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“You want me to do what?” Michael asked, reading glasses perched on his nose as he read over the proposal for the third time.

“I know this is out of your comfort zone, but this could really work in your favor, Michael.”

He raised an eyebrow at his PR manager as he flicked through the documents, positive that this had to be some kind of joke. He hated PR— absolutely fucking loathed it. Though necessary given his line of work, something like this seemed so… arbitrary.

“You want me to pretend I’m dating this woman?” he waved the document around, a picture of you at a red carpet event paper-clipped to the front. “How old even is she? I thought this was supposed to help my image, not make me look like I’m hitting a midlife crisis.”

His manager winced and Bill laughed, hiding the sound poorly behind a cough.

“I understand your hesitancy, but the people and press absolutely adore her. She’s a lovely woman, just give her a chance. You don’t have to marry the girl, just… look happy. Be happy. You deserve that.”

“I’d prefer the real thing over whatever the hell this is.”

The man shrugged, “you never know. You two might hit it off.”

Michael’s eyes danced back down to the picture of you.

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You lit a cigarette, your anxiety pulsing harder than your heart as you sat in the waiting room of a random office building you’d been dropped off at.

This was absolutely insane.

When your manager first brought the idea to you, you thought it was prank.

Fake date Michael Jackson, it’ll boost your record sales.

Not that you were doing poorly, far beyond that.

But you were the next It Girl in the industry. Everyone wanted to be you or be with you but you had garnered a sort of untouchable reputation.

You had trust issues even before your name started to pop up in tabloids and you had completely taken dating off the table.

You just didn’t have the time or headspace for it.

And now here you were because how on earth were you supposed to say no to something like that?

Even if it didn’t end up working out, you were admittedly excited to just meet the man.

Michael fucking Jackson.

You felt like headed as you inhaled another wave of tabacco.

A door then opened, a woman in formal attire smiling warmly at you. “Mr. Jackson is ready for you.”

Christ.

You snubbed the cigarette out into the ashtray and stood on shaking legs, suddenly regretting your decision to wear heels as you followed the woman down a hallway to what you assumed was a conference room.

This was all… very formal. You supposed it was, this was technically a business transaction despite how outlandish it all seemed.

PR relationships weren’t anything new by any means. Celebrities did it all the time for promotions but still, this was Michael Jackson.

Part of you wondered if he even knew who you were, likely so far off his radar of people who actually caught his attention in the industry.

The door opened and you met his eyes immediately, or at least you thought so, given he had aviators perched on his nose as he sat in a chair, lounging in it as if it were a throne.

You faltered for only a moment, not being able to help the starstruck feeling that hit you in the chest.

You sat down across from him, acutely aware of the way he was watching you. His expression skirting along the lines of clinical and your mouth felt painfully dry as you managed a small smile.

He was intimidating. Not in any way that felt threatening, but his presence was a lot.

Like his soul was too big for his body and fighting its way into the room, greedily taking all the oxygen and leaving you a little breathless.

A beat of silence passed and your eyes flicked down to the papers spread out on the table. An array of contracts to amend and sign and you took note of the carafe of orange juice off to his side.

Michael then lowered his sunglasses down his nose, looking at you over the edge of them and they were such a dark brown it felt like you were looking into two pools of ink.

He assessed you, at least that’s what it felt like. His expression flickering faintly, appearing to reach some sort of conclusion as he then set his sunglasses on the table and switching to a pair of reading ones.

It struck you then how attractive he truly was. Something you’d always been aware of, but to be this close to him in person felt surreal.

“I’m Michael.” He said plainly, voice even but it had that gentleness to it that he was known for as he reached a hand across the table.

You nearly laughed at the formality of it but bit your tongue, reaching your own hand across the table and trying not to stumble over your name as his warm skin met yours.

His hand was large, fingers enveloping your own easily.

The next hour was a drone of legal speak. Discussing boundaries and limitations. How many events each of you would attend. A projected end date for this whole endeavor. You tried and failed not to blush when the topic of PDA came up, but it morphed more so into embarrassment as Michael was adamant he barely even wanted to hold your hand.

