#speed demon

ꜱᴘᴇᴇᴅ ᴅᴇᴍᴏɴ, '88

Pt 2˚⋆✴︎｡⋆

Summary: You’re a famous painter in a romantic relationship with Michael Jackson and you guys hit a bump in the road. Your love grows stronger.

Content: Fluff, bad era Michael, fem reader (no specific look), kissing, Michael x Reader, jealousy, conflict, angst, sfw

An: This takes place following the last read, but it's not necessary, it could act as a standoff piece. If you want to, read p1 on my page (idk how to link it cleanly lmao)

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You stand absentmindedly, fidgeting at the sash of your ivory silk gown. In a room of some of the greatest creative minds, your own mind is distracted with snapshots of your now-official boyfriend, Michael. His affection held an addictive effect on your thoughts, as he had become—to some extent—your muse.

It has been a few months since he recruited you as one of the leading artists in his album, Bad, and hypnotized you in the process. The album was a massive hit, and as expected, it made you a target of the media. You became a household name, with an influx of interview requests and public recognition. More importantly, your relationship with Michael is stable and loving. He pampers you with treatment befitting a queen and showers you with genuine love. He cannot keep his hands off you, often coming home from work early just to be in your presence.

With your mind still drifting to Michael, your gallery director snaps you out of it with an eyebrow raise.

“I’ve never seen a crowd like this,” he says, eyeing you, “they wouldn't be here if they hadn't seen how insanely talented you are.”

You tamely smiled and thanked him, unconvinced, now studying the audience.

He leans into your ear,” Is he coming?”

You giggle and higher your gaze, “I begged him not to.”

“What the hell? Why?” he scrunched his face.

“I don't want tabloids involved in relationship like that. Besides, I can still pretty much blend in everywhere I go. Jason, you know I enjoy my privacy,” you raised a corner of your mouth.

Before he could rebuttle, the museum director introduces you.

You give your speech, drop the curtain, and stick around for the mingling at the reception. It was soon clear to you that the majority of the people were more interested on your work in “Bad” than your freshly unveiled piece. You are slightly disappointed, but you understand that it is logical human behavior. Your new painting was a nostalgic and optimistic piece, without an attention-grabbing story. It depicted new connections producing childlike wonder and joy. Of course, it was about Michael, but you knew nobody would read too far into the lines, especially with the focus being around your large enough role in developing art for the King of Pop.

After a long day of masquerading in front of arrogant strangers, you loosen the back of your shoes that have been digging into your feet while jostling your keys in the knob. You kick off your shoes and toss your bag onto a chair.

“Baby?” A gentle and festive voice emanated from the kitchen.

“Mikey?” Your steps pick up.

“Hey angel, I brought us takeout. Thought you'd be hungry after all that,” he widens his arms to hold you in a tight embrace. He wore a plain white tee and classic red plaid pajama pants, a sight that nonetheless melted your core from cuteness.

“That seriously sounds amazing right now,” you peck his lips. “You’re the absolute best”, you smile into his chest.

You rush to release the discomfort caused by your clothes and change into boxer shorts and one of Michael’s old T shirts. You two share a meal on your couch, with your back to his chest and your legs intertwined. You enjoy an old vampire film he’s been begging you to watch.

Mid-slurp, he drops his fork and enthusiastically points to a frame of a Tudor-esque chateau, “Neverland’ll have those windows. I'm calling the guy tomorrow, that's exactly what I want.”

You look over your shoulder to view the geeky spirit on his face and lazily hum as you borrow into him.

“I gotta show you the mural tomorrow, it's coming together pretty nice,” you stroke his hand that rested on your waist. Michael had commissioned you a mural across the walls of the master bedroom, a room you would eventually share with him. It has been nearly a year since he purchased the residence, and since then, he has invested millions in making it his dream home, with you at its heart. He had shown you blueprints of it and asked for your opinion on the stylistic aspects, speaking of dreams in which your children would have the perfect childhood. Although its design was extravagant, you found it adorable and beautiful that he wanted to create something so pure and full of life.

