Aimee🪽

▬▬▬ masterlist/rules ▬▬▬

disclaimer!: I’m responding slowly to requests since I’m trying to balance out writing, college and learning the piano!! Please don’t think I am ignoring you 🩷

⊹ ࣪ ˖ ໒꒱ 𝐌𝐢𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐞𝐥 𝐉𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐃𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

req: sometimes i think of driver!reader... someone michael sees and interacts with every day casually. rough around the edges maybe, but knows to be polite. she's not the princessy type that he's used to but she intrigues him anyways. she's tomboyish and feels a little weird when he treats her like a ~lady~ lol

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐞

𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

Ꮺ୧ The phone on your kitchen counter suddenly rattled, the sharp ring cutting through the quiet, calm hum of your lazy afternoon. You picked up the receiver, balancing the phone between your ear and shoulder.

“Yeah?” you answered, your voice naturally relaxed.

“Hi.”

The voice on the other end was instantly recognisable, the quiet, soft spoken voice that always sounded like it belonged to someone trying not to wake up a sleeping house.

“Michael,” you said, leaning your hip against the counter. “Hey. Is everything okay? I didn’t think I had you on my schedule today.”

“Oh, everything is fine,” Michael said quickly, a little airy chuckle travelling through the line. “I just… I have a bit of free time this afternoon. The studio session was pushed to tonight. And I was wondering if you were free to take me somewhere?”

You glanced over at your jacket hanging by the door. You weren’t on the clock, technically, but Michael was the kind of client who had a direct line to you for a reason. You liked driving him. He was quiet, he didn’t make a scene, and out of everyone you’ve previously carted around the city, he was the easiest to be around.

“Yeah, I can do that,” you said, already reaching for your keys. “Give me about twenty minutes to get the car warmed up and head over to the house. That work?”

“That’s perfect,” Michael said, sounding a little lighter, a soft sigh of relief escaping him. “Thank you, see you soon.”

You hung up the phone, shaking your head with a faint smile. Usually, his life was run by a meticulous army of personal assistants who handled every single call, booking, and movement weeks in advance. For him to dial your number directly meant he was likely looking to bypass the usual corporate red tape, or he just wanted a break from the crowd.

Ten minutes later, you were behind the wheel of the heavy black car, the engine purring smoothly as you drove through the familiar winding roads up toward his estate. Your windows rolled down slightly, while the wind made a mess of your hair which you didn't bother much to care about. bopping to your head to the songs being played on the radio, popular hits that you’ve heard plenty of times with countless drives.

You’d swapped your old grease stained t-shirt for a clean charcoal grey one, and a jacket, but you kept your favourite worn in boots on.

The iron security gates of the property opened with a heavy, automated groan the second your car approached. You rolled down the long, tree lined cobblestone driveway, bringing the massive vehicle to a silent stop right in front of the main entrance.

Before you could even turn off the ignition to get out and grab his door, the heavy front door of the house swung open. Michael stepped out. You popped your door open and stepped out onto the driveway, leaning your arm against the car.

“Look at you, moving without an escort,” you teased, giving him a lazy grin as he closed the distance. “Did you slip past security through a window?”

Michael let out a soft laugh. He stopped right in front of you, the midday sun catching his jaw just the right way. “No windows today,” he said, his voice warm. “Just told them I needed some fresh air.”

You nodded, turning to grab the handle of the passenger door. You pulled it open for him, a standard habit from months of doing this, but as you did, Michael stepped forward and gently opened the driver’s seat door, waiting patiently for you to step back. He always did this, trying to play the gentleman, treating you with the kind of delicate, old school courtesy he’d probably been taught since he was a kid.

It always felt a little weird to you. You were the one getting paid to look after him, and you were far more used to opening doors for others than someone opening them for you

“After you,” Michael said softly, gesturing to the driver’s seat, his smile visible even under the shadow of his hat.

You rolled your eyes playfully, giving up, knowing Michael wasn’t going to get in the car unless you got into the driver's seat first. Sliding into the seat without making a fuss. “You’re ruining my professional image, Jackson.”

Michael climbed into the front passenger seat beside you, closing the door with a gentle click. He hadn’t ridden in the back behind the privacy glass in months, he’d claimed early on that the back seat felt like a waiting room, but you suspected he just liked having someone to talk to.

“Your professional image is perfectly safe with me,” he murmured, pulling his sunglasses over the bridge of his nose just enough to look at you over the rims with wide, gentle, brown eyes.

You shifted the car into drive, letting it roll smoothly down the driveway. “Alright, so where am I taking you exactly? You didn’t give me a destination on the phone.”

“There’s a little shop nearby,” Michael said, leaning back into the leather seat and looking out the window as the gates closed behind. Michael kept talking about the shop, describing what it looked like and the name.

You tilted your head, merging onto the main road with an easy, usual motion of the wheel. “Yeah, I know the place, right near the corner? Used to go there a couple of years ago to hunt down old blue pressings. It’s a good spot, but it’s pretty cramped and dusty in there, Mike. Not exactly your usual private room setup.”

“I don’t need a private room.” Michael insisted. “And I heard they just got a shipment of rare motown promos and some old jazz imports from Europe. I woke up today and just… really had a cravin’ to dig through some vinyl.”

“On a Tuesday at two in the afternoon?” you asked, glancing over at him for a brief second, one eyebrow raised.

“It’s the best time to go,” he countered, a little triumphant smirk appearing on his face. “The store will be empty. No crowds.”

You kept your eyes on the road, but a faint, curious thought crossed your mind. Michael had a staff that would literally fly across the Atlantic to find a specific record if he so much as breathed the title. His producers could get him any piece of music on earth within an hour. Driving twenty five minutes into the city to flip through wooden crates at a cramped, slightly run down shop felt completely unnecessary.

Is he actually desperate for a jazz import? You wondered, or did he just make up a reason to get out of the house and spend the afternoon with me?

You didn’t let the thought show on your face. Michael was a private guy, isolated by his own fame, and you knew you were one of the few people in his daily life who didn’t walk on eggshells around him. It made sense he’d want a casual escape. Still, the thought lingered in the back of your mind, a small, pleasant hum of curiosity.

“Well, it’s your afternoon,” you said, rolling your shoulders and settling into the drive. “Traffic’s light on the freeway, so we should be there in about fifteen minutes.”

The interior of the car was quiet, save for the low comforting hum of the engine and the radio playing a faint, classical soul track in the background. Michael’s fingers were tapping a light, rhythmic beat against his knee, completely at ease.

As you hit the open stretch of the highway, a sudden gust of wind swept through the slightly cracked open windows, bringing the cooler air of the afternoon into the car. You noticed Michael shift, his arms crossing over his chest as the breeze ruffled the collar of his shirt.

Without saying anything, you reached over with your right hand, clicking his window fully shut and adjusting the control dial, turning the heater up just a fraction to take the edge off the chill.

Michael watched your hand move across the dashboard, his expression softening into something undeniably sweet. “Thank you,” he murmured, his voice slightly quiet. “You’re always so observant.”

“Can’t have you catching a cold before your studio session tonight. Your producers would come after me with pitchforks.”

“I wouldn’t let them,” Michael said. He turned his torso slightly in the seat so he could look at you properly. “I told management that you’re the only driver I want from now on. I told them you’re the best they have.”

“Oh, yeah?” you glanced over, giving him a slow, amused smile as you stopped at a red light. “What did you tell them exactly?”

“I told them you know all the shortcuts, you don’t get nervous when the paparazzi show up, and you always drive carefully.” he said before hesitating. “And… I told them you’re polite. Even if you do wear boots that look like you’re about to go stomp around a construction site.”