It was evident he didn’t want to do this and you weren’t entirely sure how you felt about that.

On one hand, yes this was just a business deal. But would it really be that bad? He made it seem like you were a child he was having to babysit.

So you rolled your jaw and echoed an agreement— “I’d rather just hold hands.”

“That’s going to make it hard to sell the whole relationship thing, especially given Michael’s track record of women he’s been with—“

“Meaning?” Michael raised a brow.

Both your managers looked at each other, realizing the poor wording.

Your manager cleared their throat. “It’s just, well, Mr. Jackson, the women you have been public with, you’re known for being a very affectionate man. And you know how the press are, they’re likely going to sniff out insincerity.”

Michael sighed, the sound low and barely carrying across the room as he tapped a rhythm into the table. His eyes slated towards you briefly, and it had to have been a trick of the light because you could’ve sworn he fleetingly looked at your lips.

“Fine,” he muttered, scratching his signature across the page in dark ink. “A kiss every now and then.”

“Don’t sound too thrilled,” you said quietly, the words slipping out without warrant as you signed your own name.

He laughed lightly, the sound caught between an exhale as he shook his head.

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It was your first event together, the official debut of your… your relationship.

The word tasted sour on his tongue as he adjusted his cuff links.

“I feel like I’m dropping you off at prom,” Bill said, tone laced with amusement as he looked at Michael through the rear view mirror.

“Way to make me feel old.”

His friend shook his head at that as the car pulled up to a large, albeit ordinary house.

Michael wasn’t entirely sure what he had been expecting, but he supposed he was used to more lavish properties.

Yours looked… warm. Like a proper home.

It was nice.

Bill then cleared his throat.

“What?”

“What do you mean what? Go knock on that young lady’s door.”

Michael nearly rolled his eyes, in disbelief he was being told to do this at his grown age. “It’s not like I’m actually dating her—“

“Get your ass out of the car and go be a gentleman.”

Michael bit the inside of his cheek and obliged despite the stubbornness that was stirring in his chest. He was a gentleman, something he was rather proud of, but in all honesty he had been expecting Bill to be the one to go get you.

With an annoyed huff he didn’t quite mean, he stepped out of the car and made his way up the steps, eyes trailing along all the different flowers you had in what was clearly a well maintained garden. A loving touch evident in each section and he spotted a bucket next to your front door with gardening gloves draped off the side of it, your initials stitched into the hem.

The image of you gardening was rather endearing but he knew better than to dwell on it.

His eyes turned to your door, staring at the red painted wood for a moment before he bit the bullet and knocked. Suddenly feeling like he was going to prom, even though that had never actually been something he had gotten the opportunity to experience.

He knocked sharply twice before folding his hands behind his back, rocking slightly on his heels as he waited.

Only a few beats passed before he heard the lock turn and the door opened, meeting your slightly surprised gaze— you clearly weren’t expecting him to be to the one to get you either.

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It was odd.

That’s the only way you could think to describe it. Your fingers laced with his as you made your way down the red carpet of the charity event you two were attending that night.

Your ears were still ringing a bit, given how loud people had gotten when Michael stepped out of the car— only to double when he reached a hand down to help you out of the car.

It had thankfully been rather easy, letting photos do the talking as his arm gently rested around your waist as you posed for photos. His smile easy and well trained with decades more experience than you.

It felt comical that the main thing your mind kept trailing back to was how good he smelled. His cologne felt grounding as your heart finally began to calm down.

You could do this.

But then the questions came.

“Are you two working on a new song together?” A reporter asked.

“Oh, no we…” Christ, speak.

“We’re together.” You felt Michael tug you a bit closer, making you briefly lose balance and to catch yourself, you rested your hand against his chest.

You almost let a laugh slip at the speechless expression of one reporters face. “Together?”

You hummed, because you didn’t know what else to do and thankfully Michael seemed to get the hint and he moved the two of you down the line.

The next morning, it was all over the news.

