends enough to make them turn back, but you remembered rolling your eyes and continuing alone.

You’d be lying if you claimed that the property didn’t tempt you at all to even consider stepping foot on it.

You made it all the way to the front porch alone before the mansion lights suddenly flickered on. Then music began playing somewhere inside. Slow, elegant, and so damn inviting.

The front door creaked open by itself.

You ran all the way back down the hill screaming while your friends laughed at you for weeks afterward.

You told yourself it was just an old house with some terrible old stuff creaking around and that the sound you heard was nothing more than a placebo effect.

Years later, that old tale resurfaced, and you couldn’t help but recall your harrowing experience at that dreadful house.

And yet you are now standing at the bottom of that same hill again at twenty-three with rain soaking through your coat and your car broken down on the empty roadside, the memory suddenly didn’t feel so funny anymore.

Especially when lightning illuminated the silhouette of the mansion waiting above the trees.

The estate stood untouched by time, its massive black gates adorned with towering windows that glowed gold against the raging storm. Sharp gothic towers pierced the clouds, giving the impression that the estate was more like something alive than a mere dwelling.

You should’ve stayed in the car, and you knew that all too well.

But your phone had no signal, the storm was getting worse, and the nearest town was miles away. So against your better judgment, you walked up the hill.

The gravel path crunched beneath your shoes as wind whipped around you violently. Every step closer made your stomach tighten. The stories came back too easily.

The ghost man. The dancing dead. The thing in the mansion.

Thunder cracked overhead just as you reached the front doors. You hesitated, but then knocked. Nothing happened at first. Only rain. Only silence.

But then, the doors slowly opened inward, and warm candlelight spilled across the porch. There he was.

‘Michael’ stood barefoot at the entrance wearing a loose white silk shirt partially unbuttoned at the collar and black slacks hanging low on his hips. Dark curls framed his face messily, like he’d just woken up, and silver rings glinted against the candlelight as his hand rested lazily against the doorframe.

He was beautiful. Not in a normal way. Beautiful in the way dangerous things often were.

His eyes slowly traveled over your soaked figure before a smile spread across his face. “Well,” he said softly, voice smooth as velvet, “you’re prettier than the last person who showed up during a thunderstorm.”

Your breath caught immediately.

And somehow, despite every terrifying rumor you’d ever heard about him, the first thing you felt wasn’t fear.

It was heat.

“You flirt with everyone who knocks on your door?” you asked cautiously, but the slight edge of annoyance in your voice didn’t escape his notice.

Michael tilted his head, pretending to think. “No,” he murmured. “Only the ones standing there looking at me all dolled up that.”

“I’m not looking at you any type of way.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” His grin widened. “You absolutely are.”

God, you just wanted to punch this ‘guy’.

Even his voice sounded sinful. You’d be lying if you said it didn’t turn you on.

You tried not to stare as he stepped aside to let you enter, but it was difficult not to. Candlelight painted gold across his skin. His shirt slipped slightly lower against one shoulder as he moved, exposing his scarily smooth skin and delicate chains around his neck.

The mansion itself looked unreal inside. Towering ceilings. grand staircases. velvet furniture, and hundreds of candles flickering without melting. Music drifted softly through the air despite there being no visible orchestra.

You turned slowly in place, yet cautiously. “This place is insane.”

Michael had shut the door behind you with a loud thud. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

You jumped slightly at the sound.

Michael laughed softly behind you. “Nervous?”

“No.”

“No?”

You turned to argue, only to realize he was suddenly much closer than before. Too close. You could smell expensive cologne mixed with smoke and rain.

Michael leaned slightly toward you, eyes glittering mischievously. “You know,” he said quietly, “most people in town avoid me.”

“Maybe I’m not smart.”

“No,” he replied immediately. “I think you’re curious.” The way he looked at you made your skin burn.

Like he already knew things about you. Like he found your reactions amusing.

“You always this weird?” You muttered under your breath.

Michael gasped dramatically, placing a hand over his chest”“Weird? That hurts.”

“You live alone in a haunted mansion!”

“And?”

“And you opened the door like some vampire in a romance novel.”

