The first time the two of you touched each other was a shock.
You and Michael had been friends since you were 12. His family had moved to Hayvenhurst, right into the house across from yours. You and Michael had become inseparable from that day forward. Over the years, you and Michael had managed to get into trouble together on many occasions. which was impressive considering you both belonged to devout families. Somewhere throughout the years, without you even noticing it, you had developed feelings for your best friend. Something far from innocent, and something you knew you could never share with anyone. You knew it was unrealistic. But you couldn't help but yearn for something more from Michael.
You would do anything for him, and vice versa. That was what it meant to be best friends with someone. But when he stood in front of you, beet red and unable to make eye contact with you. With the idea of you two “experimenting” together. Saying that it would just be practice for both of you so that when the real time came, you could be prepared. You were hesitant to agree.
When he finally made eye contact with you with those enormous doe like eyes of his, looking as if he was on the verge of tears. Whining about how it wasn’t as if it would mean anything, and that it was normal for friends to help each other out. “We’re best friends, aren’t we?” he insisted, his eyes never breaking from yours. Only then do you nod your head, finally agreeing to his idea. How could you tell him no? “Just promise me that whatever we do to each other will stay between us?” you pleaded, your voice just barely above a whisper. Michael hummed in agreement, but the brief smirk that ghosted across his lips did not go unnoticed by you. And before you could truly comprehend what you had just agreed to, Michael's lips were on yours. connecting with such a fervor that it made you dizzy. It was messy at first, but the two of you eventually found your rhythm. The kiss went on for what felt like an eternity. When Michael finally broke it to catch his breath, all you could taste was his signature cinnamon gum.
Just as fast as the kiss was over, it began again. You can’t remember when you made it onto the bed. All you could focus on was the throbbing, hot ache growing between your thighs. His large hands boldly wandered across your body until Michael's hand slipped past the waistband of your jeans. His calloused palm was warm against your skin before stopping abruptly. His eyes found yours. “Tell me that you want this, that you want me. i need to hear you say it,” he whispered against your lips. Your throat ran dry with embarrassment. Just as his fingers brushed against the growing wet spot on your panties. “You have to say it, baby. you wouldn’t want to let your best friend down, would you?” he feigned. Of course you didn’t want to let him down; Michael was the most important person in the world to you.
“I want you, Michael,” you breathlessly answered. That seemed to please him as he finally let his hand dip into your panties. His middle finger made a long and agonizingly slow stripe through your slit. causing you to let out a moan that died in your mouth as Michael’s own pressed against yours again.
Remember, this is normal. Right? Best friends help each other out. Don’t you want your best friend to be happy?
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All best friends fight occasionally. At least that's what Michael tried to convince himself.
You hadn't spoken to him in 6 days. Michael couldn't remember what he had done to piss you off. All he could recall was you yelling about something. Due to the summer heat, on the day of the argument, you had worn a tank top. It was hard to focus on you yelling at him because with each movement you made, your breasts bounced. He does remember you yelling about how he was clearly not listening to you. That was right before you kicked him out of your house. Who could expect him to pay attention when you looked so good?
Which is why Michael now found himself lying on his bed, with your worn panties wrapped around his cock. he had taken them from your room the last time he was at your house. Michael knows it’s wrong. It was hard to feel any guilt about his wrongdoing when the piece of fabric smelled so much of your own arousal. As he dragged the black lace back and forth up his shaft, his mind went back to you.
He had tried to apologize. But he didn't know what he had done to upset you in the first place. He tried bringing you your favorite flowers. When that didn't work, he begged his mom to bake a cake for you. The one you raved about the first time you had it at his house. That didn't work either. He even had Janet call your house, to no avail.
The grip on his cock was suffocating, his motions were abrasive. The fabric that had once adorned your body was now stained with the pre cum leaking from his tip. Michael thought about how delicious your warmth would feel wrapped around his cock when you were no longer mad at him. tears gathered in the corners of his eyes as he approached the edge of his orgasm. With one last stroke, the delicate lace caught on his tip, sending him over the edge. Ropes of his hot seed shot from his tip, embedding into the gaps in the lace of your now ruined panties.