You let out a genuine laugh, shaking your head as the light turned green. “Hey, these boots are the best I’ve ever worn. They’re comfortable. If we ever get a flat tire on the side of the road, you’ll be glad I’m wearing them. I’d love to see one of those fancy, suit and tie drivers try to change a tire on the freeway without ruining their clothes.”

Michael laughed. “I can change a tire,” he protested, his eyes crinkling.

“Right. You, Michael Jackson, are going to get down on the asphalt with a wrench?” you looked at him, thoroughly skeptical but entirely amused.

“I could!” he insisted, his voice full of playful offense. “My brothers and I used to help fix the old tour bus when we were younger. I know how an engine works.”

“Alright, fair enough,” you smiled, pulling the car smoothly up to the curb. “Next time, if the car acts up you can handle it.”

The record store was dead quiet, exactly as Michael had predicted. A single teenager with long hair was sitting behind the counter, deeply engrossed in a magazine, barely glancing up with the bell above the door rang.

The shop smelled strongly of old paper, dust, and worn cardboard, that specific nostalgic scent that could only be found in old music shops.

You walked a few paces behind him, keeping a casual, alert eyes on the front windows and the street outside. It wasn’t full, high alert, but you always kept your guard somewhat up when you were out with him.

Michael drifted naturally toward the back corner of the shop, where the classic R&B, soul, and jazz vinyls were lined up in old, worn out wooden crates. He ran his long fingers over the tops of the plastic dividers, his eyes scanning titles with intense focus.

“Look at this,” he whispered, pulling out a worn paper sleeve. It was an old Jackie Wilson pressing, the edges of the cardboard slightly frayed. “My mother used to play this in the kitchen when I was little. I haven’t seen this print in years.”

You stepped up closer beside him, your shoulder gently brushing against his. “It’s a classic. My Dad had that same album. He played it until the tape literally melted from the heat.”

Michael turned the record over in his hands, a soft, wistful smile on his face. Then, he looked up at you, his eyes searching yours through the dark lenses of his sunglasses. “You have really good taste in music. I like that.”

“I like anything with a heavy bassline,” you shrugged, shifting your weight from one boot to the other.

Michael set the Jackie Wilson record aside and kept digging. He was moving with eager energy now, pulling out old blues compilations, obscure funk 45s, and a few pristine jazz vinyls. Within fifteen minutes, he had a sizable, heavy stack of vinyl cradled against his chest.

“We’re going to need a bigger trunk if you keep this up,” you teased, watching him inspect the sleeve of a rare jazz album.

“I think this is it,” he said, looking down at his haul with immense satisfaction. He walked up to the front counter, carefully laying the heavy stack down. The kid behind the register finally looked up from his magazine, his eyes widening to the size of saucers as he realised exactly who was standing in his empty shop. To his credit, the teenager managed to keep his mouth shut, though his hands shook slightly as he began ringing up the total.

Michael reached into his pocket for his wallet, casually pulling out money to pay the bill. Michael stood beside you, watching as the teenager counted the money, and when he finally finished packing up the records into a large, heavy brown paper bag, Michael reached out to take it, but you were faster, lifting the bag effortlessly.

"I've got it," you said, swinging the bag slightly to test the weight.

Michael blinked, looking slightly flustered, his polite instincts kicking in. "No, let me carry it. It's heavy. I can carry my own things."

"Mike, I get paid to drive you around and make sure you don't have to lift a finger," you said, already turning toward the exit. "Just get the door for me, will you?"

He let out a soft huff but hurried ahead of you, pushing the heavy glass door open and holding it back. As you walked past him into the bright afternoon air, your shoulder brushed lightly against his chest. You caught his eye, giving him a grateful nod.

"Thanks, gentleman," you said, a smirk playing on your lips.

Michael’s cheeks instantly flooded with a deep, unmistakable pink. He followed you to the rear of the car.

You popped the trunk and carefully slid the heavy bag of vinyl into the secure cargo space. You slammed the trunk shut with a solid, satisfying thud and turned around. Michael hadn't moved back to his side of the car. He was standing close, closer than he usually did in public spaces. The afternoon sun was hitting the edges of his dark curls, and through his sunglasses, you could feel the weight of his gaze, steady and intense.

"You aren't like most people I know. I think that's why I like your company so much."

Michael said suddenly, his voice dropping into that soft, incredibly private tone that felt like a secret meant only for you.

There it was again. That sudden, sharp flutter in your chest. You looked at him, studying the soft curve of his mouth, the way he seemed completely unbothered by the passage of time. The record shop trip had taken maybe fifteen minutes tops, and he’d picked out those albums with the precision of someone who already knew exactly what was in the wooden crates.

You leaned your lower back against the warm metal of the trunk, crossing your arms over your chest. A slow, knowing grin spread across your face.

"You know, Mike..." you said, tilting your head. "If you just wanted to get out of the house and talk to me, you didn't have to buy a shit ton of vintage vinyls just to have an excuse."

Michael froze completely.

For a second, his mouth opened in a tiny, silent ‘oh’ his cover completely exposed. The blush on his cheeks deepened, spreading rapidly down to his collar. He quickly turned his face away, looking down at the cobblestones, his shoulders shaking as a helpless, incredibly bashful laugh escaped him.

He didn't deny it.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he mumbled as he avoided your gaze, trying and failing to look innocent. "I needed those records. The jazz import is very rare."

"Right, the jazz import," you chuckled, straightening up and walking past him to open the passenger door. You stood there, holding it open, your eyes full of warm, easy amusement. "Sure, Mike. Whatever helps you sleep at night. Get in the car before someone spots you."

Michael finally looked at you, his eyes sparkling with pure, unadulterated happiness. He walked over, sliding into the front seat, but before you could close the door, he looked up at you with a hopeful, bright smile.

"Can we take the long way back?" he asked softly.

You met his gaze, the warmth in your chest expanding until it felt heavy. You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head. "Yeah, Mike. We can take the long way."

You clicked the door shut, walking back around to the driver's side with a distinct lightness in your boots, the quiet afternoon suddenly feeling a whole lot more interesting.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ ໒꒱ Michael Jackson x Reader

warnings: spiders, you can imagine this as bad or thriller era, nothing else.

masterlist

It was just past midnight. The only sound that could be heard was the soft hum of your record player spinning a jazz instrumental at a barely audible volume. You rubbed your thumb across your cheek, accidentally smudging a streak of charcoal over your skin, and stared at the sketchbook that was propped open against your thighs.

You had spent the last two hours trying to capture the exact structure of the old, sun bleached porch from your childhood home back in Gary. It was a nostalgic exercise, a quiet way to keep your mind at peace.

You leaned back against your pillows, lifting your hand to stretch your tight shoulders, and that’s when your eyes drifted to the corner for the wall near your closet door.

Your breath caught instantly, your entire body becoming stiff.

There, sitting fat and ominous against the pink wallpaper of your bedroom wall, was a spider.

This wasn’t just any ordinary, harmless little house spider. To your huge irrational fear of spiders, this thing looked terrifying, an eight legged beast straight out of a horror film. It was dark, and had fuzzy legs, and it was positioned perfectly above your bedroom door, almost as if it was holding you hostage.

Your heart picked up a frantic rhythm against your ribs. You couldn’t take your eyes off of it. Every piece of logic left your brain, replaced by a deep worry that if you blinked it would disappear.

Slowly, carefully, without breaking eye contact, you reached your hand outward toward your nightstand. Your fingers scrambling blindly across the wood until they brushed against the cool plastic of your telephone. You dragged the receiver to your ear, fingers trembling slightly as you punched in a phone number you knew entirely by heart.

It rang once, twice.

“Hello?”

Michael’s voice was soft, sounding slightly raspy from a long evening of vocal tracks.