His smile turned slow. Dangerous. “Did it work?”

Your face heated instantly.

Michael noticed. Of course he did. And the bastard looked delighted by it. “Oh, you’re blushin’.” He teased softly.

“I do not.”

“You’re doing it right now.”

“I’m wet and freezing.”

“Come again?” Michael chuckled softly at your choice of words, which obviously referred to the ‘wet’ part.

“You’re annoying.”

“And yet,” he said, stepping even closer, “you’re still standing here.”

Your back nearly hit the staircase behind you.

Michael looked entirely too pleased about cornering you there. The storm outside raged louder while the mansion remained eerily warm and dim around you. Candles flickered against Michael’s face, shadows dancing across his sharp features.

“You know what I think?” he asked.

“What?” You nearly let out a groan of annoyance.

“I think you expected me to be scary.”

“Aren’t you?”

His eyes locked onto yours. Then slowly — deliberately — he smiled. Every candle in the mansion suddenly extinguished at once. Darkness swallowed the room.

You gasped.

And somewhere in the dark, Michael laughed. Not cruelly. Playfully. “You scare easy,” his voice whispered near your ear.

You spun around. Nothing.

Then lightning flashed through the windows—And Michael stood halfway across the room somehow.

Your heart nearly stopped.

“How did you—”

Music suddenly exploded through the mansion. Loud drums. Deep bass. The floor trembled beneath your feet as candles burst back to life one by one. Only now, you weren’t alone anymore. Figures stood throughout the ballroom. Tall, shadowed figures. Ghosts. Skeletons. Creatures with glowing eyes and twisted smiles. Your breath hitched.

But Michael? Michael simply leaned against the piano casually, watching your reaction with shameless amusement. “You should see your face right now,” he said between laughs.

“What IS this?!”

“A party.”

“What the fuck?!”

The ghosts suddenly began moving with the music, dancing in eerie synchronization around the ballroom. And then Michael joined them. Damn, you understood the rumors then. Because watching him dance felt supernatural.

Every movement was sharp and fluid at the same time. His body moved like smoke, like magic, like he wasn’t entirely human. The ghosts mirrored him perfectly as he spun across the floor laughing, curls falling into his eyes.

And somehow, even surrounded by monsters, he only looked at you. Like he was performing solely for your attention. Michael slid across the ballroom before stopping directly in front of you. Close enough to touch. “You scared now?” he asked breathlessly.

You should’ve just said yes. Instead you whispered, “No.”

His expression shifted slightly. Interested. “Oh,” he murmured. “That’s dangerous.”

“For who?”

Michael’s eyes darkened. “For me.”

The words settled heavily between you. The music around the ballroom continued — dramatic violins mixed with deep bass while ghostly figures spun beneath flickering chandeliers — but suddenly it all felt distant compared to the way Michael was looking at you. Like you’d become the center of the room. The center of him.

You swallowed carefully. “You flirt with everybody like this?”

Michael smiled slowly. “As i’ve said many times, No,” he said. “Not like this.” The honesty in his voice caught you off guard.

Before you could answer, one of the ghosts dramatically twirled past the two of you, causing Michael to sigh in annoyance.“Rude,” he muttered toward the creature. The ghost hissed playfully back at him before disappearing into the crowd again.

You blinked. “You talk to them?” Michael looked at you like the answer was obvious. “Of course.”

“That thing had glowing eyes.”

“And?”

“And it LOOKED dead.”

“So judgmental,” he teased. “You humans are so sensitive.”“You humans?” you repeated suspiciously. Michael’s grin widened immediately. “There it is again.” And you followed with: “What?”

“That little look.” He stepped closer. “The one where you start questioning if I’m actually human.”

The air suddenly felt warmer. Or maybe it was just him. You folded your arms. “Are you?” Michael leaned down slightly until his face was inches from yours. “What do you think?”

Woah.

It should’ve been illegal for someone to look at you that way.

The candlelight softened his features, gold reflecting in his dark eyes while shadows danced against his skin. Up close, you noticed tiny beauty marks scattered across his face. The silver chains around his neck glimmered every time he moved. Beautiful. Completely unfairly beautiful. And he knew it too.

