ཆི❤︎ཆྀ

YOU DON’T CARE?

Michael Jackson x Fem!Reader

Part 1 Here!

sorry for taking forever to post this, I’ve been busy with piano lessons 😇

The heavy tension of that night with Michael had lingered in your brain, but by the time the weekend had rolled around, the atmosphere had shifted. The unspoken words and the messy, tangled, web of hidden feelings were still there, only they buried just beneath the surface, but the sharp edge of Michael’s frustration had slowly softened, it was quieter, less obvious.

A few days had passed since the disastrous conversation about Cynthia. Michael didn’t call the interviewer, the itinerary with her phone number had vanished, most likely thrown into the nearest bin.

It was a lazy Tuesday afternoon, the California sun was streaming through the massive windows of the Hayvenhurst living room. It was warm, peaceful, and entirely cut off from the rest of the world. On the low mahogany coffee table sat two mugs of hot chocolate, topped with a ridiculous, overflowing mountain of whipped cream and a sprinkle of cinnamon.

You were sitting with your back against a pile of pillows, a sketchbook resting comfortably against your knees. You weren’t a professional artist by any means, but flipping through the pages and sketching small thoughtless doodles helped keep your hands busy.

Nearby, Michael was lying on his side, propped up on one elbow. He had a small silver spoon in his hand, which he was using to steal dollops of whipped cream from your mug whenever he thought you weren’t looking.

Every time his fingers brushed against yours as he reached for the hot chocolate, a tiny, electric spark seemed to jolt between the two of you. It was a completely different type of energy from a few days ago. Tonight Michael felt close. Intentionally, and a little clingy.

“You’re going to take all the cream before I even get a taste,” you murmured, not looking up from your sketchbook, though a small smile tugged at the corner of your lips.

Michael paused, his spoon hovering mid air, a look of mock innocence washing over his features. His wide, dark beautiful eyes blinked rapidly, his long eyelashes casting shadows on his cheekbones. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m just inspecting it. Making sure it’s safe for consumption of course.”

“Right. Very heroic of you,” you laughed, finally looking up meeting his gaze.

The moment your eyes locked with his, Michael’s features softened. The teasing smirk melted away into something you didn’t want to look far into. His gaze dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before travelling back up towards your eyes. That alone sent a sudden, violent flutter of butterflies straight into your stomach. It was the kind of look that made your breath catch, the kind that reminded you just how dangerous it was to be this close to him without telling him how you truly felt.

Ever since his sudden outburst about the interviewer, Cynthia, things had changed between you. He hadn’t brought her up again.

Michael shifted his weight, sliding a bit closer to you. The scent of him suddenly surrounding you, a comforting blend of expensive sandalwood, soap, and the faint sweet smell of hot chocolate. He reached out, his long fingers gently catching the edge of your notebook.

“Let me see.” he requested softly, his tone curious. “What are you drawing so intensely over there? Is it a masterpiece?”

“It’s definitely not a masterpiece,” you laughed playfully, trying to pull the book back towards you. “Just doodles. Nothing you need to see.”

“Oh, come on, let me see,” he insisted, a genuine laugh escaping his lips. It was that infectious laugh that always made your heart ache with affection. He leaned in closer, his shoulder pressing firmly against yours. The heat radiating his body made it hard not to lean into his side. “Don’t hide it from me. I’m a connoisseur of the arts, y’know.”

“You’re a nuisance, is what you are,” you sighed, but let your grip loosen, allowing him to gently pull the book into his own lap.

Michael turned the sketchbook around, staring down at the pages. Your heart thudded against your ribs as you realised what was on the current page. It wasn’t just random shapes, it was a rough charcoal sketch of the living room from a few nights ago. Specifically, it was a silhouette of him standing by the window. A visual representation of how deeply he occupied your thoughts.

You felt a sudden flush of heat creep up your neck, your cheeks burning a bright crimson. “Michael, wait, don’t look at that page-”

But it was too late. Michael’s thumb brushed against the edge of the paper. He went completely still, his gaze tracing over the charcoal lines with an intensity that made it hard for you to breathe. The only sound in the room was the quiet, rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock right outside in the hallway, and the soft crackle of the fireplace.

