spotlight.ᐟ ( michael jackson )
❛ thriller!michael jackson 𝒙 popstar!reader ❜╱ 𝒸hapter two.
𝓬ontent ❤︎︎︎︎ celebrity rivalry, still hella slowburn (but we're getting there folks), forced proximity, mentions of d*ana r*ss... she gonna be a problem in this fic yall. ⠀𓂃⠀ׄ ⠀𓈒 ￫ navigation.
spring 1983 — los angeles, california
they booked the fundraiser months in advance. you know, one of those massive televised charity events that seemed to attract every major artist in the industry. the kind that promised celebrity appearances, dramatic performances and enough camera coverage to dominate entertainment headlines for weeks afterward.
you said yes because your publicist said it would look good. he said yes because it was televised and because he said yes to everything that pushed his name to more corners of the world.
the stage at the cbs studios looked like organized chaos. towering set pieces lined the wings while stagehands rushed around carrying cables and lighting equipment. a forty-piece orchestra sat scattered across the stage tuning their instruments as producers shouted last-minute instructions through headsets. everyone seemed to be doing ten things at once.
your call time was noon meanwhile michael's was one p.m. except the schedule changed three times before lunch, and someone forgot to update the printed sheets taped to the dressing rooms.
you were halfway through a run‑through of your song when a clipboard slammed onto a music stand just offstage.
“you’re in my slot,” came a familiar voice. you didn’t have to turn around to know who it was yet you turned anyway.
michael stood at the edge of the stage in full rehearsal regalia—black loafers, white socks, trousers, a crisp button‑down—arms crossed, curls pulled back from his face.
“my slot was moved,” you said, forcing your voice to stay calm. “check the schedule.”
“i did. it says i’m up next.”
“i’m already here.”
“so am i.”
you could feel the burning sensation of the orchestra watching.
“look,” he said, “it’s nothing personal. i have to catch a flight after this.”
“so do i.” your arms were now crossed against your chest.
“mine leaves at three.”
“well, mine leaves at two‑thirty.”
he blinked, you blinked.
the conductor cleared his throat “maybe we can—”
“you don’t own the stage,” you snapped, turning fully to michael.
his eyebrows shot up. “clearly no one taught the princess boundaries.”
the word sliced through the stale studio air.
it wasn’t about rehearsal slots anymore. it was about every magazine cover that had plastered the two of you side by side. it was about every headline calling you his competition. it was about being sick of constantly having to prove that you belonged on your own terms.
the argument escalated.
“i have things to do, too,” you said through clenched teeth.
“so rehearse on your own time,” he shot back.
“this is my time.”
“not anymore.” you two bickered at each other like you were close when in reality it was the complete opposite. you couldn’t be bothered to know a single thing about ‘the michael jackson.’
the stage manager stepped between you before the orchestra could witness an all‑out war.
“michael, give us fifteen minutes,” the manager panicked, hands up like a referee. “we’re behind. we’ll switch the changeover order after this run.”
michael’s jaw worked as he looked at you, but you refused to look away.
“fine,” he said eventually. “but if we go over, it’s on you.” he disappeared into the wings.
the irritation clung to your skin like sweat. you finished your run‑through with an edge that hadn’t been there before.
fifteen minutes turned into twenty, then twenty‑five, because nothing in television ever runs on schedule. when you finally stepped offstage, michael’s team was already wheeling out his equipment, he didn’t even acknowledge you. you told yourself you didn’t care.
later, when the orchestra had been dismissed for lunch and most of the crew had wandered off for sandwiches, you found yourself wandering back toward the stage.
michael was still there—alone. he paced the floorboards, stopped, ran a gloved hand over a prop lamppost, then started again. he practiced a spin, his feet whispering across the taped floor. he paused, adjusted the microphone stand by a quarter inch, then tried the spin again. it was obsessive and meticulous. the same kind of methodical that had you rehearsing vocal runs until your throat ached.
you stood in the shadows and watched. for a moment you forgot you were supposed to be annoyed. he was good—like undeniably good. this was the first time you truly watched him and you hated that you respected it.
he finished the run and finally noticed you. for a second, neither of you said anything.
“i thought you had a flight,” you said.
“i moved it.” he didn’t elaborate but you didn’t press him, you didn’t feel the need to. the silence between you two stretched.
“hey—that part in your performance where you hit the tricky high note,” he said after a moment, eyes still fixed on the empty seats in front of the stage. “you’re cutting it off too soon.”
you were taken aback by his sudden comment that landed somewhere between a critique and a compliment, “excuse me?”
he looked at you now. “if you hold it just a beat longer, it’ll punch harder.”
“you were listening to me?” you questioned him.
he shrugged, suddenly boyish. “i listen to everything.”
you didn’t know what to say to that. you also didn’t know why his unsolicited advice made your stomach flip.
“thanks,” you muttered, your gaze now fixed somewhere else. you couldn’t look at him or else maybe, just maybe, your resentment would have lessened.