You could tell by the smug little smile forming on his lips as your eyes accidentally dropped lower.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured. “You’re staring again.”

Your gaze snapped back upward instantly. “I am not.”

“Mhm.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“You like me.”

“I barely know you.”

Michael tilted his head thoughtfully. “That’s never stopped anybody before.”

You rolled your eyes despite the heat creeping up your neck. The truth was, you should’ve been terrified. Nothing about this night was normal. Nothing about him was normal.

But every instinct telling you to leave was being drowned out by the strange pull you felt toward him. Like the mansion itself wanted you to stay. Like Michael was some kind of gravity you couldn’t escape once he decided to focus on you.

And judging by the look on his face, he had definitely decided. The music suddenly slowed around the ballroom, transforming into something softer. Jazz-like. Seductive.

Michael extended his hand toward you dramatically. “Dance with me.” You stared at him. “Absolutely not.” He looked offended. “You wound me.”

Your eyebrows furrowed from irritation. “You literally summoned ghosts five minutes ago.”

“And they’re excellent dancers.”

“That’s not the point!”

Michael laughed — bright and genuine this time — and honestly, it sounded too warm for a man people described as monstrous. You couldn’t help but wonder the background of his life.

“You’re cute when you’re suspicious,” he said.

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” His hand remained extended patiently between you. The ghosts around the ballroom began swaying slower now, almost expectantly, as though waiting for your answer too.

You narrowed your eyes. “If I say no?”

Michael shrugged lightly. “Then I continue haunting you dramatically until you change your mind.”

“That sounds like a threat.”

“It’s flirting.”

Your genuine laugh escaped before you could stop it, your eyes had turned into a smile.

Michael’s expression softened instantly at the sound. There was something almost startled in his face for a second. Like he hadn’t expected you to laugh with him. Then slowly, he smiled too. And suddenly the mansion didn’t feel cold anymore.

You looked down at his hand again. Elegant fingers covered in silver rings. Waiting. “You’re impossible,” you muttered finally.

“But charming.” His smirk irritated you.

“Debatable.”

“You’re still taking my hand though.” …Unfortunately, he was right. The second your fingers touched his, the entire ballroom reacted. Candles flared brighter. The ghosts cheered dramatically. One skeleton literally fainted onto a couch. You burst out laughing while Michael groaned. “They’re very emotionally invested,” he explained. “This is insane.” You giggled softly.

“I prefer magical.” Michael exclaimed.

Before you could say another word, Michael pulled you gently toward him as one hand settled carefully against your waist. The other remained intertwined with yours. And suddenly, you realized how close he actually was.

Your breath caught slightly, and he noticed immediately. His eyes flickered down to your lips before returning upward slowly. “There’s that look again,” he whispered.

“What look?”

“The one that makes me want to cause problems.”

Your stomach flipped embarrassingly fast.

The music wrapped around the two of you while he guided you effortlessly across the ballroom floor. Somehow, despite all the teasing and theatrics, he danced with surprising softness. Careful with you. Like he already knew exactly how much pressure to use when holding your waist.

Like he was trying not to scare you away. “You know,” he said quietly as you moved together, “you’re the first person who’s stayed this long.”

Something about that made your chest ache unexpectedly.“What happened to everyone else?”

Michael’s expression shifted. Subtly. The flirtatiousness dimmed just enough for you to notice the loneliness underneath it.

“They usually run.” The answer was lighthearted, but the sadness behind it wasn’t. Your gaze softened before you could stop yourself. “And you let them?” Michael gave a small shrug.“What else am I supposed to do?” he murmured. “People fear what they don’t understand.”

Thunder echoed outside again. The ghosts around the ballroom slowly quieted. Even the mansion itself seemed to grow still.

And for the first time that night, Michael looked less like a supernatural creature and more like a man who’d spent years being left alone inside this enormous haunted house.

You didn’t realize you’d moved closer until his eyes widened slightly. “You know,” you said softly, “for someone everyone calls terrifying…” Michael raised an eyebrow.

“You’re actually kind of pathetic.”

A stunned silence filled the ballroom, then the ghosts gasped dramatically.