“Yeah it couldn't hurt to leave early,” he kissed the hand that stoked his. Absorbed into love’s comfort, you both fall asleep on the couch tangled up in eachother’s legs and arms.

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You wake up to a note on the table and pancakes on the coffee table that read, “Sorry, I didn't want to wake you. I'll see you shortly. Love you -Michael”. His penmanship was a romantic delight, the half-cursive and mindful composition on the sticky note felt like a gift in and of itself.

The reminder you would see him soon was enough to push you out of bed. You shower, get dressed, and apply your makeup with a spirited stride. Finishing up your lipgloss, Jason calls.

“Hello love,” he manipulatively fired.

“Hey, what's up?”

“Just wanted to call and ask about what other projects we may be expecting.”

You rub your forehead, “Yeah, I haven't given much thought to it yet, I've kind of got my hands full at the moment with the mural thing. Sorry.”

“Yes, of course. This relationship seems to be taking a toll on you,” he sets in visible motion his anti-Michael agenda.

“Yeah—I mean not really. I want to do it for us. Also, working with him’s brought attention to my work.”

“As a friend, though, I am worried for you.”

“Why’s that,” you roll your eyes.

“The tabloids are flipping against your favor because of him. Plus, they're talking about his projects, not your own,” he emitted maliciously.

He was right, though. A few tabloids have dragged your name through the dirt simply by association with his name. They’ve speculated you regurgitate work from past artists, your work held demonic messages, and that you were a deranged superfan that used your title to get to the King of Pop. None of it was true, of course, but it bothered you that people might believe it. Little did the tabloids know your ties with Michael ran deeper than just working with him.

“I mean all attention is good attention, I guess. I'm just really happy with him, y’know?”

“Sure, babe, I just don't want you to shoot yourself in the foot here. Anyway, would you mind if I stopped by the studio today? We could work on some brainstorming.”

“Sure thing. See ya in a bit,” you roll your head to crack some tension.

He smirks as if he’d won a poker game, “See ya, buh-bye.”

Later in the studio, you and Jason brainstorm your next work. You tell him you’re interested in exploring new mediums, specifically sculpting. He agrees with the idea and concludes the business discussion there. He finds this is the best time to initiate his plan.

The plan? Jason was in love with you. You sensed he had feelings for you from the very beginning, but you aimed to keep your relationship strictly platonic. You had no feelings for him. Since your relationship with Michael had become serious, he had been finding reasons to push you away from him, hoping you would run to him instead. You were well aware of his feelings. What you were completely oblivious to, however, was the fact that he went so far as to hire a private investigator to gather evidence on Michael's whereabouts.

“I hope these tabloids aren't getting to you,” he loosened his posture and pursed his lips.

“Yeah I mean I’d love to say they didn't, but it does suck,” you clicked your tongue and shook your head.

“Right. Stay strong, I really do think you will win them over eventually,” he winks. “But seriously—,” the phone cuts him off.

“Sorry, just hold that thought,” you sprang to the phone needless of any permission.

You picked up the phone praying it was Michael.

“Hey angel,” you can hear his smile through the phone.

“Hey applehead,” you say playfully.

Jason coughs, almost as if he were marking his territory.

“Is that Jason?” His tone shifts. Michael dreaded your collaboration with Jason. He could sense that he had deep unspoken feelings for you. He couldn't help but feel protective anytime Jason came near his girl.

“Yeah, baby, he was just here helping me brainstorm.” Jason scrunches his nose in disgust while your face was turned.

You hear a deep exhale through the phone, “Of course. Do whachya gotta do. I'm heading over now, we’ll ride to Neverland together.”

“Got it, see ya, love ya.”

He smooches over the phone’s transmitter twice before he hangs up.

Jason, now knowing he has to reel you in before Michael arrives, rubs the corners of his eyes with his thumbs. “Look. I didn’t want to do this. I care too much about your feelings to let you get played.”

“What are you talking about?” Your heart skips a beat at his tone.

