an 18+ bad!michael x fem!alt artist!reader oneshot inspired by a mix of this req and this req!
part 1 | part 2 (out soon!)
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ synopsis: when the king of pop discovers your band and builds his entire aesthetic of his new era around your sound and look, you have no idea he's been watching in the crowd when you display your admiration for him by wearing a shirt with his face on stage as a show of solidarity. he decides then and there that he can't stay away—and the moment you two are alone backstage, neither can you.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ content warning! 18+
LONG fic i apologize ♡ porn with plot (esp in pt. 2!) ♡ age gap (28/23 so nothing crazy i think) ♡ slightly angsty ♡ huge slow-burn ♡ occasional pov switches from reader and michael ♡ mutual admiration (or obsession lowk...) ♡ mention of michael's vitiligo ♡ heavy sensual makeout ♡ soft grinding ♡ slight exhibitionism? ♡ michaels lowkey bold... ♡ slight sub!mj ♡ michael's needy like always guys
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ wc: um... 10k... haha
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ a/n: not proof read whatsoever lolz so sorry for any repetition or grammar mistakes... also i wanted to kill two birds with one stone with this so i tried my best to make it match both the reqs but i kinda think i didnt do a great job so maybe ill do better in the 2nd part... anywho YAYYY i had a lot of fun writing i hope u like
— comment on this post or here if you'd like to be part of a future tag list ˶ᵔ ᵕ
los angeles, january, 1987.
michael's fingers trace the glossy magazine page, pausing over the image of a woman that’s caught his attention for the third time tis week. the afternoon light filters through the tall windows of his hayvenhurst home office, casting golden rectangles across his mahogany desk. he’s supposed to be working on the physicalities of his new album and upcoming tour—but he just can’t find himself looking away from this photograph.
the image is raw and unpolished—a stark contrast to the carefully curated images that usually crossed his desk when grazing through magazines to pass time. four figures stand against a graffiti-tagged wall, leather and studs screaming defiance radiate from every angle of the shot. but what catches his attention is the lead singer—commanding the center frame with an intensity that makes something in his chest tighten and pull with inspiration, and maybe a hint of attraction.
quincy’s words echo in his mind when he recalls that he should be researching: “you want bad to be different? then look in different places, mike. stop playin’ it safe, smelly.” for weeks now, his office had become a shrine to musical exploration—punk zines scattered across the deep-reddish desk, some pages dog-eared and marked with quick handwriting. metal albums are stacked beside his usual collection of motown and soul records, and fashion magazines from london, new york, tokyo… they all create a paper landscape of possibilities across every available surface.
but this band. your band. he just keeps coming back to it. to your photo and presence.
the aesthetic is everything he’s been trying to articulate into an image into his mind but could never quite grasp, never quite put into words even in his private notebooks that he has hidden under his bed. the leather jackets aren’t a costume to him—he sees them as a sort of armour. the metal studs and chains wrapped around you aren’t decoration—it's a declaration. there’s a rawness to it that speaks to something he’s been chasing since thriller made him untouchable. but he doesn’t want to be untouchable anymore. he wants to be something dangerous and real. something that’ll make him be viewed as human again.
michael reaches for the cassette tape his assistant tracked down after he’d mentioned your band’s name to them once in passing. the efficiency of his team still catches him off guard sometimes in the way they can find anything he needs before he even fully expresses his wants. he slides the tape into the player with careful fingers—and after a moment of static, your voice captures his speakers and fills his studio.
it’s nothing like his own. his vocals are smooth, controlled, meticulously crafted, but yours had raw power with ragged edges carved in your lyrics. he recognizes that you don’t necessarily sing as much as you tear words from somewhere deep and primal. the guitars in the background are distorted, aggressive; the drums a relentless assault that inevitably makes his heart beat faster. it shouldn’t work with anything he’s ever done.
but, god, he can’t stop listening. and he really wants it to work.
he closes his eyes to allow the music to fully wash over him, absorbing it as images start forming behind his eyelids. similar buckles and straps to yours with black leather molded against his skin. the bad jacket is already designed, but suddenly he sees it differently—now its more hardware, more edge, it looks more like something you would wear. the choreography of the tour shifts in his mind. sharper movements envelope him—more aggression. the entire visual language of what he’s building starts to crystallize around this sound and energy you’ve captured.
michael opens his eyes and is met with your photograph from the magazine once again. he really looks at you and notes that you’re definitely younger than he is—early-twenties maybe—but there’s an old soul quality to your gaze. the camera catches you mid-motion, arms thrown up and back, your wrists crossed above a crown of wild dark hair that seems to have a life of its own—strands catching shadows with some slicked back and controlled, others escaping in chaos. even while you’re frozen in frame, there’s a sense of movement you have that opposes your band members—restless energy emitting your figure that the shutter could only half-contain.
your mouth is open, caught between something of a mocking laugh and a snarl, and your lips are painted a dark colour, glistening in the minimal light used. your eyes are heavy-lidded, rimmed in black but sharp nonetheless. the black latex clinging to your arms and torso catches the light in hard, bright streaks, the lack of colour turning to near-white wherever your body curves, making every crease and seam visible under the harsh contrast. you look more alive and real than anyone he’s seen in the polished perfect world he usually inhabits.
he genuinely wonders if you know who he even is, if you’ve ever put in the time to listen to his music. he assumed that you would probably be glued to your own bubble of whatever subculture you’re a part of, but the thought still makes him feel strangely vulnerable.
“mr. jackson?” his assistant’s voice crackles through the intercom of his now quiet studio. he didn’t even realize your bands’ single had already finished running its course. “your fitting for the bad tour costumes is in twenty minutes.”
“thanks,” he speaks back into the intercom softly, still staring at your picture. a hesitant request rumbles in his chest, bubbling up to exit his throat before he has another second thought about his words. “hey, uh, can you do somethin’ f’me? could you find out if this band—” he glances at the magazine’s caption and recites it to his assistant, “—if they’re tourin’ soon? dates, venues, all that stuff.”
there’s a pause that leaves him nervously tapping his finger against your photographed face. “of course. any particular reason?”
“research,” he says simply, a bit too fast for his liking. it’s more than that. he knows it’s more than that.
over the next few weeks, your band’s influence bleeds into practically every aspect of bad’s development. the costume designers bring him sketches, and he pushes them further—asking for more buckles, more straps, delving into that rebellion he desperately seeks from that one photo he saw of you. the set designers present concepts, but he asks for more grit, more urban decay, pointing at your album covers and announcing that he wants whatever this is giving, with an urgent point of his finger. his choreographer watches him demonstrate a move with more aggression than his usual movements, and raises an eyebrow.