Michael looked genuinely offended. “Pathetic?”

“You throw haunted dance parties because you’re lonely.”

“That is unbelievably rude.”

“You flirt with strangers because nobody stays long enough to know the real you.”

His mouth opened, then closed.

You smiled slightly. “And you’re pouting now.”

“I do not pout.”

“You absolutely pout.”

Michael stared at you for a long moment. Then suddenly, he laughed. Not the teasing laugh from before. Not the theatrical one. A real and genuine laugh. Warm enough to melt through every creepy rumor you’d ever heard about him. And somehow that felt far more dangerous than the ghosts ever could.

“No, I’m not staying just because you’re lonely. I genuinely find you interesting.” A sigh escaped your lips as you gently traced your thumb over the back of his palm.

He appeared glamoured by that. The way his eyes sparkled wasn’t lost on you. “That’s a first,” Michael chuckled softly.

The heavy oak door clicks shut, sealing out the spectral whispers of the hallway. Rain lashes the floor-to-ceiling windows, shaking the glass in its frames. Michael stands by the edge of the massive four-poster bed, his silhouette flickering like a dying candle. A faint, iridescent shimmer pulses beneath his skin, a telltale sign of his shifting form reacting to his nerves.

"You're trembling," he says. His voice carries a melodic rasp. "I'm not scared," you whisper. "I know." He steps closer, the scent of ozone and dried lavender clinging to him. "That's what makes this terrifying. You're the only person who hasn't looked at me and seen a monster."

He reaches out, his fingers grazing your jawline. His touch hums with a low-frequency energy. You lean into his palm, closing your eyes. "I don't see a monster, Michael."

"Then look at me."

You open your eyes. His pupils have expanded, swallowing the iris until his gaze is two deep, shimmering voids.

"I want you," he murmurs. "But I can feel your heart. It's hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. You've never... have you?"

You flush, looking away. "No." Michael freezes. The shimmering beneath his skin settles into a soft, golden glow. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you flush against his chest. “Can I still..”

“Please..?” You wanted to slap yourself at how weak that sounded.

"Thank you for telling me." He kisses your forehead, his lips warm and lingering. "We’ll go at your pace, sweet girl. Only your pace."

He lifts you effortlessly and lays you back onto the silk sheets. He doesn't rush. He strips away your clothes with a reverent precision, his eyes tracing every curve as if memorizing a map. He moves down your body, his breath hot against your thigh. "Tell me if I'm too much," he whispers.

He parts your legs, his soft yet calloused hands wrapped around your thighs as his tongue had found you with a sudden, wet heat. You gasp, your fingers digging into the mattress. He doesn't just lick; he tastes, his tongue shifting in texture and shape to find exactly where you are most sensitive. The sensation is overwhelming, a rhythmic, swirling pressure that makes your hips arch off the bed.

He adds two fingers, sliding them inside you with a slow, steady glide. He watches your face, his eyes searching yours for any sign of discomfort. “Are you okay?” Michael had rested his head on to the side of your thighs. He curls his fingers, mimicking the motion of the act to come, stretching you gently while his thumb maintains a relentless friction on your clitoris.

"You're so tight," he groans, his voice dropping an octave. "But you're melting for me."

You reach for him before he could start eating you out again, pulling him back up. You want to feel him, to give back the pleasure. You slide down the bed, your hands shaking as you reach for the fastening of his trousers. When he is free, the sight of him makes your breath catch. "I... I don't know how," you admit.

Michael lets out a low, yet soft laugh. He reaches down and cuppes the back of your head, his fingers gently weaving through your hair. "I'll teach you," he whispers. "Start slow. Just the tip of your tongue." You follow his guidance, tasting him, feeling the heat radiating from his skin. "Now wrap your lips around me," he instructs, his voice straining. "Use a suction, like you're drinking from a glass. Gently. No teeth."

You mimic his instructions, your mouth sliding over him. He lets out a sharp hiss of breath, his hips twitching.

"Fuck, baby. Just like that. You're a natural. You’re doing so good." His voice didn’t fail to make you even wetter.