Your eyes squinted tiredly at the newspaper as you sipped on a cup of coffee, taking in the large headline— THE KING AND QUEEN OF POP, and just below were an array of photos. Michael helping you out of the car. His arm around your waist. A photo of when he had leaned down to whisper that you were doing a good job.

And then your hand paused as you lifted your mug, eyes finally landing on the photo of where his lips were pressed to your temple as you smiled at the camera.

You ignored the fluttering in your stomach, deciding then and there you were absolutely not about to be that reckless and stupidly fall for him knowing damn well that this entire thing was a ruse. You could find him charming and attractive all you liked, but actually falling for him? You were smarter than that.

The butterflies simply had to be a side effect of loneliness.

You kept telling yourself that as the weeks went on.

Told yourself it didn’t mean a damn thing every time his arm tightened around your waist as he guided you through a crowd. That it was nothing when he’d brush hair out of your eyes when it got messed up by the wind. That he was simply a gentleman when he would help fix your dress, fingers gliding lightly against your skin. When he’d light your cigarette even though it was painfully obvious he hated the fact that you smoked.

Because it meant absolutely nothing.

You hadn’t even kissed yet.

Something neither of your managers were thrilled about given they wanted it to be convincing. But Michael reserved himself to pressing chaste kisses to the side of your head or running his lips along your knuckles. Keeping the press at bay for the time being.

The fake dates you two had were both your favorite and something you also loathed. Because he seemed to hate them and that always, always immediately soured your mood the moment you sat down across from him.

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Michael eyed your irritated expression over his glasses as he briefly read the menu of the restaurant Bill had suggested. Not missing the paparazzi who were littered like ants outside, trying to get a decent photo through the windows from across the street.

He wasn’t all that hungry, simply wanting the night to be done with so he could put an end to the charade.

Admittedly, you were easy to be around. Something he was trying not to let himself find comfort in. Maybe it’s because you never asked him for anything. There were no expectations, just contractual agreements and a means to an end. Simple. After each disastrous relationship he’s had, he needed simple.

These fake date nights weren’t entirely opposable at first but every time you two went on one, you seemed absolutely miserable.

He wasn’t used to people acting like they despised his presence, it was usually the opposite.

“You okay?” He eventually asked, finding himself to be a little lost for words which was also entirely new for him.

“Fine,” your tone was clipped as you sipped on your wine.

His eyes flicked down to the bracelet you were wearing— the silver and diamonds glinting in the low light and he faintly traced out the letter M that was engraved into it. A custom Vivienne Westwood piece.

Telling himself for what felt like the hundredth time that he didn’t like the sight of it all that much. Perhaps just a little bit. Trying to not seem too pleased every time someone made a comment about it.

It didn’t mean anything.

Michael pulled his gaze back down to the menu, “you look like you’re trying to shoot my head off my shoulders with your eyes.”

“I’m just looking at you.”

“With an attitude.”

You scoffed. “I do not have an attitude.”

He raised a brow at you, eyes catching on the stain of red wine on your lips. “The way you just said that, says otherwise.”

Your jaw rolled. “Maybe I wouldn’t have an attitude if you didn’t sit there brooding all the goddamn time.”

“I—“ his exhale was caught around a laugh. “I am not brooding.”

“And I don’t have an attitude.”

Michael’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Alright, I’ll bite,” he set down the menu and leaned back in his chair, looking at you pointedly. “What’s the problem?”

“There’s no problem—“

“Honey, you look like you’re about to crawl over this table and slap me.”

You laughed into your wine glass. “Tempting, but this dress is too tight for that.”

“Tempting? Why on earth would you want to slap me if there’s no problem?”

You clicked your tongue, eyes meeting his and your pupils were so blown he nearly forgot what you two were even talking about.

“Am I really that difficult to be around?”

Michael blinked at you. “What?”

“You act like you can’t fucking stand me.”

His brows furrowed as he leaned forward, looking at you like you had two heads. “What on earth gave you that impression?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” you said with a sarcastic lilt that was coated in a little too much alcohol. “Maybe all the brooding?”

“If I am brooding, it’s because you’re the one acting like you can’t wait to go home and do literally anything else.”