“where’s all this coming from?” she asks suspiciously.
michael just smiles. “jus’ been doin’ my homework is all.”
he doesn’t elaborate and tell her about the cassette tape that’s practically worn through from repeated plays, or the growing collection of your band’s press clippings with the bootleg concert videos he’s acquired through his network of industry connections. and there’s absolutely no way he’d admit that he’s directly sketching fashion ideas of what you wear on stage in his notebook for future inspiration.
there’s a particular photograph he keeps returning to—sketching it in different poses over and over until he’s burned through half of his notebook trying to chase it’s essence. you’re mid-performance, caught in a shaft of stage light so bright it turns the edges of your dark hair to fire, a teased mane so black it swallows the light at its center and only flares to bronze and copper along the outermost strands where the beams catch them. your head is tilted all the way back, your throat exposed and chin lifted toward the light like you’re offering yourself to it. your eyes are half-closed, and your lips are parted into something similar to a private scream—like your vocal chords got caught somewhere between your chest and the microphone.
the black bustier catches jeweled light along its studded seams, each rhinestone flaring white-hot against your dark features, the leather-dark fabric molded close before flaring out at the hip into a heavy studded belt. one gloved hand—deep red, cropped at the wrist with rhinestones wrapped all around it—hands just at the edge of the frame, barely visible, grounding all that upward, arched motion you’ve possessed. he didn’t even register that the glove looked like his own, iconic one, just in a different colour. he was too caught up in you, too enamored by your stage presence to notice the small, strange symmetry between you. all he wanted was to capture the same raw emotion on your face in his own performances—to possess your unfiltered energy.
he tapes it inside a notebook where no one else will see.
the bad album is officially taking shape, and with it, a version of michael jackson the world hasn’t ever thought to see is inevitably coming. it’s tougher, edgier, dangerous, and if anyone looks closely enough at all the buckles and attitude, the audience might see a glimpse of you residing in his soul like a ghost following him on stage.
but michael isn’t ready to share that with the world yet. this inspiration feels private and precious, like a secret he’s keeping close to his chest, right next to the increasingly insistent thought that he needs to meet you. that he needs to tell you what your art hs sparked in him.
needs to see if the electricity he feels just from looking at your photographs translates to reality.
nevada, october, 1987.
the journalist across from you is young and eager, and you clock that she must be the kind who’s done their research but still approaches you with that mixture of fascination and slight fear that alternative individuals seem to inspire in the mainstream press. you’re used to it by now—the way they expect you to be aggressive, confrontational, difficult. the way they sit a little too far back in their chair, like you might bite at any question they ask.
you’ve never tried to be difficult. you actually wanted to be the opposite—you were just honest. always have been. but your honesty and opinions have always been a bit controversial.
“so your sound,” the journalist starts, pen poised over her notepad. “it’s been described as a fusion of metal and punk with almost pop sensibilities in the melody structure. where does that come from?”
you lean back in the green room chair, the vinyl creaking under your weight. you’re still wearing the leather jacket from the photo shoot that preceded this interview, the material morphing into something warm and familiar against your skin from the amount of time you’ve worn it for. your hair is still wild from the stylist’s hands, makeup smudged in a way that looked accidental but emphasized your features so well that it was clearly intentional. you can small the hairspray still lingering in the air, mixing with the stale coffee scent that seems to permeate every green room you’ve been in.
“michael jackson,” you admit simply, and you can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips as you await the reaction.
the journalist blinks, their pen freezing mid-air. “i’m sorry?”
“michael jackson.” your smile widens at their confusion. “everyone always wants to know where the aggression comes from, or where the punk attitude comes from. it’s a breath of fresh air when someone asks about the melodies, the hooks, the way my band and i structure our songs to be accessible even when they’re heavy, so thank you.” you thank the reporter which causes the tremble in her hands to subside a bit. “but, yeah, that’s all michael’s effect,”
you watch her quickly write this down, their handwriting getting a bit messier in the rush of your unexpected works, and something warm spreads through your chest. you’ve been waiting for someone to ask the right question, to see past the leather and the screaming and to look into the craft underneath.
“i grew up on his music,” you continue, and your voice softens at the memory. “the triumph tour—i was just a teenager, maybe 15 or 16, and my older brother had the live album. i wore that tape out, played it so many times the ribbon started to stretch.” you chuckled to yourself at the memory. “this place hotel, the way he performed it—” you pause as you reminisce to the first time you heard his performance. your hand had come up to rest over your heart. “the energy, and the pain, and the absolute control he had over every single note—that changed everything for me, you know? he taught me to realize music could be powerful and precise. emotional and technical. that you don’t have to choose between one or the other.”
the journalist is staring at you like you’ve grown a second head, their pen and words forgotten in their hand. “that’s… not at all what i expected you to say.”
“yeah, well,” you shrug, feeling the weight of your leather jacket settling on your shoulders, the metal studs cooling against your unusually warm collarbones. “people contain multitudes or whatever. just because i scream into a microphone doesn’t mean i don’t appreciate other genres of artistry. michael jackson is one of the greatest artists of our generation. i’m not gonna pretend otherwise just because it doesn’t fit some narrative about what a punk rocker should be.”
the interview naturally continues, questions about your upcoming tour and your latest album, but you can tell what’s going to be the pull quote—the michael jackson confession. and you’re fine with that. you’ve never understood artists who pretend they emerged fully formed, influenced by nothing and no one. michael jackson’s music is woven into your dna, into the very foundation of how you approach songwriting, and you’re not one bit ashamed of it. in fact, you’re proud of it.
what you don’t say—what you keep close to your heart like a secret taken to the grave—is that you’ve noticed the aesthetic from his bad era. the leather and buckles, the aggressive edge to his new image that’s so different from the thriller era’s polished perfection. you’ve seen the music videos, the promotional photos, and most specifically, leaked photos from his first tour date in tokyo with his all black outfit. and that particular outfit sparked something in you that reflected back. the studs, the straps, the energy…
he’s been looking into your world. you’re absolutely sure of it. the mere thought of it makes your heart beat faster than imaginable, like you were back to standing on stage in front of thousands with your soul on your sleeve for everyone to see.
the article came out two weeks later, and you’re sitting in a diner somewhere in nevada when your guitarist slides the magazine across the sticky formica table. the pull quote is exactly what you expected, printed in bold letters above a photo of you mid-performance:
“Punk Rocker Credits Michael Jackson as a Primary Influence!”
