Giselle

against the piano

pairing: michael jackson x best friend!reader

genre: friends to lovers, tumblr-style fluff, mutual pining, alcohol-fueled bravery

warnings: none (just fluff and making out)

word count: ~1k

Years. Seven years, to be exact. Through his meteoric rise to fame and the crushing isolation that came with it, you had been the immovable rock in Michael’s life. You were the only one who truly knew the 'Applehead' behind the flashing lights. You were his protector, his fierce, bold, fiercely protective best friend who never pulled punches.

But tonight, the thick walls of friendship were cracking, dissolving at the exact speed the alcohol hit your bloodstream.

You were at the tail end of a massive celebration party at Hayvenhurst. Everyone had cleared out, leaving the house in a blanket of quiet. You were completely sprawled out on the plush velvet sofa in Michael’s private music room, staring up at the high ceiling. Your head was spinning and the room was tilting slightly, but the reckless, playful energy humming inside you was more alive than ever.

Michael was sitting right in front of you, cross-legged on the soft Persian rug spread beneath his grand piano. The top few buttons of his red button-down shirt were undone, holding a glass of water as he looked up at you. He had that soft, slightly teasing, yet completely fond smile that he reserved only for you.

"I told you not to drink anymore," he said, his voice so soft and soothing it briefly numbed the ache in your head. He held the glass out to you. "Here, drink this. I don't want you waking up feeling miserable tomorrow."

You looked down at him. With your alcohol-induced confidence, your eyes traced the features you had secretly adored for years. His beautiful lips, those dark, expressive eyes that gleamed when he spoke... Your bold, fearless side whispered: How much longer are you going to wait?

"I don't want water, Michael," you said, your voice deeper and rasper than usual.

"But you need to, you're completely drunk—"

You didn't let him finish. Sliding down from the sofa, you dropped onto one knee right in front of him on the rug, eliminating almost all the distance between you. Your sudden movement caught him off guard, making him hastily set the water glass down.

"What are you doing?" he whispered, his breath catching.

You stared directly into his eyes. "You talk too much."

Without a shred of hesitation, you threw your hand behind his neck, tangling your fingers into his soft, curly hair. Before Michael could even register what was happening, you pulled him in and pressed your lips firmly against his.

In that exact moment, time in the room ground to a halt.

You felt Michael’s entire body go rigid. His eyes flew wide in absolute shock, his hands freezing in mid-air. The girl he had called his "best friend" for years was kissing him. And it wasn't a platonic peck either—it was bold, intense, and intoxicating.

As your lips moved unhurriedly over his, the sweet haze of the alcohol made you wait for him to reciprocate. But Michael was so stunned he wasn't even breathing.

You slowly pulled back, your fingers still lingering in his hair. A cheeky, drunken smirk played on your lips. "Wow..." you murmured. "I've wanted to do that for a really long time."

Within seconds, Michael’s face flushed a deep, crimson red. Flustered and breathless, his lips parted as he tried to hide his face in his hands, but you caught his wrists and gently pulled them down.

"You... You're drunk," he stammered, his voice trembling. His chest was heaving; you could practically hear his heart hammering against his ribs. "You don't know what you're doing. You won't even remember this tomorrow."

"I'll remember every single second, Mike," you said, leaning your face closer to his. Your dominant nature flared up even more seeing him this flustered and shy. "Yes, I'm drunk. But it only gave me the courage I needed. You know I haven't looked at you as just a friend for years. And you don't look at me that way either, I can feel it."

"I... I just..." Michael swallowed, trying to avert his eyes, but you wouldn't let him. You gently cupped his chin, forcing his gaze back to yours.

"Don't lie to me," you whispered, your lips brushing against his. "If you don't want me, you can get up and walk out of this room right now. I won't force you."

Michael paused. The shy, guarded boy who always kept his feelings locked away couldn't hold out against your raw, fearless certainty any longer. All the emotions he had buried for years just to protect your friendship burst through like a broken dam.

For the first time, a dark, heavy look of desire and possessiveness flared in his wide eyes—a look that was anything but platonic.

"I'm not leaving," Michael whispered, his voice deep and entirely resolute this time.

And then, everything shifted.

This time, Michael made the move. Those large, slender hands that had been hovering in the air locked around your waist, pulling you onto his lap against the base of the piano in one swift motion. When his lips met yours again, any trace of his earlier hesitation was completely gone, replaced by a pure, burning passion.

As the kiss deepened, he held you tighter, robbing you of your breath as if making up for all those lost years. A soft whimper escaped your lips, which only emboldened him; his hands traveled up your back, sealing you completely against him.