“Michael,” you squeaked, your voice dropping into a desperate, panicked whisper. “You have to come over right now. It’s an absolute emergency.”

There was a sudden, sharp rustle on the other end of the lie. You could hear the instant shift in his demeanor, the soft bedsheets moving as he sat up. “What? What’s wrong? Are you okay?” his voice rushed out. “Do I need to call security? I can be there in five minutes-”

“No, no, nobody is hurt!” you cut him off quickly, keeping your eyes fiercely glued to the ugly spider on the wall. “But there is a monster in my room, Mike. A literal monster. It’s a spider. And it’s huge. It’s holding me hostage.”

There was a long, dead silence on the line.

Then, a quiet, breathless laugh came through the receiver. You could practically see the exact way his large, brows eyes were crinkling at the corners, his hand rising to hide his smile.

“A spider?” he cooed, his voice dropping into an amused, teasing tone. “You called me past midnight for a little bug?”

“It is not a little bug, Michael! It’s going to kill me!” you hissed, your legs curling tighter beneath your blanket. “And it’s directly above my door. I can’t leave. If you are a true friend who values my survival, you will get in your car and come save me.”

“Okay, okay, don’t worry,” Michael chuckled softly, the sound making your insides suddenly feel fuzzy. “Don’t move okay? Just stay on the bed.”

“I couldn’t move even if I wanted to,” you muttered rolling your eyes.

The line clicked dead. True to his word, it took exactly seven minutes before you heard the quiet, muffled sound of a car engine pulling into your driveway. You heard him rustling at the front door, because he possessed a spare key for emergencies, you heard the front door click open and close downstairs.

Then came the sound of his footsteps coming up the stairs.

Your bedroom door slowly nudged open, and Michael slipped inside. His curls were a bit wild, falling beautifully around his face, and his cheeks were flushed from the cool night.

He stopped in the doorway, his large eyes canning the room until they landed on you, a blanket wrapped tightly around your body, your eyes wide with fear but slightly soft at the sight of him. A wide smile broke across his face, his white teething showing beautifully. He let out a laugh.

“Look at you,” Michael teased, his voice a soft, velvety murmur as he walked into the room. “You look like a little chimney sweep with all the charcoal on your face.”

“Never mind my face,” you whined, lifting a hand to point a shaky finger toward the space above your door. “Look at the beast, Michael. It’s thinking about how to kill me!”

Michael turned his head, eyes tracking your finger until he spotted the spider. He blinked, tilting his head to the side, his lips parting slightly as he stepped closer to inspect it.

“Oh, he’s not a beast,” Michael cooed softly, his voice dropping into that gentle register he reserved for all of his animals. He took another step forward, getting dangerously close to the spider, his hands tucked into his trousers pocket. “He’s probably cold out there in the wind and wanted a warm place to rest. Look at his little legs.”

“I am not looking at his little legs,” you shuddered, burying your lower face into the top knit of your blanket. “Michael, please. Just take care of it. Squash it with a shoe or something.”

Michael’s head snapped back toward you. His brown eyes widened in absolute, genuine horror, his mouth falling open in a dramatic gasp.

“Squash him?” he looked at you as if you had just suggested robbing a bank. “No! Oh, no, I could never do that. He didn’t do anything to you. He’s a guest.”

“He’s an uninvited squatter!” you argued, though you couldn’t prevent the soft, breathy laugh from escaping your throat at his reaction. You knew him too well. Michael wouldn’t even swat a fly, he used to relocate stray caterpillars back in Gary to keep them safe. “Fine, don’t squash him. But he cannot stay in the same room as me. I will sleep in the bathtub.”

“Don’t be silly,” Michael’s expression melted into something incredibly sweet and adoring.

He drifted over to your desk, his fingers scanning your supplies until he picked up a thick, sturdy, sheet of your sketching paper and a glass cup. He looked over at you through his thick eyelashes with a playful look that made your pulse give a sudden, violent thud.

“I’ll be very gentle.”

You watched, holding your breath, as Michael walked back over to the closet door. He pulled a stool over, stepping onto it. He raised the piece of paper, his movements slowing down until he was entirely precise, entirely focused.

“Hi, little guy,” Michael whispered, his voice soft. “I’m just going to move you to a nicer spot, okay?”

With a delicate, steady hand, Michael slid the edge of the paper directly beneath the spider. The spider moved slightly, and you let out a muffled squeak from the bed, Michael on the other hand didn't flinch. He carefully coaxed the spider onto the center of the sheet, immediately placing the glass cup over the top.

He turned around on the stool, a triumphant, brilliant smile lighting up his entire face.

“See?” His eyes crinkled beautifully at the corners as he stepped down onto the floor. “He trusts me.”

“Great, now take him away before he changes his mind.” you urged, your chest tight with a mix of lingering fear and a completely different, dizzying warmth that had everything to do with the way the amber lamplight caught the sharp line of his jaw.

Michaled shuffled over to your bedroom window. With his elbow, he smoothly pushed the glass upward, allowing the cool, crisp air to pour into the room, rustling the curtains. Gently tapping the edge of the paper against the exterior windowsill.

“There you go,” Michael murmured, watching the spider crawl away into the ivy vines climbing the brick.

He closed the window, shutting it securely, and dusted his hands off with a satisfied, dramatic nod. He turned back to the room, his eyes instantly locking onto yours, and the playful energy in his posture shifted into something much more softer, more grounding.

Instead of walking back to the door to leave, Michael drifted over the edge of your bed.

The mattress dipped under his weight as he sat down on the edge, his legs stretching out. He didn’t bother staying a polite distance away, his natural affectionate nature seemed to pull him closer.

“It’s gone now.” Michael whispered smoothly, his voice a low thread in the quiet room. He reached out, his bare, fingers lightly, deliberately brushing against the back of your hand where it rested against the mattress.

The silence in your bedroom turning suffocatingly thick in a split second. Michael didn’t pull his hand back, his thumb began to trace a slow, incredibly lazy circle over your knuckles, his eyes scanning your face with an intense, heavy devotion that made it almost impossible to breathe.

“You really are a lifesaver, Mike.” you murmured, your voice a little shaky as you looked into his eyes, your heart pounding against your ribs.

Michael’s lips curved into a tiny, fragile, and deeply sweet smile. He tilted his head, a few dark curls falling over his eyes, before his eyes drifted down to the open sketchbook on your lap.

“What were you drawing before the spider came?” he asked, his voice sounding incredibly soft.

“Oh,” you flushed slightly, shifting the book. “Just… an old memory. The porch in Gary. I couldn’t get the steps right though.”

Michael’s eyes softened, a look of nostalgia washing over his features. Without a word, he shifted his weight, sliding further onto the bed until his back was resting against your headboard, right next to your pillows. He pulled a corner of your knitted blanket of his own lap, trapping your legs against the side of his as he crowded directly into your personal space.

“Let me see,” he cooed, his arm reaching across to gently grasp the edge of the sketchbook, pulling it closer so it rested between the two of you.

The rich, comforting scent of his vanilla cologne enveloped you entirely.

“See? I also drew the railing all wrong,” you pointed out, your finger tracing the dark charcoal lines you had drawn earlier, trying to mask that your entire body felt like it was on fire from his proximity.

He stayed like that for the next hour, completely refusing to leave your side. The both of you talking about anything and everything while his wide, shy eyes watched your features every time his fingers brushed against your hand.

◟♡ ˒ ʾʾ Michael Jackson never laughed when you didn’t understand something.

That’s what made it worse.

most people would sigh, or take over, or explain it in a way that would make you feel like you were twelve years old. But Michael was different, he stayed patient with you.

