#foreigner

"doesn't understand what he's saying

but understands what he's saying"

— 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.

The homeowner helping Wireface out after his unfortunate encounter. I'm sure somewhere in his heart, the homeowner relates to this tragic man more than he'd let on.