He pulls a stack of Polaroids taken of Michael talking with Brooke Shields. A picture of them hugging, of walking with their hands tightly locked, of shopping together in disguised, of her playing with his baseball cap with her face within an inch of his, and many others. Swiping through the first two was enough to make your face turn tomato red and blur your vision with tears.

“I don’t understand?” You manage to mutter out.

“The press had speculated their relationship for a while. These images just about confirm it. I really am sorry it had to come from me.”

Expecting a thank you, his expression was caught off guard when you raised your eyes in rage. “Jason, please leave.”

“I did this for you. I wanted to save you from his toxicity. Please—”, he holds his hands out in defense.

“I said get the hell out,” your voice punches a low, yet stern refute.

Flipping through the photos, you blame yourself. You question your intelligence and believe you were a fool for believing the King of Pop would devote himself fully to you. You compare yourself to Brooke and a pool of resentment builds. A tear falls on the image of them shopping together. His gleeful smile, a smile that once gave you butterflies, now created a sunken weight in your abdomen.

Still processing your fury and sadness, Michael knocks. You open the door and stand for a second as he processes your sunken eyes, puffed lips, and mascara-polluted streams running down your cheeks. His eyes widen in shock, sending a chill down his spine.

“What happened?” He reached for you, urgently.

With the images in your other hand, you chuck the deck with all your might, littering Polaroid confetti onto him, and shut the door.

From behind the studio door, he kneels to investigate the photos that disturbed you. In awe, he gulps.

He knocks with determination,”You have to believe me baby, this isn’t what you think it is.” His eyes shift to the sound of your turning the lock. “Please baby, ask Bill, ask Quincy, ask anyone.” He pleads, with the only response being your muffled sobs. “Baby, please, let me in, I’ll explain.” He sits against the door with his chin facing up and arms in his lap.

You crack open the door to reveal a sliver of your iris, “Tell me then,” you wipe fresh tears with your sleeve,” why you’re acting like this towards her if you told me you were ‘just friends’.”

“I-,” you cut him off.

“And tell me why the hell you never told me about these play dates? The photos are fresh, too,” your volume gradually increases.

“None of it is real, you know I love you. I just didn’t want you to be upset!”

The waterworks were overflowing at this point. “Of course I would be upset. That’s the best you can come up with? I should’ve known better.”

“That’s not what I meant—please—,” you cut him off by forcing the door shut a second time. This time, it was permanent. He sat at the door for nearly two hours, knowing you would eventually come out. You remained in a cradled position, barricating the door with your back until he eventually gave out and headed back to Hayvenhurst.

For the next few days, you ignored his calls. His voicemails were gut-wrenching to listen to, but his voice brought you comfort, even with the hurt he brought into your life. You also ignored Jason’s just to spite his smugness. You cut off ties with the gallery altogether and impulsively decided to go independent. Your couch became imprinted with your weight, glued to the television like it would disappear if you took your eyes off it for even a second. Your mind replayed clips of Michael’s once-charming smile that now gave you dread and frustration.

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After a day of no contact with you, Michael’s mental and physical well-being were struck with a wave of fatigue. Quincy sensed the weight on his emotions. He noticed his performances were dull, lacking the infamous Michael Jackson liveliness.

“Michael, I'm not sure what's going on with you today, man,” Quincy puffs and pulls his headset down to his neck.

“I’ve done it a hundred times already. ‘St the best I can do right now,” he lifts his arms in surrender.

“Enough. We shouldn't record today. Go home. Call me back in when you're ready,” he reaches for his jacket. Michael curled his lips into a bite and looked at his feet before nodding and following him out.

At home, not an hour would pass that he did not pick up the phone to call you. No answer. The first three times, he left a voicemail.

“Hey babe. I just want to explain. It's not what you think it is. I love you.”

“Hey, love. Please just pick up the phone. It's not fair for the both of us to leave it hanging like this. I love you.”

“Hey again. Um, whatever this is right now, we will get through it. I love you more than life.”