“Yeah, because of you—“

“How is this because of me?”

“More wine?”

Michael turned to the waiter who had approached the table, completely forgetting he was even in a restaurant as his eyes slid back to you. Both of you had leaned in over the table and he had failed to realize how close he’d gotten, just a few more inches and his nose would’ve brushed against yours.

You leaned away first and held up your wine glass, smile tight but polite. “Yes, please.”

The air was definitely different around you from that point on, most of your conversations slipping into arguments that never found an end and would leave Michael frustrated to the point where he was tempted to just… he didn’t know. The thought of grabbing you and kissing you just to shut you up crossed his mind, but he shoved it away.

Shoved it into the dark corner of his mind where he kept all of his improper thoughts of you.

Dreams he had woken up from, telling himself he had most definitely not been grinding into his mattress in his sleep as he dreamt of you. Telling himself he didn’t look at your ass every time you walked by him. That he didn’t think about bending you over his knee every time you got an attitude, which was always, and slapping your ass raw until you cried. Told himself he didn’t love the way you smiled every time a fan told you how much your music meant to them. That he didn’t find dirt under your nails from gardening the most endearing thing in the world.

And Michael told himself he wasn’t about to smack the absolute shit out of his brother as he watched him stand there and shamelessly flirt with you— because Michael wasn’t a jealous man. There wasn’t even anything to be jealous of. You weren’t even his.

Yet his jaw ticked as he watched Marlon make you laugh. A real laugh. Not the pretend one you used during interviews when you tried to act like you were in love with him.

He wanted to hear it again and bottle it away.

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Your feet padded across your room as the phone rang, the hour late and you were freshly showered, the air cool on your damp skin.

You pressed the phone to your ear, wondering who the hell would be calling at this time.

“Hello—“

“It’s Michael.”

You froze, feeling as if the world momentarily stopped before violently hurtling forward again through space, your mind short circuiting a little.

He had never called you before.

“What do you want?” You winced the moment the words left your mouth, realizing how rude you sounded even though you were genuinely just taken off guard.

There was a brief pause and you half expected him to hang up.

“Are you free?”

You blinked, eyeing yourself in the mirror and looking like a drowned poodle. “Tonight?”

“That was in fact the implication of my question.”

Your eyes narrowed at the empty space in front of you. “You’re not really selling me, who’s to say I don’t have better plans?”

He laughed, “do you?”

“I’m hanging up—“

“Wait.” He rushed, “wait. Sorry, forgive me but I’m used to us arguing all the time and this is me trying to amend that.”

You sat down on the edge of your bed, already eyeing your closet because you knew you were going to say yes. You always said yes to him, even though it annoyed you.

“I’m listening.”

Two hours later you were standing on the front steps of his house. If it could even be called a house.

You adjusted your skirt, telling yourself you definitely didn’t pick it out for him and you definitely didn’t almost cry out of frustration when you couldn’t get your hair to cooperate.

Before you even had the chance to knock on the door, it swung open and you were greeted by the sight of Michael in a simple button up and slacks. Probably the most casual attire he was capable of.

You had no idea what the night held in store for you, no idea what he had planned. And when he guided you through the labyrinth that was his home and your eyes adjusted to the low lighting of the kitchen, your heels came to a sharp halt against the marble flooring.

“What…” your eyes slowly pulled away from the table to him. He looked shy all the sudden, something you weren’t used to seeing on him and it made your stomach do an odd flip. “Michael, what is this?”

He scratched the back of his neck, avoiding your gaze. “A truce, I suppose.”

Spread out on the table was an assortment of your favorite foods. Things you had mentioned in passing and not even directly to him, so the knowledge that he had actually been paying attention to you the entire time made blood pool into your cheeks. There was also a bottle of your favorite wine and in the middle of the table was a vase full of Peace Lilies, Hyacinths, and you nearly laughed at the avant-garde arrangement of Olive branches.

You bit your cheek as you tried not smile. “Subtle.”

Michael tsk-d, “you know I’m incapable of subtlety.”