“Are you sure about this, pretty girl? That your first sex is with a monster they claim me to be?” Michael asked with his most raspiest voice, in contrast to his sweet tone.

“Just please, Mike. Give it to me.” You sounded so damn pathetic.

He can't take it much longer. He pulls you up, flipping you onto your back. He looms over you, his muscles coiled and shimmering. He positions himself at your entrance, pausing for a heartbeat. "Look at me," he commands.

You lock eyes with him, seeing the raw, aching hunger. He pushes forward, a slow, deliberate invasion. You let out a sharp cry, the sensation of being filled for the first time sending a shockwave through your spine.

"Breathe," he murmurs, staying still to let you adjust. "Just breathe for me, please."

As the tension eases into a heavy, pulsing heat, he begins to move. He doesn't just thrust; he adapts. You feel his internal structure shift, molding himself to fit your anatomy perfectly, maximizing every point of contact. The friction becomes a fire, a rhythmic collision of skin and supernatural energy.

"You're mine," he gasps, his voice a ragged edge. "In this house, in this storm... you're mine."

You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, the ghosts in the corners of the room dancing in a silent, celebratory whirlwind as you both break under the weight of the climax.

As you both calmed down, Michael didn’t realize you were actually crying. Tears streamed down your beautiful, doll-like eyes. “Baby, is everything alright?” Michael suddenly felt so maternal. Nobody has been this vulnerable with him.

“I am, but it’s just that you felt so good…” You chuckled softly, your hands softly caressing his cold arms.

“Can I be yours in the waking world?” Michael softly says, his eyes hanging with the shown hope of your answer.

a/n: this has been floating around in my head and I had to write it

The first time you met Michael Jackson, he was wearing sunglasses indoors and sitting cross-legged on the carpet of his mother’s living room like he’d been trying to disappear into it.

And somehow, despite the absurdity of the situation, you felt worse for him than you did for yourself.

“Baby, take those glasses off,” Katherine Jackson said gently.

“I can see perfectly fine with them on,” Michael muttered.

Your mother elbowed you lightly. “Sit down, sweetheart.”

You obeyed stiffly, lowering yourself onto the floral couch while your pulse thudded in your ears. The entire thing felt unreal. Two weeks ago your mother had casually announced that Katherine Jackson had called her after reconnecting through church circles and charity events. One conversation became several. Then came lunches. Then came the proposal neither of you had expected.

Not romantic.

Practical.

Michael needed stability before the second leg of the Bad Tour consumed his life completely. Your mother thought you needed “direction.” Katherine thought you were kind, grounded, and unimpressed by fame.

And apparently, somewhere between tea and polite conversation, they’d decided the solution was marriage.

It sounded ridiculous even in your own head.

Michael finally pushed the sunglasses up into his curls, revealing tired dark eyes. Pretty eyes, but exhausted ones.

He looked at you for the first time fully.

You looked back.

Neither of you smiled.

“This is insane,” he said flatly.

“Michael,” Katherine warned.

“No, it is,” he insisted, sitting up straighter now. “We don’t even know each other.”

“I agree,” you said immediately.

Your mother looked horrified that you’d spoken.

Michael blinked at you, surprised.

And then — unexpectedly — the corner of his mouth twitched.

Not quite a smile.

But close.

The mothers exchanged long suffering looks while Michael leaned back against the couch.

“What if we just tell them no?” you asked quietly.

“Oh, I tried that already,” he said. “Three times.”

That earned a laugh from you before you could stop it.

Michael noticed.

His expression softened immediately, like he’d been waiting to hear that sound.

Katherine clasped her hands together. “No one is forcing either of you. We simply think this could be… beneficial.”

“Beneficial,” Michael repeated like the word offended him personally.

Your mother ignored him. “You’d travel with him. Keep each other company. It wouldn’t have to be traditional immediately.”

“Immediately?” you echoed weakly.

Michael dropped his head back against the couch with a groan. “Oh my God.”

—

Three weeks later, you married him quietly at the Jackson family home.

No press.

No cameras.

No giant spectacle.

Just immediate family, tense smiles, and Michael standing beside you in an ivory suit looking deeply unhappy until the minister told him to hold your hand.