He did not sleep that night. He propped himself in bed, replaying the image of your sunken eyes and frowning lips parting to release a breath. The image alone brought tears to his eyes; he regretted the day he listened to Frank, his manager. He had told him that staging a relationship with his friend, America's Sweetheart, Brooke Shields, would soften the publicity and make it less critical of his appearance and character. Also, this way, they wouldn't have to speculate who he was truly with, and draw attention to you. After all, he only wanted to protect you. He understood the press had already blasted you just for association with him. He wanted to protect your image and feelings. He gave up on sleep altogether and stayed up working on lyrics.

On day two, he prepped himself for an interview he had to sit through later. In the bath, he tilted his head on the wall behind him, attempting to figure out how to get you back. The same place in his chest that once brought him warmth from your affection now felt vacant. Looking to his left, he found your shampoo—the expensive one you tried to convince him worked better than the typical drugstore shampoo. He reached over, closed his eyes, and inhaled it. It reminded him of lying against you, with your head against his face. It was a smell he craved—one that smelled like home. Finally comforted and inspired, he places it in its spot and continues his routine.

The interview was short. He had only agreed to it for promotional reasons. The interviewer had a condescending tone, but they all did anyway. She asked about the upcoming album and his personal life.

“Are you seeing someone right now?” She bluntly asks.

“Yes, I am,” he looks past her, reflecting thought.

“Is it Brooke Shields, like the press has been questioning?” She squints and sits up.

“No, it is not. But that is my business. I love her very much, and I do not want the press in our business,” he shoots an angsty gaze at her.

You were watching this interview live from your couch. You recall Michael had it on his calendar when you proposed having a picnic after it. You sat up as soon as she mentioned Brooke. You anticipated an explanation as to what she meant to him. The words that followed left your jaw wide open. You felt guilty for letting his voicemails rack up, without allowing him to explain. You, on the other hand, doubted he was being honest.

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That same night, a storm so intense brewed up, echoing the events that unfolded over the past week. The lightning was chased by thunder, supported by a heavy pour. You were curled up watching a history documentary, trying to take your mind off of it all. You questioned calling, but your inner dialogue fought against it.

A limousine appears in front of your house, with the headlights leaving a glow through the blinds. The door knocked softly, hesitantly. You're half asleep, marching in slow steps from the couch to the door. You rub your eyes and twist the knob open.

“Hope I didn't wake you,” he says, holding an armful of dahlias and peonies, a bouquet that resembles the same extravagant get-up he ordered to your studio before you met. His curls were flattened by the heavy rain, with a stubborn curl dripping over his plump lips. He wore the same polished look he had on during the interview, a broached blue button-up with black slacks. It had now looked washed away, with its once-bright colors interrupted by the storm.

You responded with relief and reassurance in your eyes as you opened the door to let him in. The rain had wet his curls and jacket. He dripped onto your welcome mat and tightened his grip on the flowers.

“I’m sorry. These two days have been hell, you don't understand,” he bites his inner cheek and looks up at you.

“No, I do,” you hovered around him, still not looking into his eyes.

He motions the flowers towards you as a peace offering, “I will explain everything if you let me. I get how it looks. I truly only have eyes for you.”

You look at his chin, then his eyes. You gradually nod, accepting his bouquet.

You two sit at a distance on the couch. He told you of how it was staged to benefit the two of you. A tear runs down your cheek, prompting a tear of his own.

“I wanted to tell you, baby. I was too ashamed to. It felt wrong,” his voice broke.

You blinked harshly, unleashing two daggers of teardrops. You look away and lick your lips, “But you have to tell me this stuff. I want the tabloids off your back, I would’ve agreed.”

“Yeah. I should’ve. I’m really, really sorry,” he grabs your hand and squeezes.

You finally look into his eyes and jump to him, latching your arms around his neck. His arms are wrapped around your back, stroking through your hair as your sobs die down.

He pulls away, cupping your cheek. He blinks slowly, pronouncing every word with his eyes, “I’ve never loved anyone like I love you. Genuinely, I would never do anything to hurt you.”