You hummed, hesitantly stepping further into the room, testing the new waters of whatever this was that he was offering.

Michael followed in after you, watching you carefully, intent to read each change in your expression to make sure you liked it.

“I don’t want to spend all of our time arguing anymore and I’d like to clarify that I don’t hate you.”

“I never said—“

“And I would also like for you to hate me a little less.”

You paused at that, finally looking at him. How nervous he seemed, which was outlandish to you.

“I don’t hate you,” you said quietly.

The way your heart thudded when you were around him meant you probably felt the exact opposite.

He pulled out a chair for you, gesturing for you to sit down and you obliged only after a moments delay.

“I’d like for us to be friends,” Michael said as he sat down next you, uncorking the wine and pouring you a glass.

Friends.

You rolled the word around on your tongue as you debated on whether or not you liked the taste of it.

Friends had a finality to it. A boundary. Limits. Lines that shouldn’t be crossed. Thoughts that shouldn’t be had. Words that should never be spoken and promises that were made to be broken.

You didn’t want to be friends at all.

The realization hit you violently, making your chest tight and head spin with nausea but you swallowed it down with wine and smiled at him.

You could pretend. After all, that’s all you had been doing.

“Friends?” You asked, the word tasted bitter.

Michael nodded, fingers drumming a beat into the table as he looked at you. Appearing to have an internal debate of his own for a minute before he offered up his own smile. Soft at the edges and not quite meeting his eyes, but maybe that was just the lighting.

“Friends.”

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He had to have messed up, because how was this worse?

Somehow, he was more miserable.

The fake public dates for press coverage morphed into quiet evenings where you showed him how to take care of plants or late evenings when he’d show you a favorite movie of his. Being more distracted by your head lolling off to the side and slumping against his shoulder, your eyes heavy as you fought to stay awake and watch. The plot of the film long lost in his mind even though he had probably seen it a hundred times.

When you did eventually doze off, he lost against his better judgment as his fingers would twirl some of your hair around his digits. Trying not to take too much comfort in the weight of you against him and the warmth.

His heart leapt to his throat when he carefully stood up, gently laying you down so you’d be more comfortable. About to step away and grab a blanket when your hand suddenly caught his, muttering a stay before you were back to dreaming.

Michael felt like he couldn’t even fully appreciate these moments with you because there was a ticking in the back of his head. The end date of the contract looming behind his eyes and counting down like the doomsday clock. Worried even though he shouldn’t have been that the moment the day came about on his calendar, you’d disappear out of his life. Gone in a moment like breath on a mirror, because why would you stay? What could he possibly offer?

You were in your golden years and he was just—

Michael shook his head at himself.

He had definitely dug himself into a deeper hole.

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Each day you looked at the calendar you felt sick.

Time seeming to pass quicker the one time you wish it didn’t.

But it was tangible. A thing, a creature between the two of you begging to be addressed and growing agitated at being ignored.

You briefly considered scribbling out the date. Maybe ripping the entire month out. Anything to not acknowledge what was approaching.

The shift in energy between the two of you lately had been sweet. The kind that leaves a sticky after taste on the tongue, but you didn’t mind. You cherished them, the small moments you got with him that you knew no one else got.

Your heart swelling in your chest as you watched him kneel down in your garden, dirt staining his expensive boots and pants but not appearing to care as he listened to your instructions.

He was always so careful. In everything he did, there was an art of precision one only had with years of practice. Years of trying to be gentle because he knew he would be rough if otherwise.

You adored him.

Truly you did.

He’d catch you on multiple occasions just watching him. Your eyes intent and open, admiring him just being when his gaze would land on yours and he’d smile. That shyness slipping out and he’d mutter a what? and you always said nothing, before turning away.

The thought of moments like those slipping through your fingers made you panic, a kind of anxiety that made your bones itch and make walls look like their breathing.

When the day arrived, you had completely holed yourself up in your house. Mind spinning and not wanting to deal with it at all, an array of insecurities swirling in your head— because why in the world would Michael actually want to be your friend, your anything, so in a panic you went around the entire house and unplugged every single phone.