“well, there it is,” your bassist says, sipping burnt coffee from a chipped mug.
you trace your finger over the words, feeling a strange mix of pride and vulnerability. it’s one thing to say it in an interview room, another to see it immortalized in print. but you meant every single word.
the response, at first, is mostly positive. you notice the trend of emotions that cross peoples faces when reading the headline: confusion, then interest, then a sense of gratitude at the humanity of your words. you get letters from fans thanking you for being honest, for showing that alternative people can appreciate artistry across genres. a few music journalists write thoughtful pieces about influence and authenticity.
then, michael’s skin starts changing visibly, and the press turns vicious.
you watch it happen in real-time, reading the tabloids in truck stops between tour dates, your stomach turning in sympathy with each cruel headline. the speculation is relentless—accusations that he’s bleaching his skin, that he hates being black, that he’s trying to become white. the cartoons are even worse, grotesque caricatures that make you want to throw the papers across the room.
you know what vitiligo is. your cousin has it—you’ve watched her struggle with the patches of depigmentation since you two were kids. you saw how people stare and heard the ignorant comments from even grown people’s mouths toward a young child. the fact that the press is using an autoimmune disorder that destroys melanocytes to dehumanize michael, to tear him apart, makes fury burn hot in your chest.
so when the next journalist sits across from you in another generic hotel room, asking about your influence, you don’t just mention the talk about michael jackson and let it be a passing moment.
you defend him whole-heartedly.
“he’s dealing with a skin condition,” you say, leaning forward in your chair, your voice firm and clear for the reporter and, most importantly, the tape to hear and catch the emotion in your voice. “it’s vitiligo. it’s not cosmetic surgery, it’s not some self-hatred bullshit you guys keep spewing. it’s a medical reality. and the fact that the press is using it to tear down one of the most talented artists of our lifetime is disgusting.”
the journalist’s pen pauses on the notepad, and you can see the interest sparking in his eyes—he knows this is going to be a story that’ll make the top page for weeks.
“instead of celebrating his greatness and his artistry,” you continue, your hands gesturing empathetically, “we’re making fun of his appearance? that says more about us than it does about him. he’s a human being. he deserves basic respect and dignity.”
“so you’re defending him?” the journalist asks, already scribbling furiously.
“i’m stating facts, thank you.” you say, meeting their gaze steadily. “the fact that my defense for him is controversial says everything about how fucked up this industry really is.”
unlike the journalist you were speaking to, you expected the article to be buried somewhere in the back pages, maybe edited down to something less confrontational.
but instead, it was the headline:
“Punk Rocker Defends Wacko Jacko Amid Skin Bleaching Controversy.”
and then the backlash begins.
the same tabloids that have been eviscerating michael turn this attention to you as well. you’re sitting on the tour bus one morning, coffee going cold in your hands, as your manager drops a stack of magazines on the table.
“Punk Rocker’s Bizarre Obsession with Wacko Jacko.”
“Publicity Stunt? Insiders Question This Star's Motives in MJ Controversy”
“From Rebel to Groupie: How This Punk Star Lost Their Edge.”
each headline feels like a punch to the gut. they’re calling you a sellout, a groupie, suggesting your defense of michael is motivated by some kind of desperation for mainstream attention. some articles unite into something more pathetic—a celebrity crush or a desperate bid for his attention. it all makes you roll your eyes. they’re taking your genuine admiration for your favourite artist, your honest defense of another human being, and twisting it into something ugly—into some sort of mockery.
“this is bad,” your manager admits quietly, crossing his shoulders as he watches your face intently.
your guitarists sits down beside you, reading the titles over your shoulder. “maybe just… don’t mention him for a while?” they suggest carefully, their voice gentle. “let it blow over? give it a couple weeks?”
but you’re stubborn. you always have been, even as a kid—your mother used to joke that you’d argue with a brick wall if it disagreed with you.
“i’m not going to stop telling the truth just because it’s inconvenient,” you state, your jaw set. “michael influenced my music. our music. that’s a fact. he’s also being treated like shit by the press. i’m not going to pretend otherwise just to make people comfortable.”
your bassist exchanges a look with your guitarist that you noted as something like indifference. “our community is split on this y’know,” they say. “some people think you’re brave while others think you’ve gone soft; that defending a pop star is antithetical to our values or whatever.”
“did we forget that punk is supposed to be about authenticity?” you say, your voice rising slightly. “about standing up for what you believe in even if it’s an unpopular opinion? if what we’re doing is not punk, then i don’t know what is.”
still, despite your strong words, it stings. late at night, lying in hotel rooms between tour dates, you stare at water-stained ceiling tiles and wonder if you’ve made a terrible mistake speaking out. you’ve worked so hard to build your career, to be taken seriously as an artist. years of playing at dive bars full of old, drunk people that made you uncomfortable and sleeping on floors, but pouring everything into your music nonetheless. and now you’re being reduced to a punchline; a cautionary tale about what happens when you step even a little outside your own lane.
but then you think about fifteen-year-old-you, sitting cross-legged on your bedroom floor, wearing out that triumph tour tape until the magnetic ribbon started to warp. you remember the way michael’s voice made you feel—like anything was possible, like music could be both technically perfect and emotionally devastating. you remember deciding, right then, that you wanted to make people feel that way too.
you think about the leather and the buckles in the bad promotional materials, and his all black outfit he wore for his first tour date in tokyo, the aesthetic resembling yours so much that you’re sure it isn’t coincidence. how he saw your work and was inspired by you in the same way you saw him and he inspired your work.
you think about artistry and integrity and the fact that punk as a whole is supposed to be about authenticity, about standing up for what you believe in even when it’s unpopular. even when it costs you.
so, in the next interview, when they ask you about the controversy surrounding you—you double down.
“like i’ve said millions of times before,” you say clearly, looking directly into the journalist’s eyes. “michael jackson is one of he greatest artists of our time. his music shaped my childhood and continues to influence my work. the fact that people are more interested in his appearance than his artistry is a failure of our culture, not of his. and i’ll keep saying that as long as i need to.”
the journalist looks almost sympathetic to your words. “even though it's affecting your reputation? your career?”
you smile sharply with defiance, feeling the familiar fire igniting in your chest. “especially then.”
through all of this ruckus, you have no idea that michael is reading every article. every word.
michael is sitting in his home office at hayvenhurst, the afternoon sun streaming through the windows, surrounded by clippings about you, about him, about the controversy that somehow intertwined your names together. his hands tremble slightly as he reads your words defending him, standing up for him when so many others have stayed silent or turned on him—so many people he thought were friends disappearing from his life in the blink of an eye.