He pulls his face down to reveal a rectangular jewelry box tucked into his jacket. His frigid hands gently peel away the top to reveal two necklaces. With each stacked against the other, the two necklaces reflect the little light that the television emitted.

He lifts them towards you, “Tinkerbell and Peter Pan.” The set is 21k gold, with diamonds crusted throughout the pendants. It’s a heavy set that puts on a light show against the darkness of the stormy night. He moistens his lips and searches for your reaction.

You tilt your head at him, locking eyes with his as a fresh tear drops onto your cheekbone. You force the frown upwards into a smile, “It’s beautiful.”

He unclasps it, indicating for you to lift your hair. An intimate apology, he slowly clasps it onto your neck and adjusts the pendant onto your sternum. “Its not nearly as beautiful as its owner.”

That sweetalk of his always gave you butterflies. Charmed, you softly smile and look away, with a deepened dimple facing him. Leaning your now shaking head towards him, you mumble, “Just kiss me already.”

He shakes the curl off his face and pushes against a smile, smug of the effect of his charm on you. He brushes the hair off your shoulder, revealing the shimmer on your neck. You exchange a kiss so deep and intimate that none of you feels the need to rush. You felt the weight of the world lift from your shoulders, his tenderness melting you away. He softly broke away to exhale, swiping a hand from your temple to your jaw, repeatedly.

“You don't know how much I’ve missed you, my Tinkerbell.” His minty breath warms your face as his forehead hovers over yours. He plants a kiss at the center of your forehead and rests his chin over your head, with your head into the corner of his neck. You don't want to be apart from him for another minute.

You let out a desperate plea, “Please don't go home.” You felt his smile against your face, followed by a nod. You two slept on the couch that night. A wholesome sight— your arms were pushed up against his chest as his were tight on your lower back. Your head was under his, and your legs were laced around each other.

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You wake up at half past seven A.M. with an energy that you have been missing for days now. You lift Michael's arms off you and slide off the couch, careful not to wake him. You sensed his exhaustion from the moment you saw him last night, and figured he needed to rest. Still in your PJs, you wrote up a note for when he wakes, reading: “I left you asleep, thought you needed the rest. When you wake, follow the trail of pixie dust, Peter Pan.” Before leaving, you lay a blanket over him and admire how peaceful he looks in his sleep.

At Neverland, you spend three hours sweating through thick swipes of paint. Swapping through brush sizes of all kinds, you meticulously executed the mural, with the messy plan crinkled beside you on the floor somewhere. Now standing at a distance, you hover your eyes over the full picture, searching for an area you missed. The illustration depicted a cascade of frames of his life, alongside Disney-inspired mystical illustrations. It was dreamy, with its soft colors embodying hope. In the midst of it all, you painted the two of you walking side-by-side, locking arms.

Leaning in to apply an additional detail to a bush, two hands steadily brush against your elbows, making way for a warmth behind you. You glance over your shoulder, blushing to find Michael over your neck. His eyes switched between you and the masterpiece his girl created with her own two hands. His beaming cheekbones highlight the glimmer in his eye, as his head circles the walls in awe. He leans closer into you, taking in the intoxicating aroma of the shampoo he craved just a day ago. Caressing your arms, he mutters, “Did anyone ever tell you that you should be an artist?”

You grab his head with your free arm and run your fingers through his hair, absorbing his warmth, “Nah, why?” Your smiles press against one another.

“Let me try,” he whispers with his hand over yours, controlling the stroke. He leans your arm into a field of peony and highlights the dew you blurred into the scene. Each stroke was deliberate and intimate, with his face pressed against yours and your bodies merged into each other's. One hand rested over your stomach, and the other became synonymous with yours. Your free hand locked fingers with the hand over your stomach, pulling it closer into your torso.

“It’s beautiful,” he releases his grip and kisses the fold of your neck. Your knees grew weak with the drunkenness of his passion, and you sank into him. He holds you tight with his arms, as you tenderly lock lips, with devotion and a thirst for each other.

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Greenline part 21

Sorry for the delay! Had trouble uploading the gif :)

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Requests from stream last night!