You sat beside him at the kitchen table, staring at the instructions with growing frustration, your tongue poking out slightly in an attempt to concentrate. He watched you quietly, careful to not disturb you.

He scooted his chair closer.

“Look.” His voice was gentle. His palm slid over the back of your hand, carefully guiding your fingers toward the correct spot. Just enough to point in the right direction for you to figure it out.

You were trying your best to focus. Unfortunately, Michael was very close. Close enough that his cologne overlapped your senses. Close enough that you could feel his curls brushing against you.

“There,” he said softly, eyes flicking up toward yours. “See? You almost had it.”

Heat crept up your cheeks. You mumbled something incoherent, suddenly becoming shy.

Michael leaned closer. “Hm?”

Your breath caught, because now he was really close. Looking at you with those ridiculously soft, wide eyes. Waiting to hear what you’d said.

I recently saw someone who said that they thought liberian girl was about a girl who worked in a library and now I can't get this idea off my head. So can I request a fic where mi goes in a library because he wants to release some stress by reading a new book but find himself having a crush on the pretty bookseller (reader obv) and he comes every day into the library just to see her.

Also I had thriller era in mind

Ofc do not feel obligate to fulfill my request if you don't want to

LIBRARIAN GIRL

ThrillerEra!Michael Jackson x Librarian!Reader

warnings: jealousy, possessiveness, Michael being taller than reader. that’s all

masterlist

The bells above the heavy, dark oak door of the library gave a soft, brassy chime, a sound immediately swallowed by the quiet, comforting atmosphere of the shop.

The bookstore/library was a haven of dust motes, old leather, and towering shelves that stretched all the way to the ceiling. It smelled heavily of vanilla, wood polish, and the faint, earthy scent of rain from the storm passing outside.

You were standing behind the circular checkout desk in the center of the room, a heavy wool cardigan wrapped tightly around your shoulders protecting you against the draft. With a cloth in hand, you were dusting and wiping a stack of newly arrived vintage poetry collections, humming to a tune that was fixated in your head. The bookstore was exceptionally empty, save for the occasional patter of raindrops against the high windows.

Until the bells chimed.

You instinctively looked up, a polite welcome forming on the tip of your tongue, but the words quickly died in your throat.

The man who had just stepped inside looked like he was trying very hard to disappear, yet he radiated an energy that made it completely impossible to look away. It was late 1983, the entire world was currently gripped by a collective frenzy over a single album called Thriller, you’ve heard it plenty of times on the radio. You would have to be living under a rock not to recognise the man currently standing on the worn out welcome mat.

He was wearing an oversized black coat. Large, dark aviator sunglasses that hid his eyes, and a soft, expensive black scarf wrapped loosely around his neck.

Michael had spent the last six months under the most blinding, suffocating spotlight in human history. Every move he made was tracked by flashbulbs, every breath he took was cataloged by screaming fans. That of course didn’t mean he wasn’t grateful for all of the incredible amount of support and praise he was receiving from his fans. But his life had become a beautiful, terrifying golden cage.

This afternoon, the pressure had simply become too much. He had slipped out of his security’s sight, desperate to expel the restless, bored energy thrumming through his bones for just an hour of quiet, single moment where he wasn’t the king of pop, but just Michael.

He stood frozen by the door for a moment, his chest heaving slightly under his coat. He glanced around the shop, his gloved hands fidgeting nervously, expecting someone to recognise him.

But to his surprise the shop remained perfectly still.

You blinked, realising you were staring. Instead of gasping or making a scene you decided to simply offer him a warm, gentle smile, your voice dropping to a quiet, respectful tone. “Welcome in. Feel free to browse. The fiction section is to the left, and we have hot tea in the back, which I’ve just brewed, if you need to warm up from the rain.”

Michael’s head snapped toward you. Behind the dark lenses of his sunglasses, his eyes widened. He didn’t say anything. He stood entirely still, his lips parting slightly.

He had expected many things when he ran away in the rain today, but he hadn’t expected you.

You look warm, a contrast against the harsh rain from outside, illuminated by the soft amber glow of a desk lamp, a stray strand of hair falling across your cheek as you went back to dusting your books, treating him with the casual, effortless kindness you would show any other person. To a man who was constantly suffocated by worship and hysteria, your simple, unbothered warmth felt like a bucket of cool water in a desert.

A sudden, soft blush crept up Michael’s neck, hidden by his scarf. He quickly looked down. He cleared his throat, as he took a tentative stop into the aisle.

“Thank you.” he whispered. His voice was gentle, so incredibly soft that you felt all the small worries that were nagging at you melting away.

He walked away into the maze of bookshelves, his shoes clicking quietly against the hardwood floor.

For the next forty five minutes, Michael pretended to look at the books. In reality, his heart was hammering an erratic rhythm against his ribs, and he hadn’t read a single sentence. He came here to read so he could relax, but that seemed like the last thing he was currently doing. He would pick up a heavy leather book, stare blankly at the text, subtly tilt his head around the edge of the shelf to peek at the gaps in the books.

He watched the way you carefully cataloged the library ledged, the soft serene expression on your face, and the gentle way you flipped through the old pages. When you stood up to reach a high shelf behind you, your cardigan slipped slightly off your shoulder. Michael hid behind a stack of books, his face burning hot, a wide, adoring smile breaking across his face.

He felt like he was under a spell.

When he finally gathered the courage to approach the desk to leave, he placed a small, random book on history on the counter. You smiled, ringing it up, and as you handed him his change, your fingers lightly brushed against his hand.

“Have a wonderful evening,” you said softly.

Michael didn’t answer. He grabbed the book in a hurry, the brass bells chiming loudly behind him.

On Friday, the bells chimed, cutting through the silence in the shop.

You didn't look up immediately. You were sitting on a low rolling stool behind the counter, a cozy knit sweater pulled over your hands as you carefully noted down a few recent inventory arrivals in the heavy ledger. The amber glow of a small green lamp illuminated your desk, casting soft shadows across the polished wood. It had been exactly one week. One week since your last encounter with Michael. You had just accepted the fact that you won’t see him again.

But when you looked up, Michael stepped over the threshold, closing the heavy oak door gently behind him, careful to not make too much noise.

Today, he wasn’t hiding behind his glasses. He looked incredibly handsome, his jawline sharp, his large, brown eyes wide under the soft library lights.

His posture was small. He stood with his hands tucked into his jacket pockets, his shoulders hunched slightly inward as he caught your eye. The moment his gaze locked onto yours, a shy smile broke across his face.

“Hi,” Michael murmured. His voice was soft and gentle, which almost immediately made you relax.

“Hi, Michael,” you smiled warmly, closing the ledger and resting your chin in your hands. “Did you manage to dodge the rain?”

Michael took a slow, tentative step toward the counter. He took his right hand out of his pocket, using his long, slender fingers to nervously adjust his gloves, a deep flush creeping up his neck.

“Just barely,” his eyes darted down to his shoes for a brief second before rushing back up to meet yours. He opened his coat, reaching into his left inside pocket and carefully took out a book on twentieth century European history he had checked out last week. He placed it gently on the counter, sliding it toward you with a lingering, cautious touch. “I brought this back. I…I finished it.”

“Did you really?” you raised an eyebrow playfully, leaning over the counter. “The whole thing? Michael, it’s six hundred pages. I usually only recommend this book to college students trying to cure insomnia.”

Michael froze, his eyes widening slightly. His shoulders shaking slightly as he laughed, your heart made a violent flip.

“I did,” he insisted, his voice rising into a sweet, defensive register. He leaned his forearms against the high wooden desk, stepping directly into your personal space until he was just inches away from you. He looked up through his dark eyelashes, his large eyes swimming with adoration. “I read every single page. Especially the part about the… the treaty of… um…”

“The Treaty of Locarno?” you supplied, fighting back a smile.