“he’s a human being. he deserves basic respect and dignity.”
michael’s throat tightens. he reads the quote repeatedly in his head, his finger tracing the words on the page.
you’re risking your career for him. for the truth, sure, but also for him. you don’t know him at all, never met him or spoken a word to him or about him until now, and yet you’re standing in the fire, letting yourself get burned to a crisp just to defend his humanity.
he looks at the photograph of you he’s kept in his notebook—you mid-performance, incandescent and free with sweat gleaming on your features making you look more alive than ever—and something in his chest cracks open. it’s not just admiration for you anymore, or artistic inspiration.
he knows it’s something deeper, something that makes his heart race and his palms sweat.
he needs to meet you. and it needs to be soon.
his assistant walks in with a new stack of press clippings about you, and on top is a concert schedule of your band’s upcoming tour dates.
you’re playing in los angeles in three weeks.
michael traces the date with one finger, smiling at the suddenness of it all. he grabs the nearest pen and circles it, making a definitive decision. his heart is already pounding with a readiness he’s never felt before.
los angeles, november, 1987.
you can feel the intense energy of your audience before you even step on stage. its electric—the roar of the crowd vibrating through the concrete walls of the venue, rattling in your ribcage like a second heartbeat. the bass from the opening act still thrums in the floor beneath your boots, and the air smells like sweat, beer, and anticipation.
your bandmates are doing their pre-show rituals in the cramped backstage area. your guitarist is obsessively tuning and re-tuning his strings, the same three chords being played over and over, his fingers moving on autopilot. your drummer is spinning sticks between her fingers, a nervous habit they’ve had since high school when you met her in your drama class. your bassist sits perfectly still with his eyes closed in meditation, centering themselves to the here and now and not potential mistakes he’s come across when practicing for this show.
and you, you’re pacing. you’ve always pced before a show since too much energy was coursing in your veins, resigning in your body and preventing you to stay still. the adrenaline makes your fingers tingle and your heart race, and you always feel like your skin is too tight against your bones. you are so intensely aware of the crowd chanting, stomping, ready for your arrival.
but something about tonight feels different; bigger somehow. the air feels charged with something you can’t really name.
“you good?” your guitarist asks as he watches you wear a path in the concrete floor.
“uh huh,” you reassure him and yourself, but your voice sounds distant even to your own ears, like it’s coming from underwater.
you’re wearing the shirt intentionally. the michael jackson thriller tour shirt from a few years ago, worn soft from years of wear shown through holes at the collar and hem, the fabric thin enough to be almost translucent. you’d pulled it from your personal collection this morning, stared at it for a long moment before putting it on under your signature leather jacket. your hands had trembled slightly as you smoothed it down over your body.
the press has been relentless and it, honestly, was wearing you down. the backlash for defending michael hasn’t died down one bit—if anything, it’s intensified since you won’t back down from your stance about the whole ordeal. your manager had suggested, carefully, that maybe you should “lie low” for a while. to stop mentioning him. to distance yourself from the controversy and let it blow over like how most controversy does.
you’d told your manager in response, less carefully than he, to fuck off.
wearing this shirt publicly was your last answer. your last statement. if they’re going to call you obsessed, or mock your admiration, then fine. so be it; you’ll own it like you always do. you’ll wear it literally on your chest and dare them to say something. you’ll make it impossible to ignore.
“five minutes!” the stage manager calls, their voice cutting through the noise.
your heart kicks up another notch. you shrug off the leather jacket to cool down, letting it fall to the chair below you, and the shirt is revealed more clearly to your band members—michael’s face across your chest, slightly faded but obviously unmistakable. his eyes staring out from the fabric with that iconic thriller-era image.
your bassist opens his eyes and grins. “wow, okay, you’re really doing it.”
“damn right i am,” you say, and the defiance in your voice is real and solid.
the stage manager gives the awaited signal, and your band flies toward the stage entrance. you hear the crowd’s roar intensifying with anticipation and hunger for your presence next. you take a breath, roll your shoulders, embrace the familiar transformation beginning—the shift from person to performer, from private to public, from vulnerable to invincible.
and then you step into the lights.
michael sees the shirt adorned on your body before he sees the determined look on your face.
he’s positioned himself carefully in the venue—obviously not front row where he’d be recognized immediately and cause chaos, but not so far back that he can’t see clearly. he’s wearing a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, sunglasses covering his dark eyes even in the dim venue lighting. his security team is scattered throughout the crowd, disguised and invisible, but present to him, watching intently.
his heart is already racing. he’s ben thinking about this day for weeks, ever since he made the inevitably decision to come and see you and your talent in reality. his thoughts were clouded wit what you’d be like in person, if the electricity he feels looking at your photographs would translate to real life as well.
the lights hit the stage, and there you are in your glory.
except you’re wearing his face on your chest.
something in michael’s throat closes up completely. he genuinely can’t breathe. the roar of the crowd seems to fade to white nose in his eardrums as all he can see is you—the shirt; the unsaid statement and the absolute fearlessness of it. after everything the press has put you through, after all the mockery and accusations and potential career damage that’ll last, you’re doubling down and declaring your admiration publicly, boldly, without any apology or shame.
his hands grip the railing in front of him hard enough that his knuckles go pale.
you grab the microphone, and your voice cuts through the venue like a blade; raw and powerful with no filter whatsoever.
“los angeles!” you roar loudly, and the crowd reiterates a wall of sound that michael feels vibrate in his bones. “how we feelin’ tonight!?”
the response is deafening. michael watches how you feed off the energy, your body coiling and releasing with the rhythm of the instruments fading in and you move like a wild animal, consumed with instinct and power. you dance with more rawness than he’s ever seen from the tapes he acquired from his team. you’re less controlled than he is, and much more visceral in real life. but there’s a precision to your movements nonetheless; an intentionality only he can clock. you know exactly what you’re doing with your body—how to make thousands of people unable to look away from you.
the band finally crashes into the first song, and you’re off. michael has watched the bootleg videos on loop and listened to the albums until he could sing every word, but nothing prepared him for you live.
the way you move, the way you sing—it’s a possession that replaces performance. you’re channeling something primal and powerful, something that lives deep in your bones, and the crowd gobbles it up and feeds you their energy back tenfold.
but it’s more than that. between the screaming and the aggression radiating off of you, there are moments of genuine musicality that make michael’s breath catch. the way you hold a note, letting it sustain and vibrate. the melodic runs you add to the verses were unexpected and beautiful. he can hear his influence in those moments, clear as day. you weren’t lying in those interviews. you really did grow up on his music and really did internalize the technical precision underneath the emotional delivery.
you’re wearing his influence and his face on your shirt simultaneously, and michael undoubtedly feels something shift in his chest and it’s fundamental and irreversible. he now has come to the conclusion that this isn’t just admiration or artistic appreciation.
the thought hits him with startling clarity, making him dizzy in his spot from how fast his heart stuttered against his ribcage. he wants to know what your voice sounds like when you’re not performing and instead talking to only him—when it’s soft and unguarded. he wants to see what you look like without the stage makeup, just morning light softly grazing your face into something real and sleepy. he wants your energy turned toward him specifically—to be the one that intensity lands on, to know what it would be like to be seen by you the way you claim to see him.
you’re mid-song, sweat already gleaming on your skin under the harsh lights, and you grab the microphone stand with both hands, leaning into it with purpose. the shirt is made clearly visible every time the lights hit you right, an explicit middle finger to everyone who told you to quiet down from spreading your opinion and defense.