“don’t uh- dont mention it,” he replied then he turned back to his mark and started the song again.
you walked away before he could see whatever expression was threatening to cross your face.
what an asshole. what an observant, irritating, maybe‑kind‑of‑helpful asshole.
summer 1983 — manhattan, new york
by june, the two of you had become a tabloid writer’s dream and a publicist’s nightmare.
every event turned into an opportunity to capture you together. every chart update was framed like a scoreboard. rolling stone, which had recently run covers featuring paired artists like prince and vanity or even a joint portrait of michael and paul mccartney , decided it was time to put “music’s biggest rising stars” on the same cover.
your manager called it “career gold.”
you called it “forced proximity.”
the shoot took place in a converted warehouse on the lower east side. floor‑to‑ceiling windows cast rectangles of light across a backdrop painted to look like a city skyline at dusk. racks of clothes lined the walls. makeup artists darted between chairs with brushes and powder.
michael arrived in a black blazer with shoulder pads that looked like weaponry. you arrived in a silver dress that still had the price tag dangling from the sleeve. your labels had coordinated your outfits to look “complimentary.”
“this is going to be iconic,” the photographer gushed, adjusting the lens on his camera. “closer.”
you scooted half an inch to the left.
“closer,” he insisted.
michael’s hand hovered awkwardly above your waist before settling there, barely touching the fabric.
“now smile,”
you pulled your mouth into something that technically fit the definition.
“and act natural.”
you stiffened even more.
the flash exploded.
you could feel michael’s breath near your ear. his cologne—something sandalwood and citrus—flooded your senses. you tried not to notice.
between shots, makeup artists blotted your skin and hair stylists retouched michael’s curls.
a journalist from the accompanying interview hovered nearby with a notepad.
“so,” she began cheerfully once the photographer paused to reload film, “you two seem to have amazing chemistry.” which caused you to almost choke though, michael’s expression didn’t change.
“mhm," he nodded, "and what’s your question?” he asked, voice smooth.
the reporter smiled wider. “diana ross had discovered michael. she’s been very protective over him throughout his career—he’s even said he shares his ‘deepest, darkest secrets’ with her . should she be worried about you stealing her favorite man?” she motioned towards you with her pencil.
the room went dead silent. your mouth opened to speak but nothing came out except a small ‘uhh’ and it suddenly became more dry than the sahara desert. michael’s jaw tightened so quickly you thought you heard a click.
“that’s inappropriate,” he said, the words clipped, deliberate, and louder than anything he’d said all day, "to me and my colleague.”
the reporter blinked. “it’s just a question. people are curious—”
“ask something else please,” he cut in, gaze unwavering.
the photographer lowered his camera meanwhile you stared at michael. you hadn’t expected him to say anything. you certainly hadn’t expected him to defend you. your cheeks burned—whether from anger, embarrassment or something else entirely, you couldn’t tell.
“michael,” your publicist hissed from the corner, warningly, he didn’t look away though.
the reporter cleared her throat. “o‑okay. moving on.”
the rest of the interview was uneventful in comparison. questions about upcoming albums, about touring, about how it felt to be at the top of the charts. michael answered with practiced politeness. you responded with carefully crafted sound bites, but the moment hung between you like humidity.
later, as you changed outfits for the second setup, you caught michael watching you from across the dressing area. he quickly looked away when you met his eyes, but not before you saw the faintest hint of something that wasn’t irritation.
during a shot where you had to sit on a stool and lean back against him, your hands brushed accidentally. it felt like touching an exposed wire. your fingers jerked away.
“sorry,” you both said at the same time. you hated that you laughed. he did too, judging by the way his mouth twitched.
when the shoot finally wrapped, you practically ran toward the elevators.
“wait,” michael called.
you stopped against your better judgment, “what?”
he looked hesitant, a rare expression for someone who thrived under a spotlight. “earlier. with that question. i didn’t… i didn’t want them saying that about you.”
“since when do you care what they say about me?” you said, not in a rude manner but something just slightly less.
his brows knitted. “i don’t know.”
you chewed your bottom lip. “well. thanks, i guess.” you were so stunned, you weren’t even sure what to say.
“you’re welcome.” the elevator dinged before you stepped inside. as the doors slid closed, you saw him raise his hand like he wanted to say something else but he chose not to.
for the rest of the day, your mind replayed the way his voice had sounded when he said “that’s inappropriate.” it replayed the way his fingers had felt when they brushed yours. it replayed the fact that he had defended you publicly.
you tried to tell yourself it meant nothing. after all, this was the same man who nearly kicked you off a stage an hour before his rehearsal.
what an asshole.
you wondered when you’d stopped wanting to beat him and started wanting to understand him. you wondered if you’d ever admit that to yourself out loud.
a/n: i know she's just a tad bit short, i was just so eager to get this second part out!! the angst is real and im ready for these two to kiss…
taglist: @gorgystarr, @daphne020708, @floralsightings, @swe3tyann, @18lkpeters, @ovohanna24, @valky4e, @justfaefaeee, @xxxercess, @sorasomi, @bbyjjunie, @1eliana123-blog, @rosiiee3, @iluvbeingdelulu4evaaa, @liyahhsnuckhere, @mochimommy2002, @cyb3rsw1rls, @kyumiiee, @ch3rrybl0ssomtree, @scknights,@lavendernightsky, @iris-xoxo-juhu, @bouncylikebouncyball, @aisheteruyosblog, @lotuspetalss, @nata-de-coconuts, @passionsmoon, @slugstarzz, @michaeljacksonsonlylady, @inbredfawn, @popzeenat, @luv4kook, @its-jennarose, @ilovvesleepp, @daemontargaryenwhore