Michael would be lying to himself if he said he didn’t miss you. But he was done trying to get you to forgive him for whatever he had done. You would eventually have to talk to him, he was your best friend after all. And it’s not like you had any other friends.
authors note: I got this idea from this post by @michaelsfavgirl so thank you for bringing foot lover mike to my attention it's all I've thought about for the past 4 days
Thriller!era Michael, who has a foot fetish. Though he would never admit this. Sure, oftentimes he would find his hands absentmindedly gravitating to your feet. Sometimes even pressing small kisses to your ankles and tops of your feet. It was almost as if it were second nature, like how two galaxies gravitate toward each other. You can never pinpoint the exact moment Michael's hands find your feet. At this point, it's more noticeable when his hands are not on your feet or caressing your legs.
The two of you had been lying on the couch together. And at some point, Michael had gotten up for reasons that were unimportant to you, as you were too focused on the movie playing on the television. When he came back into the living room, instead of resuming the position he had previously been in, he opted to sit next to you. Before you could even register that he had returned, his large, calloused palms were pulling your legs into his lap without his gaze breaking from the screen.
Though you found his affection endearing, it was also humorous. So you couldn't help laughing softly to yourself. Anyone else wouldn't have even noticed, but Michael did. he always did.
"What?" he asked, glancing at you with a look of pure confusion.
Sure, you could tease him about how he very clearly has a foot fetish. Or how his need to constantly touch your feet was borderline obsessive. But there was no point. It would go the same way it always did every time you brought it up. He would refute your accusation and say that you are wrong because a foot fetish implies lust. And Michael Jackson is not lustful, nor is he a perv. He is simply an artist who can appreciate all forms of art, no matter the medium. And to him, everything about you should be considered art in its truest form.
So you simply say "Nothing." and direct your eyes back to the movie. While he may deny it, you know that if you ever told him to get down in front of you and kiss your feet as well as the ground that you walk on, he would sink to his knees as if it were instinct and do it without hesitation. But that's Michael. A lover and appreciator of art.
Michael Jackson x trapeze performer F!reader circus girl
Author's Note: This is based on my desire to constantly run off and join the circus tbh. But I feel like it kinda goes with Michael Jackson's song Carousel. Also, what better way to celebrate Juneteenth🎉 than with a fresh fic????
Summary: It's your first time performing in the circus in Encino. After each show, you expect all eyes to be on you; instead, they're all on him, and you are not happy about it.
@a-motherfcking-fish
Michael Jackson is a name that everyone knows, even in the most isolated corners of the world. Beloved, adored, and cherished by all. So much so that he couldn’t step out of his Hayvenhurst home without being recognized or bombarded by admirers and paparazzi alike.
While so many people loved him, there were very few who knew him. People only knew the fragments of himself that he chose to share with the world, or what the tabloids speculated about him. No one knew how childlike Michael Jackson truly was at heart. Growing up in the spotlight and under the magnifying glass of the world, he was never awarded the same things other children got to experience. So, whenever he was permitted, he gave in to that childlike wonder. And that is how he found himself where he was right now. The circus.
He loved coming here. He felt that he could leave behind all the fame and just be himself while he was underneath the massive red and white-banded tent. In the front row, settled in a seat that tunneled into his backside, encompassed by the aroma of fresh popcorn and the saccharine sweet smell of funnel cake. This was his favorite place to be. Michael didn't notice any of the things that normally would captivate him.
No, his attention was entirely on you. The woman moving elegantly through the air. The way you moved was so graceful. Reminding him of a majestic bird. Michael could have almost sworn you had wings. He had never seen anything like it, refusing to blink in fear of missing even a split second of your performance.
As the acrobatic act came to an end, Michael couldn't help but feel melancholic. He was thrilled to have experienced your performance. It was a shame it had ended almost as fast as it had started. Michael could have watched you swing through the air for hours without ever growing tired.
As you reached the bottom of the platform, your heart pounded against your ribcage. You closed your eyes and readied yourself for the bright spotlight to shine on you. Ready to take your bow and exit for the next act to make their way to the stage. But the light never came. As you opened your eyes, you were expecting some sort of behind-the-scenes technical difficulties to be going on. No. Your eyes immediately follow the beam of light right to him. Instead of the spotlight being on you, who had executed a perfect trapeze set at 30 feet in the air, the spotlight was on him because of who he was.
The ringmaster announced that Michael Jackson was present tonight. The crowd erupted into a sea of cheers and clapping; he gave that signature smile and a slight wave. But not once did his gaze leave yours. That did nothing but rile you up more than you already were. There he was stealing your spotlight, acting as if this was another day for him.