“this next one,” you breath harshly into the mic, your chest having, “is for everyone who’s ever been told they’re too loud or too much. too different. too real.” you pause, and even from his distant position in the crowd, michael can see the defiance blazing in your eyes. “and it’s for anyone who’s ever had the courage to be themselves even when the world tried to tear them down for it.”
the crowd roars, but michael hears the message underneath like you’re speaking directly to him across the distance. he knows you’re talking about him. about the vitiligo, the press, the cruelty, his isolation. you’re defending him again, right there on stage, in front of thousands of people without a care in the world about who might be watching which makes yourself a target all over again.
the song is aggressive and cathartic. you’re pouring your everything into it—all the frustration and raw emotion; nothing is being held back. your voice cracks on some of the high notes, but it’s not from lack of skill. it’s from sheer intensity, like you’re bleeding out on stage, and the crowd is loving you for it.
his hands are shaking as he grips the railing in front of him in an attempt to steady himself. his breath starts coming in shallow bursts.
michael has performed thousands of times. he knows what it feels like to leave everything on stage and to give and give until there’s nothing left. he did the same thing you’re doing only a few days ago, but offered himself a break by coming here to watch you be so unafraid of being too much, and something in him aches with a desire so deep that he doesn’t know if he can even call it that.
the set continues and it’s forty-five minutes of relentless energy; songs fill the stadium that are somehow boh brutal and beautiful or aggressive and melodic. you talk to the crowd between numbers to give your band members a few minutes to recuperate, and your speaking voice is so much more different from your singing voice—its warmer and more intimate, touched with humour and vulnerability. you make jokes and tell short stories about how you came up with the upcoming song, creating a connection with the audience that feels genuine rather than a calculated move to get more media attention. he notices that you’re not performing at them—not even for them—you’re sharing with them.
michael is absolutely mesmerized. he can’t look away—not that he really wants to.
near the end of the set, the band shifts into something more melodic and slow, and the crowd ultimately quiets, swaying with the soft melody. you stand at the microphone, breathing hard, sweat-soaked and glowing under the lights like something holy.
“this last one,” you say softly, and the crowd quiets down even more to hear you, the venue falling into an almost reverent silence, “is about inspiration and the artists who shape us, who make us believe we can do this insane thing called making music.” you pause as your hand crawls up your body to touch the shirt—michael’s face beneath your palm, right over your heart. “about being brave enough to acknowledge the legends whose shoulders we stand on.”
michael’s breath catches in his throat from your words, his eyes burning.
the song is absolutely beautiful. it’s still rock and has that edge that all of your music has, but there’s a vulnerability to it that the other songs in the set didn’t have. your voice is softer here, more controlled, more like his. michael can hear every technical lesson you learned from his music in your vocal chords—the way you build up into the melody, the way you use dynamics, the way you make every word matter and last, every breath count.
this song is a love letter to music itself. and maybe, he hopes with his heart pounding, that it could be some sort of love letter to him too.
when the final note fades, the crowd erupts. you stand there for a moment, chest heaving with a wide grin on your face that practically absorbs your entire face. you spread your arms wide, accepting the adoration like a benediction. the lights catch the shirt one more time and reminds michael of your statement and the bridge between his world and yours.
then you bow, blow a small kiss and shout a quick “love you!” to the audience before you disappear backstage.
michael doesn’t move. he genuinely can’t. his security team is already in motion, trying to usher him out the venue, but he’s rooted to the spot with his heart pounding so hard he can feel it rising into his throat as his mind races with possibilities and wants and needs.
he needs to meet you tonight. right now. he doesn’t know if he can wait another second.
he looks over to the head of his security, making eye contact with them immediately. he nods at him to come toward him, and they both cross the room to meet halfway. he leans in with a quiet but urgent, breathless voice, “could you find ‘em f’me? tell her—” he pauses, trying to organize his thoughts to seem as casual as possible through the adrenaline coursing through his veins. “tell her i wanna meet. that i got a proposition for ‘em. a collaboration.”
his security nods and disappears into the crowd heading backstage with the same urgency laced in his voice.
michael stays where he is, surrounded by the dispersing crowd, and lets himself imagine what could happen next between the two of you.
you’re still violently shaking when you get backstage, your whole body vibrating with leftover adrenaline. the adrenaline is always intense after a show, but tonight it’s almost overwhelming, like electricity is running its course through your skeleton. your hands tremble as you reach for a water bottle, your heart still thumping intensely like you’re on stage instead of in the concrete-walled backstage area. you can still hear the crowd’s roar echoing in your ears and feel the phantom heat of the stage lights on your skin.
“that was fucking incredible!” your guitarist says, clapping you on the shoulder hard enough to make you stumble. “the energy out there was insane. that was our best show of the tour so far.”
“the shirt was a nice touch too,” your bassist adds with a small grin, gesturing at your chest. “very subtle…”
you laugh with a playful roll of your eyes, breathless as your chest stays heaving. “subtlety is overrated anyway.”
you’re toweling sweat from your face, the fabric coming away soaked until your security guard suddenly appears in the doorway. there’s something odd about his expression—his eyes are wide, and he’s standing very still, like he’s trying to still figure out how to deliver whatever news he just obtained for you.
“hey, uh—” he says carefully, his voice measured. “you’ve got a… a situation.”
your stomach drops to the balls of your feet, your towel falling from your hands with it. “what kinda situation? is it the press? ‘cause i swear to god if they’re trying to ambush me now about this fuckin’ shirt—”
“it’s not the press.” he interrupts and you can see him trying to figure out how to phrase whatever he needs to say, his throat bobbing in the process as he swallows. “there’s someone here who wants to meet you. says it’s about a potential collaboration.”