Then something shifted.

His fingers curled around yours carefully, almost shyly.

Warm.

Human.

Real.

You glanced over at him.

He glanced back.

For the first time since this entire disaster began, neither of you looked away.

—

By the time rehearsals for the Bad Tour intensified, you’d learned several things about your new husband.

One: he hated eating breakfast alone.

Two: he worked until exhaustion because silence made him anxious.

Three: despite being one of the most famous men on earth, he was painfully awkward in private.

And four:

Michael Jackson was lonely.

Not dramatic lonely.

Not attention-seeking lonely.

The kind that settled into a person quietly after years of not knowing who to trust.

You noticed it in the way he lingered near doorways when you were reading. The way he’d ask random questions just to keep conversations going.

“You think penguins have knees?”

You lowered your book slowly. “What?”

“They do,” he informed you seriously. “I looked it up.”

“You woke me up for this?”

“It was important information.”

You stared at him.

He grinned suddenly — bright and boyish and devastating.

And against all odds, you started laughing.

Michael immediately lit up at the sound.

It became your favorite thing about him eventually — how hard he tried to make you laugh once he realized you would.

—

The first real fight happened in Pensacola during rehearsals.

You’d spent the entire day watching people tug at him from every direction. Managers. Security. Stylists. Musicians. Everyone wanting a piece of him.

By midnight he looked exhausted beyond reason.

“You need sleep,” you told him as he continued pacing his hotel suite.

“I’m fine.”

“You haven’t sat down in hours.”

“I said I’m fine.”

The sharpness in his voice surprised both of you.

Silence filled the room instantly.

Michael rubbed his face hard. “Sorry.”

“No, you’re stressed.”

“I’m not stressed.” He laughed once without humor. “I’m preparing to perform in front of hundreds of thousands of people while tabloids invent new lies about me every week and everyone watches everything I do.”

His breathing had gone uneven.

You softened immediately. “Michael…”

“I can’t mess this up.”

“You won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

He finally looked at you then.

Really looked.

You crossed the room slowly until you stood directly in front of him.

“You don’t have to be perfect every second,” you said quietly.

“Yes I do.”

The answer came too fast.

Too honest.

Something in your chest ached.

You reached up carefully, adjusting one of the curls fallen into his face. He froze beneath your touch instantly.

“Nobody can survive like that,” you whispered.

For a moment he just stared at you.

Then his entire expression crumbled.

Not dramatically.

Just enough for you to see how tired he truly was underneath everything.

His forehead rested lightly against yours.

And after weeks of polite distance and awkward coexistence, Michael finally let someone hold him together.

—

The marriage changed slowly after that.

Tiny things first.

His hand finding yours automatically in crowded places.

Late night conversations that stretched until sunrise.

Him stealing bites off your plate despite having ordered his own food.

“You said you didn’t want fries.”

“I changed my mind.”

“You changed your mind after I got them.”

“Mm.” Completely unashamed.

You learned how soft he actually was beneath the superstar image. How affectionate. How emotionally observant.

He noticed everything about you.

When you were cold, his jackets appeared around your shoulders before you asked.

When you were homesick, flowers arrived in hotel rooms with handwritten notes.

When anxiety kept you awake before attending public events with him, he’d sit beside you quietly humming until your breathing steadied.

And somewhere along the way, your arranged marriage stopped feeling arranged at all.

—

The night before the Bad Tour officially resumed, you found Michael alone onstage during rehearsal.

The arena lights were mostly dark except for one spotlight overhead.

He stood at center stage staring out into thousands of empty seats.

Nervous.

You could tell.

Even now.

You walked down the aisle toward him slowly.

Michael turned at the sound of your footsteps, visibly relaxing when he saw you.

“There you are,” he said softly.

You stepped onto the stage beside him. “You disappeared.”

“Needed to think.”

You looked out at the massive arena. “Scary?”

“A little.”

“A little?”

He laughed quietly. “Okay. A lot.”

You smiled.

Then his expression turned more serious.

“You know…” He hesitated. “When they first brought this whole arrangement to me, I thought it was gonna make everything worse.”

“Me too.”

“But you make things quieter in my head.”