You broke the eye contact between the two of you with a roll of your eyes and stormed off. Your skin cold and your throat dry with aggravation. It wasn't as if you hated him; you even enjoyed his music. Sure, under any other circumstance you would have been excited that Michael Jackson himself had been watching your performance. Looking at you as if you were the only person on earth that mattered. but not tonight. No tonight, you were pissed. You had put on the perfect show, one that you had worked on tirelessly for months to get just right for opening night. Just to be upstaged by Michael Jackson.
As he watched you storm off, he couldn't help but feel an ache in his chest. He wasn't sure why, though. Maybe it was the way you looked at him with such disdain. Maybe it was the way everyone underneath the tent was cheering for him instead of you. Michael knew he had made a mistake going out in public without any sort of disguise. He felt bad. Really, he did. His intention wasn’t to take the spotlight from you. He knew who he was. But he couldn't fathom why anyone would want to pay any attention to him when there you had just been, swinging through the air. How could anyone focus on anything other than you?
As bad as he felt, Michael knew he had to come back to watch you again. Only this time, he wouldn't make the same naive mistake. Tonight he sat in the front row, back in the same uncomfortable seat. Eyes locked on you with nothing but pure, unaltered admiration. The difference tonight, though, was that he didn't look like Michael Jackson. Tonight, he had sat in front of a makeup artist for hours before leaving his home. Sat clad in large round sunglasses, a thick mustache matching the thick sideburns on his face, buck teeth, and a New York baseball cap.
But when your performance came to an end and you stood and the bottom of the platform. The same thing happened just as the night before. It felt like a bad case of déjà vu. While your heart hammered in your chest with the expectation of a bright white spotlight shining on you. once again, it never came. Instead, it once again shone on Michael Jackson. dressed in some ridiculous outfit but unmistakably him.
Honestly, had you not been so irritated that here he was again stealing all the attention from you, you might have found his attire comical. Too bad you were irritated and found no humor in the situation. Once again, you found yourself storming out of the ring and away from the crowd. Unaware of the way the singer stared at you as he watched you leave.
The following evening marked the third night of performances for the circus. Michael was determined to let you have your moment. A better man would have made the decision to stay home. Instead of taking the risk of stealing the spotlight from you again. And under different circumstances, he would have. However, Michael was enamored with the woman he had watched swing through the air the past two nights. The way your costume sparkled underneath the bright lights. The way you kept the audience on the edge of their seats each time you let go of one bar and flung through the air to catch the other. The way you gracefully climbed down from the platform when your performance came to an end. He knew he had to see you again.
Which is why he found himself sitting in front of a different makeup artist, twice as long as yesterday. He was determined to be unrecognizable. He wanted to be able to see you again. Though he didn't want to keep taking the attention from you when you had worked so hard to earn it.
Michael had even changed where he sat. This time, the same unpleasant seat, but nowhere near the front. He couldn't see you as clearly as yesterday, but that didn't matter once you entered the ring. Your leotard hugged every curve of your body. The neckline dipped down just low enough that he could see the slightest bit of your cleavage, and the way the white crystals contrasted against your skin shining like diamonds. You looked like something he didn't feel pure enough to witness. You were, in every sense of the word, an angel. If you had told him to, Michael would have sunk to his knees then and there to worship you.
You glided through the air, every movement of yours calculated and far from effortless. In fact, this was the most effort you had put in all week. Since the first night that he had stolen your moment, every free minute that you had spent practicing your set. You were determined to outshine Michael Jackson.
As you completed your routine and climbed off the platform. You didn't see Michael in the front row of the crowd today, you couldn't help but feel euphoric. You were proud of yourself; this had been your best performance yet. But again, when the moment for you to feel the warmth of the spotlight on your skin, it never came. There he stood dressed as a clown, clad in white face paint, a red afro wig, and a red ball nose to tie it all together. It was undeniably Michael fucking Jackson. You just about had your fill of the singer. He's Michael Jackson. He could receive attention anywhere. So why does he keep coming here and stealing it from you?
Watching you storm off for the third time in a row, Michael knew he had made a mistake. He knew he should have stayed home like his subconscious kept telling him. His need to see you again was almost obsessive; he couldn't help himself from coming here tonight. But as he felt the weight of the crowd's attention on him yet again, he couldn't help but feel like an idiot. Who was he kidding? If the first disguise didn't work, why would he think this one would? Why would a clown be sitting in the audience? He was being selfish, and he knew it. Michael didn't even know you. So why did he keep coming back to this tent night after night, taking your well-deserved attention for himself? Anyone in your position would be annoyed. And he can't blame you.