“oh,” you’re still coming down from the performance high, your mind not quite processing things normally, everything feeling slightly surreal and disconnected. you close your eyes in mild annoyance at his statement. “okay? tell them to contact my manager like everyone else then? i’m not interested in doing meet-and-greets right now.”
“i don’t think you understand,” your security guard steps closer, lowering his voice even though you’re in a private area with just your own band in the room. “it’s michael jackson.”
the water bottle slips from your lips and onto the ground. you don’t notice it hit the floor or hear the plastic crack or see the water spill across the concrete ground in a slowly spreading puddle. all you can hear is your heartbeat suddenly deafening in your ears and the world tilting sideways, the floor shifting beneath your feet.
“michael jackson,” your security guard repeats the name and there’s something almost amused in his expression now, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “he was in the audience during your entire performance. his security team just found me and he wants to meet with you. tonight,” he looks quickly at the watch wrapped around his wrist, then back up at you. “now, actually. he’s waiting.”
your bandmates have gone silent. you can feel them staring at you, but you can’t look away from your security guard’s face, searching for any sign that this was a very unfunny joke that’ll leave you embarrassed for years, or maybe a hallucination brought on by post-show adrenaline.
“michael jackson,” you say slowly with your eyes squinted, testing the words on your tongue like you were trying to make them feel real, “was at my show.”
“yeah, apparently. incognito, but yeah.”
“and he wants to meet me.”
“that’s what his security said. something about a collaboration for an album he’s working on.” your security guard’s amused expression softens slightly into something almost paternal. “you okay? you look like you’re going to pass out. wanna sit down?”
you’re quite the opposite of okay, actually. michael jackson, your childhood hero, the artist whose music shaped your entire approach to songwriting, the man you’ve been publicly defending for the past 2 months at the cost of your own reputation, the face that you’re literally wearing on your chest right now—was in the audience. is in the audience. watching you perform and wear his face like armor. hearing you defend him to thousands of people.
and now he wants to meet you.
“i—” your voice comes out strangled, barely more than a wheezing exhale coming from your lungs. you clear your throat and try again, your hands shaking with anxiety. “yes. obviously, yes. where? when? right now you said?”
“his security is waiting just outside to escort you. they’ve got a private area set up somewhere near the venue.” he pauses, studying your now pale face. “you want us to come with you?”
you look down at yourself and notice that you’re still in your stage clothes—the michael jackson shirt now soaked with sweat, clinging to your skin, his face distorted by the damp fabric. your jeans are torn at the knees, your boots scuffed and worn. your hair, you think, is probably a disaster, as you feel it plastered against your forehead and neck. your makeup is smudged, probably running down your face in noticeably dark streaks. and most of all, you probably smell like a filled locker room, which is completely opposite from the perfume you use that smells of wine and burning wood. now you’re wishing you packed that small bottle in the small bag of comfy clothes you brought with you for after the show.
so, in conclusion, you’re about to meet michael jackson looking like you just crawled out of the most hardcore mosh pit you’ve ever been in.
“gimme at least two minutes,” you say, already moving toward your bag, your trembling hands fumbling with the zipper. “i need to at least—i don’t know, not look like a drowned rat? change a bit?”
your drummer laughs, the sound warm and encouraging which eases your anxieties only by a bit. “you look like an artist, which is what you are. go on and hurry to meet him girl,”
you grab a clean shirt from your bag, then pause with your hands still on the fabric. you look down at the michael jackson shirt you’re wearing, soaked and clinging to your skin, his face across your chest. something defiant rises in your chest, hot and fierce.
you wore this shirt for a reason. you made a statement. if you change now, it feels like backing down, like you’re ashamed of your admiration or something like you’re trying to hide who you are.
you drop the clean shirt back in your bag and turn to your security guard, squaring your shoulders. “alright. i’m ready.”
“you’re going like that?” your bassist asks, eyebrows raised in surprise.
“i’m going like this,” you confirm as you bend down to grab the dropped towel, draping it across your shoulders. your heart is still racing, but now there’s a certainty settling over you now, a sense of rightness. “let’s go.”
your security guard quickly ushers you through the backstage maze—concrete corridors and metal doors, the sounds of the venue crew breaking down equipment echoing off the tall walls. your chunky, heeled boots sound too loud on the floor, each step a countdown to something you’re incredibly nervous about. you can hear your own harsh, quick breathing and can’t seem to stop the violent tremble in your fingers.
you turn a corner, and there’s another security guard waiting that is definitely not yours. he’s more professional, alert, built almost like a wall. when he sees you approaching, he speaks into a radio in a voice too low for you to hear other than catching the words “on the way” and “yes, sir.”
“this way,” he says firmly, gesturing to a door marked PRIVATE in faded letters.
your security guard gives you an encouraging nod, squeezing your shoulder with reassurance. “you want me to go inside with you?”
you consider it for a quick moment until you shake your head. your throat is too tight to speak.
you push the door open and you step through. it’s nier than the general backstage area—there’s actual furniture instead of folding chairs, a couch that looks clean, better lighting that doesn’t make everything look sickly yellow. there’s a sense of space and quiet that almost feels jarring after the chaos of the performance. the air smells different here too—it's noticeably cleaner, touched with expensive cologne that smells like a blend of vanilla, warm amber, and cedar wrapping the atmosphere in a smooth and slightly sweet finish. it calms your nerves just slightly.
and there, standing near the fall wall, is michael.
he’s smaller than you expected. that’s the first thought that cuts through the deafening static of panic and excitement in your brain. you’ve seen him on tv and in magazines, as well as on stage at a distance, and somehow you’d built him up to be larger than life due to all this—mythical, untouchable. but he’s just a man—a slender one at that, almost delicate in build, wearing dark pants and a red button-down shirt that looks soft and expensive. a black baseball cap rests in his hands, and he’s turning it over and over, a nervous gesture as he awaits your arrival. his fingers are long and elegant as they trace the rims of the fabric.
then he looks up at you, and the sudden intensity in his eyes makes you forget how to breathe. you feel like a young fangirl.
“hi,” he greets you softly. his voice is slightly higher than you expected, touched with something that might be nervousness. it’s the same voice from the records, but it somehow feels more real and human hearing it in person. “thank you for meetin’ with me. really. i know this is probably—i mean, i’m sure you weren’t expectin’—” he stops and laughs softly at himself, a self-deprecating sound as he rubs his hands against his face in embarrassment. “sorry. i’m not usually this scattered.”
you’re still standing in the doorway like an idiot, staring. your mouth opens, but no sound comes out. your brain has completely short-circuited, and you feel like you’re embarrassing yourself so hard that you want to sink into the floor right at this moment.
michael’s eyes drop to your chest—to the shirt and his face across your torso, slightly distorted by the sweat and the contours of your body—and something flickers across his expression. surprise or pleasure you think, or maybe something deeper that you can’t quite label. his lips part slightly and you see his throat bob in the process of him swallowing.