“You drew this,” he whispered, his voice dropping into a deep, velvety register that made your skin tingle on the surface.

“I… yeah,” you stammered embarrassingly, suddenly finding loose threads on your shirt incredibly interesting. “I was just messing around, I know it’s no good. The proportions are all wrong-”

“It’s beautiful,” Michael interrupted softly. He turned his head to look at you, his face only inches away from yours now. The proximity was dizzying. You could see the golden flecks in his dark eyes, the soft texture of his skin, the slight parting of his lips. “It’s really beautiful, baby.”

He didn’t pull away. Instead, he placed the sketchbook gently next to him, his eyes never leaving yours. The hesitation, fear of rejection had driven him to overexaggerate that ridiculous story about Cynthia a few days ago, seemed to be warring with a newfound, desperate hope. He ran a hand nervously through his curls, a small, vulnerable sigh escaping from him.

“I lied to you the other night,” he confessed quietly, his gaze dropping to his own hands as his fingers nervously fidgeted. “About Cynthia. About the interviewer.”

You blinked, caught completely off guard. “What do you mean?”

“I mean… she was nice, I guess. But there was no connection.” Michael admitted, a sheepish, embarrassed look crossing his face as he said the words. “She gave me her number, but I threw it away, I… I exaggerated most of it.”

You stared at him, your mind racing as the pieces of the puzzle started falling into place. The strange, restless energy. The way he had watched your face, waiting for a reaction. The sheer agitation when you had told him to go out with her.

“Why would you do that, Mike?” you asked, your voice a mix of confusion and a strange, rising hope that you were almost too terrified to acknowledge.

Michael let out a soft laugh, shaking his head. He looked up at you, his wide eyes completely defenseless. “Because I was bein’ stupid.” he said softly. “Because I’ve been holding onto something for so long, and it was burning a hole right through me. I wanted to see if you cared. I wanted to see if the thought of me being with someone else would… would hurt you, even just a little bit.”

Your breath hitched in your throat. The walls you had spent years building around your heart, the thick, protective barriers designed to keep you safe from the devastating reality of loving a global superstar, suddenly felt like a thin veil dropping.

“Michael,” you breathed, your voice a little shaky. “You wanted to make me jealous?”

“I wanted to know if I was the only one losing my mind,” he said suddenly, the words felt uncontrollable, spilling out in an emotional rush. He reached out, his warm, larger hand covering yours. “Whenever I see people looking at you, or talking to you… I get this awful, heavy feeling in my chest. And the other night, when I told you about her, you just smiled and told me to take her out. It broke my heart. It really did. I thought, ‘you didn’t care, to you I’m just a friend.’”

“That’s not true.” you said firmly, the honesty tearing its way through your throat before you could stop it. You could feel Michael’s thumb rubbing softly against your hand, his eyes were bright, excited in a way you hadn’t seen since you were little. “Michael, that’s the furthest thing from the truth.”

“So it’s not true?”

“No!” you exclaimed, a breathless, little laugh escaping you as the weight of the secret lifted off your shoulders, it felt good saying it out loud especially to Michael. “I was miserable! I felt like my stomach dropped. You have the whole world at your feet. Why would you ever want me when you could have anyone?”

“Anyone?” he echoed softly, he moved closer, his free hand coming to gently cup your cheek. His thumb stroked softly against your cheekbone. “I don’t want ‘anyone’ baby. I’ve seen the world. I’ve met thousands of people. But nobody makes me feel the way you do.”

“I’ve loved you for a really long time,” Michael whispered, the confession hanging beautifully in the quiet space between you. “I was so scared that if I told you I’d ruin everything.”

“You could never ruin this.” you managed to say, leaning into the comfort of his touch.

“You really mean that?” he asked, a hint of that lingering, vulnerable boyishness in his voice.

“With all my heart.” You promised

YOU DON’T CARE?

Michael Jackson x Female!Reader

Summary: Michael tries to make reader jealous, but it ends up backfiring.

warnings: arguing, angst? Jealousy, possessiveness.

part 2 here

The heavy velvet curtains of Hayvenhurst were drawn tight, shutting out the night and the ever present hum of the outside world. Inside the living room, the universe shrunk down to a warm room illuminated by the warm glow of the television and a few expensive lamps.