Michael decided not to attend your final performance. He felt he had already seen you to last him a lifetime. He didn't want to ruin your last night in Encino. But as he lay in his bed, he couldn't shake the feeling that he had to see you. Not while you were moving through the air, not while you were in the ring, and not while he watched as you stormed off. No, he needed to see you face to face. He needed to meet you. He needed to apologize to you. He needed to know that you understood how sorry he was, how much he admired you, and he needed to know that you forgave him.
With that, he called Bill to take him back to the circus tent. He wore no disguise this time, just jeans and a t-shirt with his signature aviators. The entire drive, he went back and forth with himself on what he should say, what he should do. Would you even speak to him? Not that he would blame you if you didn't, after all, he had been a thorn in your side all week.
As he moved through the tent, he kept his head down, doing everything in his power not to be noticed. And to his amazement, it worked. Remembering the absurdity of his outfits from the last three days was enough to make Michael let out a dry laugh to himself. This whole time, all he needed was some jeans and aviators to be invisible. Ridiculous.
Somewhere between Michael's recollection of the last week and the cheers from the crowd, his sight landed on you. There you were standing in the middle of the ring, having finished your final show. You looked effervescent. The spark in your eyes, how your smile beamed, and your forehead glistening with sweat under the spotlight that was finally on you. The crowd was finally cheering for you, not him. And Michael couldn't have been happier.
As the cheers began to die down, you couldn't help but scan the crowd one last time. You hated to admit it, but you were looking for his face. And when you didn't spot him, you couldn't help but feel a microscopic amount of disappointment? You had been annoyed all week that he had continuously shown up and stolen your audience. And now that he wasn't here, you were still irritated?
Taking your final bow, you stepped out of the ring. Leaving the striped tent and heading towards your trailer. You should be pleased. Your final show in Encino went off without a hitch. You nailed every trick and finally received the praise from the crowd that you had craved all week. So why did you feel so unfulfilled? You couldn't help yourself from being consumed by the thoughts that filled your head as you walked through the damp grass.
As you reached your trailer, a large hand grabbed your wrist and spun you around. Forcing you face to face with no one other than Michael fucking Jackson himself.
"What the hell. Who do you think you are grabbing on me?"
"Michael Jackson or not that doesn't mean you can grab someone"
"I'm so sorry, I just-" Michael stuttered out. But just as fast as he began to speak, the words died in his throat.
"You just what?"
"You wanted to say sorry? Perhaps apologize for ruining my last three shows? Or maybe you're here to steal more of the attention away from me?" You suggested.
"I mean, you have been stealing my spotlight all week. I won't lie, I am curious, though, why on the last night you decided not to come to the show? Why not stay away on the second or third night? What is the significance of the final night?"
Michael didn't speak. He couldn't. He knew you deserved an answer to your questions. But now that you were here standing in front of him, he had forgotten the meaning of all words. As you opened your mouth, assumedly to tell him off some more, he blurted out one singular word.
"Perfect."
"What?" You couldn't help but stare at him in bewilderment. Here you were telling him off, and the only thing he could muster up to say was "perfect"?
Michael clears his throat, face burning from embarrassment. Scratching the back of his neck, he repeats himself.
"You're perfect." Neither you nor he said anything for a moment. After a beat of awkward silence, he continues.
"The way you move through the air from bar to bar, you make the things you do up there look effortless." "It's amazing, and each night I've come back, you're even better than you were the previous night."
Michael stared into your eyes; the eye contact between you two made the previously cool night feel sweltering. He took a cautious step towards you, and when you didn't retreat, he took another. Your breath hitched as his calloused hands pulled you towards him. This entire time, you had been upholding this one-sided rivalry with him; you hadn't even noticed how beautiful he was. Or how he made your heart race whenever his focus was on you. You had confused these feelings for hatred and irritation.
As he leaned in, you found yourself leaning in too. Until your lips connected with his. His hands were shaking as they wrapped around you. It was as if he couldn't believe he was holding you. The kiss was messy and unrestrained. Michael's arms tightened around you, strong and immovable as he deepened the kiss. He wasn't even trying to hide his desperation. It felt as if he was trying to brand his apology into you; he needed to make sure you understood that he was truly sorry. When he finally pulled away, both your lips red and swollen, he finally let out a breath that he hadn't realized he had been holding in.
"I know that this doesn't fix anything"
"But please just allow me the chance to apologize to you. Properly."
As he asked, he sounded almost close to tears. How could you say no to that? You don't say anything; you simply nod your head. He didn't need anything more than that; a simple nod was good enough. Michael presses one last kiss to your cheek. And with that, he turned on his heels and walked away.