“Yes! That one,” a proud spark lighting up his features before his shyness caught up to him again. He nervously thrummed his fingers against the wood, a soft heavy pout forming on his lips as he looked down at your hands. “It was very educational. But I think… I liked the pictures best.”

“There are only four pictures in the entire book, Mike.” You laughed gently.

“And I liked them.” He didn't look away. He stared at your face with a lingering, magnetic intensity, entirely, captivated by the way your eyes crinkled when you laughed. Michael had spent his whole life being stared at, used for entertainment, and worshipped by fans. But right here, in the quiet of the bookstore, he was the one doing the worshipping. He was completely, utterly smitten, caught in the grip of a helpless crush.

He reached out, his bare index finger idly tracing a pattern on the mahogany counter, his hand stepping closer and closer until the side of his thumb lightly, deliberately brushed against your sleeve. He let out a shallow breath, his eyes holding your gaze, the unspoken tension thickening between you two.

“So,” you murmured, your throat suddenly dry under the sheer weight of his attention. “What’s the verdict? Are you looking for another history lesson today, or do you want something lighter for the weekend?”

Michael shifted his weight from foot to foot, his adoring expression softening. He tilted his head.

“I don’t know,” he said quietly, his fingers still lingering beside yours on the counter. “What do you think I should read? I only want it if… if you recommend it.”

You let out a soft, breathy laugh, your own cheeks flushing hot as you stood from the stool. “Well, come on the, Mr. Jackson. Let’s see if we can find something that actually has a plot this time.”

Michael’s lips curved into a wide, brilliant smile that lit up his entire face, his eyes crinkling happily as he quickly stepped back to let you lead the way into the maze of shelves, completely satisfied to follow you wherever you chose to take him.

Another week passed. Michael would make short occasional visits around 3PM, and it was to talk about everything and anything, you didn’t mind, actually Michael made you look forward to your shifts at the library. Despite only knowing him for two weeks you were growing fond of him.

The rain knocked heavily against the oak door, scraping against the hardwood floor each time it opened.

You didn’t need to look up to know who had just entered. It was exactly 3:05PM.

Michael stepped into the amber lit warmth of the shop.

“You’re late,” you murmured, a teasing smile playing on your lips as you finally set your pen down. “I was beginning to think you actually stayed in the studio today.”

He quickly took his hands out of his pockets, a shy smile slowly making its way onto his face.

“I tried to hurry,” he said quietly, the thought of you waiting for him filled him up with an odd soothing sort of ache. He leaned his forearms against the high wooden counter, stepping directly into your personal space until you could smell the intoxicating, rich scent of his vanilla and spice cologne. “Quincy wanted another take on a vocal arrangement, but I kept… I kept looking at the clock. I told him I had a very important meeting at three.”

“An important meeting with a stack of biography ledgers?” You asked, leaning forward until your face was just inches from his.

“With you,” Michael murmured.

He stared down at you through his dark eyelashes, his lower lip parting slightly as his eyes traced your features with a quiet, magnetic devotion. He didn’t say the words that kept him awake at night, he didn’t confess the consuming, helpless, sudden crush that had taken over his life since he first met you.

But the raw intensity of his eyes was louder than any other words that could be said.

Before the silence could stretch too thin, Michael suddenly remembered a small bag he had brought with him.

“I brought you something,” he whispered nervously, his hand diving into the bag.

Michael didn’t want to just visit, his intense, clingy nature demanded he leave a piece of himself behind every day. The gifts had started small, a perfect red apple, a rare tin of chamomile tea to keep you warm against the shop’s draft.

Today, he pulled out a small, heavy parcel wrapped in thick, midnight blue silk. He slid it across the polished wood, his fingers brushing against the edge of your hand. The contact was brief but enough to make his cheeks flush.

“Open it,” he pleaded softly, his face hovering closely, his lower lip tucked between his teeth.

You united the silk ribbon, peeling back layers to find a beautiful bracelet resting on top of a velvet cushion.

“Michael,” you gasped, a soft laugh of pure disbelief escaping you. “This is stunning. It looks like a work of art, not something for someone who works in a dusty corner shop.”

“It’s for you to wear,” Michael explained quickly, his voice rushing as a fresh wave of shyness hit him. His bare fingers reached across the counter, gently catching your wrist. His skin was hot against your wrist. “Can I put it on you?”

Your fingers trembled slightly as you nodded. Michael picked up the bracelet, his long fingers working with a focused concentration as he wrapped the chain around your wrist. His fingertips continuously brush against the skin of your inner wrist. He clicked the delicate clasp into place.

His thumb lingered, lightly tracing a slow circle over your pulse point, eyes lifting to lock with yours.

“I noticed you don’t wear much jewelry when you’re working,” Michael said gently, his gaze dropping to your wrist before rushing back to your eyes. “I wanted you to have something beautiful. Every time you move your hand it’ll make a quiet little sound… a pretty sound. So you’ll think of… so it keeps you company when I’m not here.”

The gesture made your throat dry. You stared down at his fingers. Your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs.

“You can’t keep doing this, Mike.” you murmured, unable to pull away. “You’re spoiling me.”

“I want to,” Michael smiled innocently.

A month had passed, you and Michael had grown closer than ever, to the point where Michael began inviting you to his house occasionally. You were curled up on the massive velvet sofa, an oversized knit blanket engulfing you which smelled faintly of cedar and expensive vanilla. A single brass floor lamp casting a puddle of warm light over the pages of your book

The room was perfectly still save for the crackle of the wood burning fireplace and the distant, rhythmic clink of a whisk hitting a ceramic bowl in the kitchen down the hall.

A few minutes later, the rhythmic clicking of Michael’s footsteps announced his return.

He didn’t say a word as he stepped onto the thick Persian rug. He didn’t ask if you were hungry, and he didn’t ask how the book was going. He simply drifted toward the sofa like a ghost pulled by a magnetic current.

You didn’t look up from your page, a small, knowing smile already tugging at the corners of your lips.

Michael stopped directly in front of your spot on the couch. He leaned over, his frame casting a shadow across your book. Before you could even blink, he tilted his head down, pressing his lips against your forehead.

He smelled faintly of the sweet buttermilk batter and maple syrup he had been mixing in the kitchen. The kiss was soft, entirely unhurried, a gentle pressure that sent a violent flutter straight to your stomach.

You tried to force your eyes back down to the text of your novel, but the words were starting to blur into a meaningless haze.

It had been going on for the last forty five minutes. Michael insisted on making pancakes from scratch, a project he had taken on with determination, but every few minutes he would appear at the edge of the sofa, incapable of staying away from your orbit.

He didn’t need anything. He didn’t want anything. He just wanted the occasional brief second of physical contact that he just couldn’t seem to stay away from.

Ten minutes passed. The rain outside seemed to double in intensity, a loud gust of wind rattling the heavy arched windows. On cue, the distant sound of a cabinet closing echoed from the kitchen, followed by the familiar, soft sliding of socks against the hardwood floor.

You kept your eyes glued to the page, pretending to be utterly focused and absorbed in the book you were reading, though your ears were hyper focused on his approach.

Michael stopped by the arm of the sofa this time. He didn’t lean over the front, instead he came around the back. His hands resting gently on the velvet cushion right behind you.

Once again, his lips pressed against your forehead. His mouth lingering for a few seconds longer than necessary. You could feel the soft, steady puff of his warm breath against your temple.

“Michael,” you murmured, your voice a low, breathy laugh as he finally pulled his head back. “The better is going to get warm and gross if you keep abandoning it.”