When he finally broke away, you were both completely breathless. Michael rested his forehead against yours, his curls spilling over his face. The familiar, shy smile returned to his lips, but this time, it was filled with pure happiness.

"When you wake up tomorrow," he whispered, his thumb gently tracing your lower lip. "You're going to have to prove to me that none of this was just a drunken mistake, lady."

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐣𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐞

pairing:

Michael Jackson x reader

era:

late 70s / The Wiz era

warnings:

strict father, emotional tension, family pressure, angst, comfort

-author’s note (A/N): this is my first fanfic 🩷

it might be a little amateur, but i really wanted to write it.

if you have any fanfic ideas, please feel free to share them — i’ll try my best to write them, and it would genuinely make me really happy.

your comments mean a lot to me 🌸

⸻

The Jackson house looked warm from the outside.

Soft porch lights, quiet music, a home that looked like it belonged to a happy family.

But the moment you stepped inside, the feeling changed.

Not loudly.

Just… like the air itself became heavier.

Michael closed the door behind you gently.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

“Yeah,” you nodded. “Just… different here.”

He gave a small smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

And that already told you something was wrong.

Because Michael was never this careful around you.

In the studio, he was full of life — talking fast, laughing, humming melodies before they even existed. He would grab your hand just to make you listen to a rhythm he couldn’t get out of his head.

But here…

He was quieter.

Smaller.

“Mom made too much food again,” he said, trying to sound normal.

Before you could answer, a voice came from the hallway.

“Michael.”

Everything shifted instantly.

His body straightened. His hands stopped moving. His gaze dropped.

You felt it before you saw it — the tension in the room tightening like a string.

Joseph Jackson stood there.

No smile. No warmth. Just eyes that measured everything.

“You got rehearsal tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir,” Michael answered immediately.

“You’re wasting time.”

Michael swallowed. “I practiced today.”

“Not enough.”

Silence.

Even the TV in the background felt quieter now.

Michael tried again, softer this time.

“I just wanted her to come for dinner.”

Joseph’s eyes moved to you.

It made your skin feel cold.

“This the girl?”

Michael nodded.

“Yes, sir.”

Joseph stepped closer.

Too close.

“She know what kind of work this is?”

You spoke carefully. “I know you work very hard—”

“Hard ain’t enough,” he cut you off.

Michael didn’t react.

That was the worst part.

Like he was used to it.

Like it was normal.

Joseph suddenly turned back to him.

“Show me the choreography.”

Your heart dropped.

“Right now?” you whispered.

Michael didn’t answer you.

He just stepped into the living room.

And started dancing.

No music.

Only silence.

But his body moved like music was there anyway.

Perfect. Controlled. Exhausted.

Every movement looked trained, repeated, sharpened by years of expectation.

But his face…

His face looked tired.

Not like a performer.

Like a kid trying not to fail.

“Too soft,” Joseph said.

Michael stopped instantly.

“Sorry.”

“Again.”

He started over.

No hesitation. No argument.

Just obedience.

Your hands tightened slightly without you noticing.

Because nobody in the room was stopping it.

And that silence hurt more than the words.

Finally, Joseph turned away.

The second he left, the air changed.

Like the house could finally breathe again.

Michael stayed frozen in place for a moment.

Then he laughed once.

Small. Empty.

“I’m fine,” he said before you could even speak.

“You don’t have to say that.”

He looked away. “It’s normal.”

“No,” you said softly. “It’s just normal for you. That’s different.”

That made him go quiet.

For the first time, he actually looked at you.

Not the stage version of him.

Not the performer.

Just Michael.

A boy standing in the middle of a living room that never really felt like home.

“You think I’m weak?” he asked quietly.

The question hit harder than anything Joseph had said.

“No,” you answered immediately.

Silence.

Then you stepped closer.

“You’re not weak,” you said. “You’re just tired of never being allowed to be anything else.”

His breath caught slightly.

Outside, rain started tapping against the windows.

He sat down slowly on the couch.

You sat beside him.

Close enough that your shoulders touched.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

Then softly, he asked:

“You still wanna stay?”

“Of course.”

“People usually don’t.”

You turned your head slightly toward him.

“I didn’t come here for your father.”

A pause.

“I came here for you.”

That was it.

Something in him softened.

Just a little.

But enough to notice.

A real smile appeared on his face this time — small, tired, but real.

“You really hear everything, huh?” he whispered.

“I do,” you said.

And for the first time that night…