Standing in front of your trailer alone, as you watched him leave, you couldn't help but suddenly feel awful for having snapped all his vinyls in half.
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It was a quarter past three. The world was quiet, and time felt as if it stood still—the moonlight dancing across Michael and your shared bedroom. You had been sleeping, lying tangled in the sheets. Even in your half-asleep state, you realized you could no longer feel the warmth of Michael’s chest pressed against your back. Eyes unopened, you threw your hand behind you, searching for the warmth of his body. Your hand was met with nothing but the coolness of the cotton sheets where Michael should have been. As you sat up and reached to rub your bleary eyes, you immediately knew where Michael was.
This wasn't the first time you woke in the dead of night to the other side of your bed, cold and empty. And it wouldn't be the last. Oftentimes, Michael’s best ideas found him in dreamland. When inspiration came knocking, Michael was never one to ignore the call. He would slip out of bed in hopes of not waking you to head to his home studio. Every time his attempts prove futile. You always woke not long after his disappearance. Much like tonight.
Following the same routine, you untangled yourself from the bed sheets. Abandoning the sweet dreams you had been having. Finding your robe in the dark room with no illumination other than the moon. You open the bedroom door, roaming through the halls until you inevitably find the studio door. The metal of the handle is cold to the touch against your palm as you turn it and press the door open. Your eyes take a moment to adjust to the light of the studio. But when they do, you find Michael sitting at the soundboard with his back turned to you. to consumed by whatever song pulled him from the bed to notice your presence. Smiling to no one besides yourself, you walk softly behind him. Wrapping your arms around his shoulders. “Hi, baby,” he breathes. “Did I wake you?”
You didn't answer, but you didn't need to. He knew that not long after he left, you were bound to come searching for him. “Do you want to hear what I've been working on?” he asks as he erases something from his notepad. “Mhm,” you hum pressing a kiss to his neck. Michael stands as he turns to face you, arms wrapping around your waist. As he sang, the two of you swayed back and forth to the rhythm of his voice, something falling just short of dancing.
The air in the studio was reminiscent of the scent of Quincy’s cigarettes and Michael’s cologne. Many sleepless nights had been spent in this room, producing the very music that paid for it. Michael had stopped singing, but the two of you stayed wrapped up in each other. His arms were tight around you as he pressed a kiss to your neck. You felt so safe when he held you like this. “Come back to bed, Michael,” you plead. Hoping that this time he might actually listen.
“Can we stay like this a little longer? Then I promise we can go back to bed,” he whispered, his breath fanning against your neck. So you stayed with him until he was ready, as long as he had you here with him like this. Then he had everything he needed. God could give the song to Prince. Just this once, though.
Thriller!Michael loves your feet. That's been established. But he particularly loves your feet in heels. So much so that he bought you another pair after buying you four pairs yesterday. “What am I going to do with all these shoes? there is no more room in our closet,” you whine. he cant help but let out a soft laugh “well then I'll have a bigger closet built.” you frown at his frivolity, “im serious Michael. you don’t need to keep buying me things.” the playful smile he had been wearing left his face, now full of seriousness. “i know baby, but i love the way you smile when wear a new pair for the first time.” and he was right there was no better feeling than putting on a brand new shoe.
If only his motives were that innocent.
Michael loves when you wear heels. He loves it when you come home after buying a few new pairs with his card. The best part is when you walk around the room as you model them for him. But he especially loves when he takes you out. In a restaurant sat a table for two, as your foot innocently rubbed against his calf. Michael tried to ignore the sensation of arousal building inside him as he listened to you tell him about your day. But as your stiletto clad foot traveled higher up his leg, the shell of his resolve began to crack. And when your foot settled on the top of his jeans just above his cock he let out a breathy whine. You loved watching him try to hold his composure like this when you were under the public eye. The whole situation was sinful, and you reveled in every second of it.
Michael's cock was unbearably hard, straining tight against his jeans. He gripped the edge of the white clothed table as his eyes pleaded with you. Whether he was begging you to stop or give him more, he was unsure of. You rubbed the bulge in his jeans, adding just a bit more pressure. And he lost it. The tablecloth bunched beneath his palms as he spilled his load into his boxers. He could feel the dark spot forming on the front of his jeans. The sound that Michael let out wasn't a moan, so much as a whimper. It was obscene and desperate. He didn't care. He wasn't even trying to hide his desperation anymore