Michael didn’t retreat. He stayed hovering inches from your face, his large brown eyes swimming with an intense, heavy gravity that made your throat go dry. A soft almost unnoticeable pout formed on his lips whenever you called him out on his behaviour.

“It needs to rest,” Michael defended himself. He reached out, fingers lightly brushing against the bracelet resting on your wrist. “The recipe says the batter has to rest for fifteen minutes so the pancakes get fluffy. I’m just… I’m just following the instructions.”

“I’m pretty sure the instructions don’t say you have to walk back and forth across the house six times,” you teased, turning your head slightly to catch sight of his face.

Michael let out a quiet chuckle. “They do,” he whispered playfully. “It’s a secret technique. Quincy taught me.”

“Quincy did not teach you how to bake pancakes, Mike.”

“He did!” Michael insisted.

Instead of walking back to the kitchen, he moved around the sofa, lifting the edge of your heavy knit blanket, and smoothly slid himself into the empty space right next to your hip.

The sofa dipped. Michael didn’t stay a polite distance away. He grabbed the edge of the blanket pulling it over his own lap, effectively trapping the two of you under the warmth of the blanket.

The proximity was intoxicating. You fought against the urge to lean into the sweet smelling scent of his cologne that was radiating off his skin.

“What are we reading?” Michael murmured next to you.

He leaned his upper body sideways, resting his chin directly against your shoulder. His curls brushed against your neck and cheek, sending a sudden rush of heat straight to your face. He reached out, hand sliding over the top of yours to help you hold the heavy pages of the book, his palm warm and solid against the back of your hand.

There hadn’t been much wind since last week. It was now exactly a month and one week since you’ve met Michael, and by now the 3PM slot on your clock was practically his personal property which he proudly owned.

Today however, the shop wasn’t filled with the usual quiet murmurs of shared interest in books or breathless laughs over the counter.

Instead, Michael was sitting in the large, plush forest green armchair tucked away near the biography section. Usually, when he was here, his posture had grown to be loose and relaxed. Right now, his hands were crossed over his chest, his shoulders hunched inward the smallest amount. Trying to hide a heavy pout pulling at his lips. His large, brown eyes were narrowed, tracking a very specific target across the room with a fierce intensity.

He was sulking. Completely sulking.

The source of his quiet misery was standing at the center checkout desk. A handsome, well dressed male customer in his late twenties had been lingering at your counter for the last fifteen minutes. He had brought up a single paperback, but instead of completing the transaction and leaving, he was leaning his forearm casually against the counter, flashing an overly bright, confident smile as he tried to engage you in conversation.

“I’ve just been looking for a place that carries rare literary journals,” the man was saying, his voice carrying easily through the quiet shop. He tilted his head, giving you a smooth practiced look. “A friend told me that a worker here has incredible taste. Clearly, they weren't exaggerating.”

You offered a polite, professional smile, ringing up the book. “Thank you. We try to keep a unique selection. If you leave your name and number, I can check our back stock for those journals and give you a call.”

Michael breathed an irritated sigh. He couldn’t handle it. He literally could not handle seeing someone else standing at your counter, absorbing your smiles, and occupying your attention that had belonged exclusively to him for the past month.

“That would be perfect,” the customer replied, completely unaware of the man shooting him daggers. The man slid a small piece of paper across the counter toward you. “I’m usually free in the evenings if you want to call then.”

Michael’s jaw tightened. His lower lip jutted out further, looking almost painful in its stubbornness.

He let out a loud, over dramatic ‘ahem’ that echoed through the shop.

You paused, your eyes instantly darting past the customer to the corner of the room.

Michael didn't look away when you caught him. He met your gaze head on, his big, dark eyes slightly wide, swimming with a tragic, wounded sorrow that made him look like a puppy that had been left out in a storm

“Is everything alright back there?” the customer asked, turning his head looking for the source of noise.

“Oh, yes, just a regular customer,” you said quickly, feeling a sudden wave of heating rushing to your face as you tucked the slip of paper into your drawer. “All set. Have a wonderful afternoon.”

“Thanks, I’ll be waiting for that call,” the man smiled, finally heading toward the exit, the heavy door clicking shut behind him.

The moment the door closed, the tense silence in the shop turned suffocating.

You let out a soft, breathy sigh, walking from behind the counter stepping into the narrow aisle. Michael didn’t move. He remained in the green armchair.

“Michael,” you said gently, stopping a few feet away from his chair and resting your hands on your hips. “What was that? Hm?”

Michael didn’t answer right away. He turned his head sharply to the side, staring blankly at a row of book spines, his heavy pout firmly intact. He let out a little huff through his nose.

“Nothing,” he murmured. His voice was a low, quiet whisper.

“It didn’t sound like nothing,” you teased softly, stepping closer until your shoes were practically touching his. “You looked like you wanted to shoot laser beams out of your eyes at that poor man.”

Michael’s head snapped back up, his large eyes blazing with a sudden frantic intensity. He unfolded his arms gripping the edges of the armchair as he leaned forward, stepping directly into your personal space.

“He was talking too much,” Michael defended himself. “He was leaning on the counter. People shouldn’t lean on the counter like that, it’s… it’s bad manners. And he gave you his number. Why did he give you his number?”

“He wants me to find some rare journals for him, Mike,” you explained, fighting the fluttering warmth in your chest. “It's just business.”

“I can find journals,” Michael whispered, his finger twitching against the armchair. He stood up suddenly, his frame hovering over you, his presence warm and entirely overpowering in the narrow aisle. He took a half step closer, completely discarding any sense of casual boundaries, his large eyes scanning every inch of your face with desperate, clinginess. “I have people who can find any book in the world. You don’t need to call him. If you need journals, you can ask me. I can get them for you. Tomorrow. A whole box.”

This was different to his usual shy nature, you weren’t sure how to react. Michael usually fidgeted, or subtly tried to move closer, but clearly when jealous he’d move the opposite. He didn’t even try to be casual about it, his actions were a confession in themselves, a display of raw, possessive devotion that no regular customer could ever replicate. He was terrified of losing your attention, your smiles, or your time being directed at a guy that wasn’t him.

“Michael,” you said softly. “I don’t want to ask your people for books. I like talking to you.”

A sigh escaped his lips, a shy small smile broke through his sulking pout. “Really?”

“Really,” you confirmed, reaching out to lightly touch the sleeve of his black jacket. He reached out, his fingers wrapping around your wrist, his grip firm.

“Don’t call him,” Michael pleaded softly, his thumb tracing a slow, agonisingly sweet circle over the skin of your wrist. “I don’t want anyone else taking up your time.”

“Okay, Mike,” you whispered, offering him a reassuring smile. “No phone calls.”

Michael smiled, despite only knowing you a month and a week, he was already adamant that you were his. He was completely satisfied that he was once again the center of your universe.

◟♡ ˒ ʾʾ Michael Jackson loved paying all of his attention to you.

You were sitting cross legged on the bed in front of him, your hands gesturing wildly in the air. You were in the middle of a passionate rant about a movie you were dying to see, utterly exasperated because every single video rental shop in town continued to let you down.

“It’s so annoying Mike! They all say the same thing!” Your words tumbled in a breathless rush.

Switching to a mockingly low voice, mimicking the bored store clerk. “Oh sorry, it’s sold out. Oh sorry, we don’t have it here. Oh sorry, we might have it next week!” You scrunch your nose in pure frustration.

Michael just watched you intently. A soft amused smile playing on his lips. His large, dark, eyes dancing with absolute adoration.

He loved this. He loved that whenever you felt bothered you were comfortable enough to rant to him, to untangle your mind in front of him. He’d gladly drop everything just to listen to your talk for hours.