If your manager didn’t call you, it didn’t happen.

A completely irrational thought, but knowing the phones wouldn’t ring provided you a little solace.

You even taped over the clocks.

God, you laughed at nothing as you burrowed underneath blankets as a thunderstorm rolled in, you were going insane.

You had no idea how much time passed but you flinched when there was a knock on the door, the sound nearly hidden underneath a boom of thunder.

You wondered if you just didn’t answer, whoever it was would go away. You didn’t want to be perceived. You wanted the entire world to go away because today was not happening.

Another knock followed by the doorbell.

You groaned into your pillow.

More knocking, now sounding urgent.

With a heavy heart, you dragged yourself out of bed, feet making your way through the house and when you opened the door you felt like the lightning streaking across the sky had just struck you.

Because Michael was standing right there. Completely soaked from the rain, dark hair sticking to his forehead and the look on his face.

He looked livid.

“Did you block me?”

You pulled your tongue from the roof of your mouth, still stunned at the sight of him.

“What?”

“I’ve been trying to call you.”

You then blushed, embarrassed as the dramatics of your actions started to dawn on you.

“I unplugged all my phones.”

Michael blinked, his lashes heavy and clumped together with water and stars, his eyes were so beautiful.

“Why the hell did you do that?”

Your fingers gripped the handle of your front door, treating it like a lifeline. “I didn’t want to deal with today.”

“So your bright idea was radio silence?”

“Even if I did have them plugged in, I wouldn’t have answered.”

Michael took a step closer, “that’s not—“

“I didn’t want to deal with today, Michael. And you being here isn’t helping, so please leave.” You went to shut the door but his hand came up and easily stopped you.

“Michael.”

“No.”

Your eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, no?”

“I’m not leaving.”

“But I told you to.”

“And I’m not listening, do keep up.”

“That’s not very nice.”

“I’m not trying to be.”

You’d hardly realized how close he had gotten, his shoes now scuffing along your own feet and his chest nearly pressed to yours as he looked down at you, your mission to slam the door on his face long forgotten.

“I don’t want to deal with today.”

“You said that.”

“Then why are you here?”

His jaw tightened as he looked at you, eyes flicking between yours and you felt like your heart was rotting out of your chest.

You couldn’t do this.

Not now or ten years down the line. It was torture.

“Listen, I know we said we’d be friends but—“

“I don’t want to be your fucking friend.”

The words left him in a way that nearly sounded painful, his eyes never leaving yours as you stood there and stared at him with your lips parted, whatever you were gonna say dying then and there on your tongue.

Your eyes searched his, how dark they were and the intent behind the ferocity in them.

The moment you looked at his mouth, it was over.

His hands found the sides of your face, fingers sinking into your hair as he pulled you to him and then his mouth was on yours. A lighter thrown into a gasoline soaked fire pit because finally— the snap of months of self restraint engulfed you immediately in flames as your own arms wrapped around him, fingers twisting in his wet clothes and desperate to pull him closer as his tongue slipped past yours and you moaned.

Fucking finally.

The sound that left you seemed to set off some trigger in him because not a moment later Michael dipped down and picked you up, wrapping your legs around his waist as he carried you back into your house. Mouth never leaving yours as he stumbled his way through the front entry and into the living room. Lowering you onto the couch but following suit, hips settled against yours and grinding.

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Your next public appearance together, the contrast was frankly jarring.

Michael couldn’t keep his eyes or hands off of you.

His arm tighter around your waist, hand sitting lower on your hip and nearly possessive anytime you started to lean away from him.

And good lord, he was practically eye fucking you the entire night, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he watched you talk.

Even the reporter looked embarrassed as if they were interrupting something.

“Michael, stop it.” You muttered, not meaning it all as he kissed you, one of his hands resting against the side of your throat, not giving a damn that you were in public.

He didn’t care at all as you two walked into the venue and his hand lightly slapped your ass as you walked through the door first. Smiling to himself as you blushed, his eyes catching on the M bracelet you now never took off.

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michael jackson masterlist

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