Your heart stumbled.

Michael looked nervous suddenly — genuinely nervous — as if admitting that cost him something.

“You’re the first thing I wanna see when rehearsals end,” he admitted softly. “First person I look for.”

The arena suddenly felt very small despite its size.

You stepped closer to him slowly.

“So what are you saying, Mr. Jackson?”

He smiled faintly.

“I think I accidentally fell in love with my wife.”

The grin that spread across your face made him laugh under his breath.

Then, carefully — like he was still asking permission — Michael touched your cheek.

thought i’d return to celebrate jaafar’s portrayal of michael. here’s a cute jaafar x reader!

jaafar jackson x reader

today was your first day on set for the michael movie. you had been hired to play the love interest in the thriller music video, opposite jaafar jackson. you weren’t that nervous to meet him - more concerned about doing your best acting - until you learned jaafar was michael’s nephew. you knew you had to be on your a game.

“hello y/n” mr fuqua said to you while shaking your hand.

“hello sir!”

“have you met jaafar yet?”

“no sir”

“stop calling me sir”, he laughed,” let’s go find him”

you followed him to see jaafar sitting in a chair getting his makeup done, he glanced at you through the mirror.

“it’s good he’s not testing the zombie look on yet, what a first impression” fuqua joked.

you both laughed, “hello, nice to meet you”

“nice to meet you too” he gently turned around to let the makeup artists know he was going to move. you were in awe how soft his presence was, and he was just being himself.

he slowly walked toward you and it seemed like he was looking at every detail, “your makeup is nice”

“i didn’t get makeup done yet jaafar”

he got shy, “you’re just naturally pretty i guess”

“oh no” fuqua said sarcastically, “jaafar you can get back to your makeup ill show y/n the set we have so far”

“see you later jaafar” you said while walking away

as fuqua showed you his vision for the scene and previous scenes they’ve already filmed, he pulled you aside, “ i’m sure you noticed that little thing with jaafar right there. i just want to let you know that jaafar has been getting a lot of attention through this role, not to mention growing up in one of the most famous families of all time. i wouldn’t advise anything other than professionalism. not saying you were even thinking of anything but he’s under a lot of pressure-”

you nodded. “oh it’s not like that! i do understand though. was just being friendly”

after he showed you around you prepared for your rehearsal scene with jaafar. after seeing clips of him dancing and singing as michael you could not believe how similar he was to the real deal.

“okay let’s just feel it out and go from there” fuqua said

“you look nervous, ever walked before?” jaafar whispered to you

you laughed and playfully hit his arm

“good like that” fuqua thought you guys were acting

as practice went on jaafar would gently touch your arm, try to give u a jump scare, and even rest his chin on your shoulder.

after you both were given notes and things to practice on, you were dismissed.

jaafar waited for you to gather your things and then walked up to you.

“is there any advice you can give me?”

“advice? i’m a new actress this is my first gig-”

“mine too”

“wait…your first acting gig ever is playing michael jackson?”

“yes… but i promise i worked hard for it”

you laughed, “i’m not gonna call you a nepo or anything”

jaafar uncomfortably laughed and looked down, “i kind of am”

“our director just showed me a clip of you from the bad tour scene, i cannot even begin to describe how incredible you’re doing. my advice would be to let go and trust that you’ve done the work because we all can tell that you have”

“thank you. that means a lot”

you stepped closer to him “you are under so much pressure, but your talent shines through. michael would be so proud”

jaafar stays silent and then blurts out a thought.

“you seem really nice, if you would like to hang out outside of this sometime-”

“fuqua basically told me that i- i cant”

jaafar softly laughed and rolled his eyes

“they’re treating me the same way they treated my uncle- im grown!”

“i’m sorry jaafar”

“don’t be” his eyes linger on you

“i’d love to hang out outside of this” you say

jaafar forms a smile

“but we better do it soon, i have a feeling after this film drops the only place we’ll have to hangout is in our house”

jaafar chuckles, “are you calling me a star?”

“shut up”

“jaafar we need you in 5 minutes to test the zombie makeup!” a crew member shouted

“alright don’t be scared when you see me later” he says