A massive fort of silk pillows and quilted blankets occupied the centre of the room, a stable of these rare, quiet sleepovers. For anyone else, a sleepover was a casual weekend plan. For Michael, it was a fortress. It was one of the very few places where the crushing weight of fame, the record breaking charts, and suffocating madness of his global celebrity couldn’t reach him. Here, he wasn’t was a phenomenon. Here he was just regular Michael.

You were sitting crossed legged on a pile of over sized cushions, wearing a pair of shorts and a vintage t shirt, idly flipping through a music magazine. Across from you, Michael was stretched out on his stomach propped up on his elbows. His curls framed his face perfectly, free of hairspray and styling that defined his public image.

The television hummed quietly in the background, playing an old cartoon on low volume, neither of you were really paying much attention to it. A large bowl of half eaten popcorn sat between you, along with empty glasses that used to filled with orange juice.

On the surface everything was how it exactly usually was. Peaceful. Quiet. Safe.

But beneath it, a strange, restless energy was humming through Michael. You could sense it in the way his fingers tapped an erratic rhythm against his leg. His wide eyes kept tracing back to you, tracking your expressions, waiting for a reaction that hadn’t come yet.

"You're weirdly quiet tonight," Michael murmured, shifting his weight. He picked up a piece of popcorn and tossed it into the air, catching it expertly in his mouth. "Usually, you'd be rambling about something by now. Did I bore you with that new demo?"

"Not at all," you said without looking, your eyes scanning the magazine, yet you weren’t really reading the words on the pages. "The demo is brilliant, Mike. You know that. I'm just reading."

Michael frowned slightly, his lips pressing into a pout. He didn't want you to just read. He wanted your full, undivided attention. More specifically, he wanted a very particular kind of attention he’d been chasing. He had been feeling a nagging, persistent ache in his chest for months now, a deep, terrifyingly intense affection for you that went far beyond friendship. But Michael was terrified of rejection, and even more terrified of ruining the one safe haven he had left. So, instead of being honest, his brilliant mind had decided on a foolproof, albeit disastrous, plan to test the waters, by make you jealous.

He cleared his throat, adjusting his position so he was leaning a bit closer to your side of the blanket fort.

“So…” he started, his voice dropping into a casual conversation tone that was totally not forced and not obvious. “I had that big interview yesterday afternoon. The one with that European network.”

“Oh, yeah?” You replied, your tone perfectly pleasant, entirely detached. “How did it go? Did they ask you the same five questions about the moonwalk?”

“No, actually,” Michael said, a small, sly, smile playing on his lips. He leaned his chin against the palm of his hand, his eyes watching you carefully. “It was… different. The interviewer, her name is Cynthia. She flew all the way from London. She was incredibly smart. Very well spoken. And, uh… well, she was also really beautiful.”

Your heart did a sudden, unexpected, violent flip in your chest. The words you were pretending to read seemed even more meaningless than they had been before. A cold prickle of jealousy flared to life in your stomach, sharp and uninvited.

You kept your eyes glued to the magazine, your face a mask of absolute, serene indifference. You knew if you made eye contact Michael would instantly be able to read you like an open book.

You had spent years mastering the art of hiding your feelings around Michael Jackson. When a man is chased by millions of screaming women every time he steps out of a building, you learn to build a very thick wall around your heart just to survive being his friend, but that didn’t stop the nagging feeling of wishing you were more than just a friend.

“Oh, that’s wonderful, Mike,” you said, your voice smooth, and light, and the exact opposite of everything Michael had been secretly hoping for. “It’s always nice when you get an interviewer who actually treats you like a human being instead of some zoo animal.”

Michael’s smile faltered slightly. That wasn’t quite the reaction he was looking for. He needed more. He needed a spark.

“No, it was more than that,” Michael pressed on, his voice taking on a certain edge that you couldn’t describe. “We ended up talking for hours after the cameras stopped rolling. She had this incredible laugh, you know? And she kept touching my arm when I made a joke. It was… I don’t know, there was a really strong connection there.”