The second you left, Michael didn’t waste a second, and he of course called Bill, asking him to get the car ready. He had Bill drive him all over the city, tirelessly visiting one video shop after another, asking for the very same VHS you had been ranting about. He refused to go home empty handed.

Eventually, he found it.

When Friday arrived, it brought your favourite tradition, a sleepover and a movie night at Michael’s house.

You were tucked away in Michael’s room, surrounded by soft blankets as you wore your favourite fluffy socks, a big bowl of your favourite sweets on your lap.

“So what film did you choose for us tonight?” You asked, looking up at him.

Michael suddenly seemed a little nervous, a small grin tugged at the corner of his mouth as he handed you a VHS.

You furrowed your brow, flipping the plastic case in your hand. The moment you registered the title, a loud, ecstatic squeal escaped past your lips, pushing the bowl of sweets to the side, completely forgotten.

You threw your arms around Michael’s neck as he laughed, his arms wrapping around your waist shyly. Leaning in you planted a kiss on his cheek with a loud ‘mwah!’ “Michael, I could seriously just marry you right now!”

Michael’s face immediately flushed a hue of crimson on his cheekbones and on the tip of his nose. Oh he would gladly buy every single movie on the planet if it meant hearing you say things like that forever.

can u make a fic of michael and the reader on the set of the say say say music video? the reader was casted as the girl role and michael has a crush on her and the reader is aware of that so she enjoys teasing and flustering him since he's shy.

fluff obvi :)

Say Say Say

Michael Jackson X Reader

warnings: jealousy, nothing else

masterlist

When you got casted as the lead actress for the short film, you knew you’d be working closely with Paul McCartney and Michael Jackson. What you didn’t know was that Michael would turn into a stuttering mess every time you walked into the room.

It hadn’t taken long for Paul to notice. In fact, Paul had pulled you aside on day one, a massive, teasing grin on his face, and said something along the lines of: “Do me a favour and give him a bit of a hard time, yeah? He needs practice.”

You didn’t need to be told twice, Michael was the sweetest, most gentle soul you’d ever encounter, but his utter helplessness around you was an invitation you just couldn’t resist. You loved the way he was so obviously nervous, you especially loved the way his big brown eyes would widen like a deer caught in headlights whenever you got just a little too close.

He’d mutter every excuse under the sun, just to be able to be in your vicinity.

You remember the early hours on day one, the folding chairs beneath the break tent were practically begging to be sat in, rows of empty white canvas stretching across the grass clearing. Yet, like a compass always finding true north, Michael had bypassed every single one of the empty chairs to slide into the one right next to yours.

You watched him out of the corner of your eye, a slow, knowing smirk tugging at the corners of your lips. You let the silence stretch for a beat, waiting until he took a sip of his water before you decide to start questioning him.

Leaning your elbow on the armrest, you tilted your head toward him. “Y’know, Michael, I’m no mathematician,” you began, your voice dripping with amusement, “but I counted at least ten other empty chairs under this tent.”

He swallowed hard, “really? I uh, I haven’t noticed.” He was looking everywhere but at you. “I just thought this spot had the best shade.”

You nodded pretending to believe his lie.

You also recall when Michael came up to you, his eyes landing everywhere, not knowing where to rest them, “the director mentioned a ‘two-shot’, what does that mean?” you hid your grin behind the rim of your paper cup. “It means the camera frames two people in the shot at the same time, usually from the waist up.”

Michael nodded. His large dark eyes were locked entirely onto your face, hanging onto your every word. “And the lighting? Why are they putting that big white board over there?”

“To soften the shadows on our faces.” you knew exactly what he was doing. He didn’t care about the white board, and he knew what a two-shot was because you had overheard the director explaining it to him earlier. He just wanted an excuse to stand in your space, a reason for him to be able to track the movement of your lips, or the way your eyelashes fluttered.

After a few more minutes of answering his questions. You took a step back, breaking the close contact. You instantly saw the way his features shifted. “Well, I think I’m going to go over-”

“Wait-” Michael blurted, his hand almost taking a hold of your wrist before he could regain control over himself. “I mean, before you go. What do you think the weather tomorrow will be?”

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep yourself from laughing. “The weather?”

“Yeah,” Michael rushed out, stepping forward to close the gap you had just made. “They said it might rain. If it rains they might cancel the outdoor shoot.”

Oh he was desperate. It was growing more obvious by the second.

It was the second day of rehearsals and you were leaning against a stack of hay bales, chatting with one of the lighting technicians, a friendly guy named Dave. He was just telling a harmless story about a mishap during a previous shoot, and you let out a laugh. But the only thing that was distracting you was from across the busy barn set, you could feel his eyes on you.

When you looked up, you caught Michael’s eyes through the crowd of crew members. He was standing by the director’s chair. His jaw was set, lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes switching between you and Dave. Michael was trying his best at being subtle on how he didn’t like Dave being that close to you. But to you it was obvious that he was sulking. The tension in his shoulders made your heart do a sudden flip.

You politely excused yourself from Dave, giving him a warm nod before weaving your way through cameras and cables straight toward Michael. The moment he saw you walking away from the technician, relief had flooded through his features, softening the frown on his face.

“Hey,” you said as you stepped right beside him, close enough that your shoulder bumped into his chest.

“Hey,” he answered, trying to seem unbothered. His lips parted as he hesitated before asking something. “What were you two talkin’ about over there?”

You suppressed a smile. “Why do you care, Michael?” you asked playfully, tilting your head and looking at him with a knowing grin.

His eyes darted away instantly. He looked at the floor, then at a pile of camera cables a few feet away, absolutely refusing to meet your gaze. A beautiful, telltale crimson rush began to creep up his neck, dusting his cheekbones and the tip of his ears.

“I don’t,” he murmured quickly, his voice sounding slightly breathless, you’d noticed by now that it always did whenever he’d get flustered. He cleared his throat, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “I don’t care. I was just… curious, that’s all. I mean, he was talking a lot. Just makin’ sure he wasn’t bothering you.”

“Bothering me?” you stepped a tad bit closer, forcing him to acknowledge how close you were. “He was just telling me a funny story. He was being really sweet.”

At the word ‘sweet’, Michael’s bottom lip jutted out in a tiny, unconscious pout. He finally risked a glance at you, his brown eyes wide and full of jealousy.

Michael whispered a little ‘oh’, his eyes darting back down. He bit his lip thinking for a second. “Well… I have plenty of funny stories. I could tell you all about them. If you want.”

Your heart did a violent flip at how precious he was.

It was the third day of rehearsals, they wanted to see how the makeup would turn out so you were currently sitting in the makeup chair, getting final touches on your 1930s inspired look. The trailer door clicked open, and a soft voice murmured, “oh, sorry… I can come back.”

You looked in the mirror and smiled. Michael was hovering by the door. His curls were perfectly styled, clinging softly to his forehead, his large dark eyes were wide as he looked at you.

“Michael, don’t be silly. Come in.” you said, turning around in your chair.

He stepped inside, his hands buried deep in his pockets. He gave you one of his timid smiles, cheeks flushing a faint lovely crimson. “You, um… you look really beautiful.”

“Thank you,” you walked over to him, stopping just a little closer than what was strictly necessary. You tilted your head up to meet his gaze. “Do you really think so?”

Michael blinked, swallowing hard. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Yeah. I do. A lot.”

“Good,” you said, reaching out to carefully adjust the collar of his shirt. Your fingers brushing against his neck, you felt him catch his breath. You looked up at him through your lashes, smirking playfully. “Because I only care if you like it.”

Michael smiled, biting his lip as he looked at the floor, he tried to prevent himself from showing how obvious he liked what you said.

“You’re teasing me.” he whispered, his voice trembling with a mix of shyness and delight.