“you wore that on stage,” he says quietly, and there’s a sense of wonder in his voice.
you finally find your voice, though it comes out a bit rougher than you intended. “yeah. i did.”
“even after everything the press has been sayin’. about you ‘n about—” he gestures vaguely, the cap moving in his hands with it. “about all of it. they’ve been tearin’ you apart.”
“i meant what i said in those interviews,” you say, and your voice is stronger now, more certain. you take a full step into the room now, letting the door close behind you. “your music changed my life. i’m not going to pretend otherwise just ‘cause it's inconvenient to the here and now.”
michael’s expression does something more complicated now, mixing into something of gratitude and disbelief that makes your chest ache. he takes a step closer and you can see him more clearly now in the better lighting. the vitiligo patches on his skin that the press has been so cruel about are only slightly visible from the careful, yet melting makeup trying to even out the tones. the vulnerability in his eyes thats hidden from his stage persona is on display for you to see. he looks tired, you realize. tired and lonely, but grateful for this moment.
“you have no idea,” he says softly, his voice almost breaking, “what that means to me. what you defendin’ me has meant. when everyone else just stayed silent or worse—” he stops, shaking his head momentarily. “you stood up for me. you risked your career.”
your heart is doing something acrobatic in your chest, flipping and twisting in all sorts of ways. “i was just telling the truth.”
“most people don’t. not when it costs them somethin’.” he’s closer now, close enough that you can smell his cologne—the same, warm one that’s been lingering in the room this entire time. “and it has cost you. i’ve been readin’ the articles. every single one. they’ve been tearin’ you apart, callin’ you names, questionin’ your authenticity.”
“i can handle it,” you shrug, and you mean it. you have handled worse before.
michael smiles, and it transforms his face into something softer and younger, tugging at the strings that keep your heart together. “yeah. i can see that.” he pauses while he searches for more words to say, his eyes roaming over your face. “i watched your show tonight. you’re incredible. the energy ‘n the way you connect with the audience… it’s rare. that kind of raw talent combined with technical skill. i genuinely couldn’t look away.”
you’re pretty sure you’re hallucinating. there’s no way this is real. michael jackson cannot be standing in front of you, complimenting your performance and looking at you like you’re something precious or worth protecting.
“i simply just learned from the best,” you manage to compliment him, your voice thick with emotion and nervousness. “that triumph tour performance of this place hotel—i must have watched it a thousand times at this point. i wore that tape out. the way you controlled every single moment, every breath of yours, every movement of every limb…” a small smile crawls onto your nervous rambling. “that’s what i’ve been trying to capture in my own work. that precision inside the chaos, you know?”
michael’s eyes widen slightly, and you see something like joy flash across his face. “you really did grow up on my music, huh?”
“i told you i wasn’t lying in those interviews,” you intentionally inch your body closer, emboldened by his reaction and the way he’s looking at you so softly. “you shaped everything about how i approach performance. the technical side, the emotional side, all of it. without your music, i wouldn’t be here. i wouldn’t have a stage to perform on. you made me believe i could do this.”
“don’t sell yourself short,” michael says, but there’s something fierce laced in his voice now. “what you’re doin’ is unique. sure, i might have influenced you, but you took that influence and made somethin’ completely new. that’s real artistry and genius, ‘n i know you know it.”
you’re staring at each other now, the space between you charged with some sort of electricity that makes the air feel thick and harder to breathe in. you’re suddenly hyper aware of how you must look—sweaty and disheveled, wearing his face on your chest. but michael doesn’t seem to mind at all. if anything, he’s looking at you like you’re the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen, like he wants to memorize every detail.
“i need to be honest with you,” he starts, and his voice has dropped into something lower and quieter. he inches closer again. “the collaboration thing—i want that to be real. i’m workin’ on a new album and i would love to work with you on it. your sound, aesthetic, it’s been inspirin’ me for months now. the whole bad era, the whole visual concept of it—a lot of that came from studyin’ your band’s work.”
your brain short-circuits a bit and the room tilts with you. “what?”
michael’s smile is almost shy and he ducks his head slightly, looking up at you through his lashes. “you noticed the leather and buckles, right? the harder edge to the image? that was all you. i’ve been researchin’ different genres, styles, and your band just kept comin’ up in my mind. the way you blend aggression with melody, the visual aesthetic, all of it. it spoke to somethin’ i was tryin’ to articulate for so long but couldn’t quite ever grasp, but you gave me that language.”
“you—” you have to stop to breathe for a moment. you suspected this, but it's different hearing it come out of his own mouth. “you were inspired by me?”
“yeah,” you notice how he inches even closer now. you’re less than two feet apart at this point, close enough to see the flecks of gold in his deep brown eyes, close enough to feel the nervous warmth radiating from his body as well. “but i need to be honest about somethin’ else too. the collaboration is real, but it’s not the only reason i wanted to meet you.”
your heart is pounding so hard that you’re sure he could hear it—maybe even the whole building could. “no?”
“no.” michael’s voice is barely above a whisper now. “i’ve been watchin’ you for months. readin’ up about you, listenin’ to your music on loop, studyin’ your performances… and then you started defendin’ me, standin’ up for me when so many people stayed silent. and tonight, you wore this shirt,” he touched the bottom of the shirt, the hem of it twisting slightly between his pointer and middle finger. “you wore it like you were darin’ anyone to say somethin’ about it and that you had a clever comeback that you’d announce no matter what. and i just—”
he stops, and you can see him gathering courage in his chest.
“i wanna get to know you,” he finishes with an exhale, his voice breaking slightly as he lets go of your shirt. “not just as an artist. as a person. i need—” he laughs softly and he shakes his head in disbelief of what he’s doing right now. “god, i sound like a stalker. i sound crazy.”
“no, you sound like someone who knows what they want,” you reassure him with your rough voice thickened with emotion.
“well, i want you,” michael says simply, and the honesty in his voice makes your knees go weak. “i’ve wanted you since i first saw your photograph in that magazine. ‘n after tonight, after watchin’ you perform, after seein’ you be so fearless… i want to have you somewhere in my life. however you’ll let me.”
the air between you is so incredibly charged that it feels almost visible, like its crackling in the oxygen like lightening. you’re both staring at each other, and the tension is building to something unbearable, something that needs to break soon.