He watched you like a hawk, waiting for the telltale signs. A tightening of your jaw. A sharp intake of breath. A snappy, possessive remark. Anything to show that the thought of another woman holding his attention tore you apart the same way the thought of another man tore him apart.

Instead, you finally closed the magazine, placing it neatly on the floor beside you. You turned your head to look at him, your expression entirely open, warm, and encouraging.

"Michael, that is amazing!" you exclaimed, forcing a bright smile breaking across your face. "Wow. You rarely ever click with people like that outside of work. I'm so happy for you."

Michael blinked, momentarily stunned. "You... you are?"

"Of course I am!" You leaned forward, resting your elbows on your knees, entirely playing the part of the supportive, enthusiastic best friend, even as a small, bitter knot tightened in your throat. "You're always saying how hard it is to meet genuine people who see past the fame. If this Cynthia girl connected with you like that,” you struggled to get the words out as your throat tightened “and she's beautiful and smart? Mike, that’s a special find."

"Yeah. Special," Michael echoed your words, his brows furrowing. He sat up fully now, crossing his legs, his eyes locked onto yours, trying desperately to read between the lines. There had to be a catch. You couldn't possibly be this happy about it. "She, uh... she gave me her personal number. Written on the back of her itinerary. She told me to call her at her hotel before she flies back to England at the end of the week."

"Well, what are you waiting for?" you urged, your smile widening, though it felt like a heavy weight was pulling at the corners of your mouth. "You should absolutely call her. Better yet, you should take her out on a proper date."

Michael froze. The words hung in the air between you, heavy and entirely wrong. Take her out on a date.

"A date?" he asked, his voice cracking slightly before he caught himself. His tone sharpened, a sudden prickle of irritation breaking through his exterior. "You think I should take her out?"

“Yes! Why not?" you exclaimed, keeping your tone casual and entirely logical. Inside, you were screaming, but you would rather die than let him see you cry or hear a tremor in your voice. If he liked this girl, you were going to be the perfect friend. You were going to push him right into her arms, because that’s what friends do. Even if it hurt. "You've been working yourself to death lately. You deserve to have some fun, go out, get dressed up, and enjoy the company of a beautiful woman."

You were too scared of being rejected by Michael, you figured it would break your heart completely. If you couldn’t keep Michael to yourself at least you could keep parts of him. It was enough to keep your heart at bay.

"Go out?" Michael questioned, his jaw tightening. He ran a hand through his curls, his frustration finally beginning to bubble to the surface. He shifted restlessly on his cushion, his eyes dark and intense. "So just like that? You're just throwin’ me at her?"

"I'm not throwing you at anyone, Michael," you said with a soft, amused chuckle, though it felt hollow and confused. "I’m just encouraging you. You're Michael Jackson. If you want to take a pretty interviewer out on a date, you should do it. I think it’d be great for you."

Michael snapped. He stood up abruptly, abandoning the comfort of the blankets, and began to pace the length of the living room carpet. His hands flew to his hips, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. You stared at him confused.

"I can't believe you," he muttered, shaking his head, looking up at the ceiling as if asking the Lord for strength. "I really can't believe you right now."

You blinked, genuinely taken aback by the sudden shift in his demeanor, though you maintained your calm facade. "What did I say? I'm trying to be supportive!"

"Supportive?!" Michael spun around to face you, his eyes blazing with a mixture of intense frustration and hurt. He gestured wildly with one hand. "I come in here, and I tell you that there's a woman, a beautiful, smart woman, who is actively pursuing me, who gave me her number, who I had a 'strong connection' with... and your immediate response is to tell me to go date her? To walk out the door and go be with someone else?!"

"Well, yeah!" you said, standing up directly across from Michael, defensively crossing your arms over your chest. "What else am I supposed to say? 'No, Michael, lock yourself in here forever and never talk to a woman again'? You’re a grown man. If you like her, go out with her!"

"But I don't want to just go out with her!" Michael burst out, his voice rising, filled with a desperate, agitated energy. He stopped pacing, looking down at you, his shoulders tense. "That's not the point!"

"Then what is the point, Michael?" you asked, your own frustration starting to leak through your carefully constructed walls, though you kept your jealousy fiercely under lock and key. "Why are you getting mad at me for wanting you to be happy?"

Michael bit his lip. He was practically vibrating with a frantic, boiled up energy. He couldn’t tell you the truth, that the whole story had been over exaggerated, that Cynthia had been averagely nice and he hadn’t felt a single spark, that he had only told you to see if you would show any possessiveness, the same possessive, consuming hunger that he felt whenever anyone looked at you.

The sheer unfairness of it all was driving him insane.

If the roles were reversed, if you had come into his living room and started talking about some handsome interviewer, some guy who had flown into London, who had touched your arm, who had given his number to you-

Michael’s stomach dropped into a dark bottomless pit just thinking about it. A cold suffocating wave of jealousy washed over him at the mere thought of another man holding your attention, making you laugh, looking into your eyes. If you had mentioned another man tonight. Michael knew exactly what would’ve happened. He would’ve lost his mind. He would’ve spiralled. He would’ve been miserable.

And yet here you were, standing right in front of him. And showing the exact opposite of how he would’ve reacted. You weren’t spiralling. You weren’t angry. You were instead, encouraging him which just made it all so worse. It made him feel like he was the only one drowning in the ocean of his feelings, while you were on the shore happily waving him off to another ship.

“You’re just so casual about it. You’re just standing here telling me to go take Cynthia to dinner? Like it doesn’t matter at all?”

“Of course it matters!” You argued, maintaining your ground, your heart breaking a little more with every word you spoke yet you refused to show it. “It matters because you are my best friend Michael. Because if you find someone you connect with, you should pursue it! Why does this make you so angry?”

“Because it shouldn’t be that easy for you!” He immediately closed his mouth. His eyes widening as he realised how dangerously close he was to coming off the ledge. He turned away from you quickly. His chest quietly heaving as he struggled to regain control of his violently thumping heart.

The silence in the living room became deafening. You hid your hands behind your back, trying to hide that they were trembling.

What did he mean by that? Did he suspect? Did he notice how much it hurt your soul listening to him talk about another woman? Were you slipping?

You took a deep, steadying, breath forcing your heart to slow down, forcing your voice into that calm, steady rhythm. “Michael,” you said softly, your voice cutting through the quiet room.

He didn’t move. He kept his back to you, his shoulders still tense. “Michael,” you repeated. Slowly, reluctantly, he turned around. His arms slowly crossed over his chest, his chin tilted down. He looked vulnerable, frustrated and deeply exhausted.

“If I crossed a line I’m sorry,” you spoke gently. “I didn’t mean to make it sound like it was easy or like I don’t care. I know how complicated your life is. I know that dating, or even just going out for coffee is a nightmare for you. If this Cynthia girl is someone you like, I just want you to have a chance at something normal. That’s all. I’m on your side. Always."

Michael stared at you, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. Every single word you said was perfect. It was logical. It was sweet. It was exactly what a perfect, loyal, caring best friend would say.

And it utterly destroyed him.

He closed his eyes for a brief moment, letting out a shaky, long sigh that sounded dangerously close to defeat. He had tried to spark a fire, and you had completely extinguished it with pure, terrifying kindness.

He let his arms drop to his sides, the angry, frantic energy leaving him. He looked quieter. He walked back and sinked down onto the cushions, a few feet away from you, dragging a hand down his face.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, his voice dropping back into its usual soft spoken register. He couldn’t look you in the eye, instead focusing intensely on a loose thread. “I didn’t mean to yell… I’m tired. Work has been a lot lately. My head is all over the place.”

“It’s okay,” you said softly, “you don’t have to apologise to me. You’re allowed to feel stressed.”

“I don’t think I’m going to call her,” Michael said quietly, his voice flat. “Cynthia. I don’t think I’ll call her. It’s too much trouble. Don’t think it would work out anyway.”

A wave of intense, overwhelming relief washed over you, so powerful it almost made you dizzy. The suffocating knot in your chest loosened just a fraction. You kept your expression perfectly neutral. “Whatever you think is best, Mike.”