“i’ve been in love with you since i was like fifteen years old,” your confession tumbles out before you can stop it, and you look away as your face flushes with sudden embarrassment at the honesty of it all. “not you specifically, but your music, your artistry, everything you represented and still represent. you were my hero, and you still are.”
michael’s hand rises from his side, hesitating in the air until he gently holds your chin between his thumb and index finger to make you look at his gentle eyes. his fingers are soft and careful, trembling slightly as they travel up to your cheek, the touch sending shivers down your spine.
“you’re wearin’ my face on your chest,” he chuckles softly, soothingly brushing his tumb across your cheekbone, “and i’ve had your picture in my notebook for nearly a year now. we’re both a lil obsessed, i think.”
you laugh, breathless, feeling slightly hysterical at the situation taking place right now. this can’t be real.
“can i—” michael starts, then stops, biting his lip in consideration to his words. his trembling thumb continues to brush across your cheekbone subconsciously like a nervous tick, and it makes your whole body feel like it's vibrating.
you’re confident you already know what he’s going to say, so you tackle the risk anyway and close the distance between you two and press your lips together.
he immediately responds to your kiss, and soft and tentative at first, both of you testing the reality of this moment. his lips are softer than you imagined as a teenager, pillowy and warm, and he tastes like mint and something sweeter, almost like honey. his large hand cups your face fully, gentle and reverent, and your hands find his neck, pulling him closer. you can feel his heart racing against your chest and the slight tremor in his body.
then something completely cracks open between you, and the kiss deepens. michael makes a soft sound against your mouth—almost like a needy, desperate whimper—and his other hand comes to squeeze at your waist to make sure you don’t leave his grasp. you’re pressed together now, your sweat-soaked shirt against his expensive button-down, but neither of you care. his tongue traces your lower lip in a tentative and questioning manner and you open gladly for him letting the kiss become something hungrier than it already is.
you’re dimly aware that you’re backing him up against the wall, one hand tugging at curls gathered at the nape of his neck, the other sliding under his shirt to find his warm skin. he’s arching into your touch with little gasps that’s driving you insane. his skin is so impossibly soft, and you can feel the rapid flutter of his pulse under your fingertips.
“god,” michael breathes against your lips, his voice wrecked, “you’re—oh my god—”
you kiss him harder, swallowing whatever pleas he was going to slip. your hands map the planes of his chest, sides, feeling every lean muscle and delicate bone structure. he’s so responsible, gasping and arching slightly with every touch, and the power of it is intoxicating. you’ve never felt anything like this—never felt a connection or electricity similar to his with any of your other relationships.
michael’s hands slide up your back, pulling you impossibly closer, his fingers digging into your skin through the damply thin fabric. you can feel his heart racing against your chest, and you can most importantly feel the evidence of his arousal very lightly grinding against your thigh. the knowledge that you’re affecting him this much makes something primal rise in your chest—like you want to devour him whole.
you break the kiss to trail your lips down his jaw, his neck, experimenting with your love bites until you find the sensitive spot on his earlobe that makes him whine and go boneless against the wall. his hands are clutching around your entire torso now.
“we should—” michael gasps as you bite gently at his pule point on his neck, and his hips jerk forward involuntarily, whimpering at the faint pleasure. “we should probably—m-my god—p-probably slow down—”
“do you want to slow down?” you murmur lowly against his now burning hot skin, your lips brushing against his soft throat as you look up at him through your lashes with needy eyes.
he looks down at your libidinous face pouting up at him and he bites his lip, his dick twitching at the mere sight of you. “n-no,” he admits, breathless and honest. “no, i really don’t. please, don’t stop.”
an almost evil smile replaces your pout eerily fast, and you kiss him again deeply and demanding, and he responds with equal hunger, his mouth opening under yours. his hands slide under your shirt—right under his face—and the feeling of his fingers meeting your chest over your black lacy bra makes you groan into his mouth. he swallows it down with a whimper that goes straight through you, and suddenly you’re both drowning now in sensation—in the taste of your mouth against his, warm and desperate; in the heat of your skin under his palms; in the soft, broken sounds he keeps slipping as he rocks his hips against your thigh in shallow, seeking thrusts. it’s messy and uncoordinated but so sensual it almost hurts to watch him come undone like this, completely surrendered to the feeling of you.
you both freeze with your lips still pressed together, hands still tangled in each other’s clothes as reality crashes back in like cold water. you’re backstage at a venue, making out with michael jackson against a cool, concrete wall, both of you disheveled and breathing insanely heavy. this is the most insane thing that’s ever happened to you, you think.
you step back reluctantly but quickly as you prepare for the door to open, and michael makes a soft whine of protest that goes straight to the building heat between your legs—a needy whimper that almost makes you want to ignore the security guard about to crash your party. his lips are swollen and red, his hair mussed and his shirt is half-untucked. he looks thoroughly debauched, and the sight makes you want to drag him back into your arms and continue what you two started.
“sorry to interrupt,” your security guard announces from the doorway, his hand already covering his eyes in mock politeness, “but you’ve got another show in two days. you need rest, and i’m not about to be hearing any complaints from you about being exhausted.”
the interruption itself is only a joke, but the reality of it hits you like ice cold water: if your guard could just walk in here, covering his eyes, then anyone passing by the ‘private’ room probably heard everything. your entire body flushes hot, embarrassment crawling up your neck as you realize just how loud you both probably were.
“right,” you say, voice slightly rough and very much wrecked. “yeah. the show.”
michael’s hand immediately catches yours, fingers intertwining tightly before you could even try to take a step forward toward your security. “where are you stayin’?” he asks urgently, his dilated pupils rapidly switching back and forth between your eyes.
you tell him, and his eyes light up with something full of want that instantly makes heat pool low in your belly.
“i’ll find you,” he exhales a promise, squeezing your hand. “tonight? if—if that’s okay with you? god, please say it’s okay.”
“it’s more than okay, michael.” you say, squeezing back.
your security guard clears his throat meaningfully and you reluctantly let go of michael’s hand before you step toward the door. at the threshold, you look back, and he’s still leaning against the cool wall, watching you with an intensity that makes your skin burn from the inside.
you leave before you can change your mind; before you can say fuck the next show and run back to him to finish your business. your security guard leads you back through the maze of the corridors and you feel like you’re floating, like you’re disconnected from your body as you replay every moment of the last thirty minutes in your head. the taste of his lips and the warmth of his skin—and god, the sounds that he made.
michael jackson is coming to your hotel tonight, and you don’t think you’ll be resting like you should be.
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