It is late afternoon now. You wrapped your arms tightly around yourself, shivering slightly in the thin fabric of your costume dress. You were tucked away in a quiet corner between two equipment trailers, trying to block the wind, when a pair of heavy, warm hands draped a thick, oversized wool blanket over your shoulders.

You gasped, looking up to find Michael standing there. He had already changed out of his stage costume, his dark curls framing his face wonderfully.

“You look like a little icicle over here,” Michael said, his voice a soft, soothing melody against the evening breeze.

Before you could reply, he held out a large, steaming ceramic mug. The rich, sweet aroma of hot chocolate and melted marshmallows instantly hit your senses.

“I noticed you shivering,” he murmured, stepping closer to block the wind for you. “So I ran over to the catering truck and got some hot chocolate for you. I put in extra marshmallows in it because I know you like them, I wasn’t sure about sprinkles-”

You noticed he was rambling nervously, your heart did a flip in your chest. “Michael, you’re a lifesaver,” you cut him off smiling, taking the warm mug from his hands. The heat seeping into your cold fingers was instant relief, but looking at his sweet, concerned face warmed you up even more.

“Take a sip,” he encouraged, watching you carefully with those large, expressive brown eyes. “Make sure it’s not too hot.”

You blew gently on the steam and took a slow sip. It was perfect, thick, rich and incredibly warm. “It’s amazing. Thank you.”

You took another sip, purposely leaving a tiny bit of the whipped cream on your upper lip, looking over at him with wide, innocent eyes. “Do I have something on my nose?”

Michael let out a quiet laugh. He reached out, his shaky thumb gently wiping the cream from your lip with utmost carefulness. “No.” he said quietly, his eyes dropping to your mouth for a brief second before his eyes darted back up to yours. “Right there.”

You didn’t let him pull his hand back. You caught his wrist, holding his hand in place, and leaned forward. Before he could ever process what you were doing, you pressed a soft, lingering kiss right against his cheekbone.

Michael froze.

Even in the dim light, you could see the blush instantly painting his cheeks. He let out a breathless, tiny ‘oh,’ his chest hitching as he immediately looked down, trying to hide the massive smile that was completely taking over his face. He shifted, utterly defeated by the gesture.

“What’s wrong, Mikey?”

“You’re terrible,” Michael whispered, though his voice was thick with affection. He peeked at you, his eyes glittering with that deep, bashful warmth that always gave him away. He bit his lower lip, trying and failing to look strict. “I bring you a nice warm drink out of the goodness of my heart, and you just use it as an excuse to fluster me.”

“It’s a very effective strategy,” you teased, sliding your hand down from his wrist to lace your fingers through his. His hand was incredibly warm against your chilled skin. "Besides, your face is like a human heater when you blush, you’re keeping me warm.”

Michael let out another helpless chuckle, shaking his head as he squeezed your hand.

Michael Jackson x Reader

warnings: kissing

I thought of Thriller era, but you can imagine any era u want. Gender isn’t mentioned.

masterlist

Michael sat cross legged in the centre of a massive, plush Persian rug, surrounded by scattered vinyl records that he was organising alphabetically, and a half eaten bowl of buttery popcorn. He was supposed to be focused, but for the last twenty minutes, his focus had been completely utterly derailed by you.

You were currently on the opposite end of the rug, completely oblivious to his gaze. You had bought over a thick, vintage storybook, and you were propped up on your stomach, your chin resting in the palm of your hand, feet idly kicking back and forth in the air, you were even wearing your favourite fluffy socks.

Michael’s eyes tracked every single thing you did. The way your nose gave a tiny, involuntary twitch whenever you turned a page. The way you unconsciously chewed on your bottom lip.

You rubbed your eyes, yawning tiredly.

Michael felt a weird bizarre, fierce urge to just squeeze you. To wrap you up in his arms so tightly that you’d gasp. His tongue poked the inside of his cheek as he fought the overwhelming urge to just grab you.

You turned another page, letting out a tiny, soft sigh as you adjusted your position.

“That’s it,” he murmured. You blinked, pulled out of the book by the sudden sound of his voice. “Huh? Did you say something Mike-”

You sat upright, noticing the way he was looking at you. And before you could even process it he was in front of you, cupping your face gently. His thumb stroking your cheekbone.

Before you could even say a word, Michael leaned in. Prepping small, sweet kisses all over your face.

mwah mwah mwah

He started at your forehead, you squeaked in surprise. What caused this sudden reaction from him? His hand moved to the back of your neck, holding you in place. He moved down, planting three quick kisses on your right cheek, then immediately moving to the left.

“Michael!” You shrieked, a breathless laugh escaping your lips. Your hands coming up to his chest.

“Can’t stop.” Michael mumbled against your skin.

You giggled, which only fueled Michael’s actions more.

Mwah. Another firm kiss planted on the tip of your nose. He moved to your jawline, lips pressing happily against the warm skin. The sheer affection of it was dizzying. You were squirming and laughing.

Michael pulled back eventually, he was panted slightly. His large eyes tracing across your flushed features.

He reached up, both hands cupping each side of your face. Squeezing lightly.

“Look at you,” he groaned, his voice immediately making your knees weak. “I just want to bite you.”

He leaned back in again, planting a quick small kiss against your lips. And then another just to be sure. And maybe a third, third times the charm, right?

He leaned back catching the view of your smile, which only made him lean back in and plant two more kisses against your cheekbone. “Looking so sweet.” He mumbled.

“I was literally just reading a book.” You laughed shyly.

“Mmhmm. And you were kicking your feet.”

Michael chided gently, a soft, devastatingly beautiful smile spreading across his lips. He pressed one last kiss to the crown of your head.

Sorry this is so short

◟♡ ˒ ʾʾ Michael Jackson is the least nonchalant man you know. He likes you, and he isn’t afraid of showing it either.

Michael was having a small gathering at his house, and when it came to you, any trace of his casualness would completely vanish. He might be a shy man but he was fiercely, unapologetically possessive of your space. He didn’t care who saw it.

Michael was currently sitting on the sofa, looking miserable. His bottom lip was pulled into a heavy, prominent pout.

“Man, Mike, cheer up,” one of his producers laughed. “Why you so upset for?”

Michael sighed, leaning his head back against the cushions. “She said she’d be here by eight,” he mumbled. “It’s 8:14.”

As if right on cue, the heavy front door swung open, and you finally stepped into the living room.

The second he saw you, his entire demeanour shifted. The pout vanished, replaced by a massive grin. He instantly got up, forgetting all about the people around him, and made his way towards you.

“You’re here.” He said, his voice bright and eager.

Before you could even take your jacket off, Michael was in your space. Wrapping his arms around your waist, invading you with a comforting sort of warmth.

“I’m sorry I’m late, traffic was terrible.” You said, laughing as you looked up at him. “Were you waiting long?”

“Forever,” he exaggerated, his large brown eyes watching you. “I’ve been so bored”

“But there’s like thirty other people here?” You asked, gesturing towards the room filled with people.

“Doesn’t matter,” he murmured, intertwining his fingers with yours, completely ignoring a couple of background singers that were waiting to talk with him. “Come here. I have to show you what I got today. I’ve been waiting all night to give them to you.”

Without waiting for a response he guided you through the room, pulling you towards the corner. Resting on top of a cabinet was a neatly stacked pile of original vinyl records.

“Look,” Michael said eagerly, picking up the one on top. He held it up for you to see. A rare, first pressing of an old jazz record you had casually mentioned wanting months ago.

I NEED JEALOUS MICHAEL INJECTED INTO MY VEINS🗣️🗣️🗣️🗣️🗣️🗣️🗣️🗣️🗣️🗣️🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥

A/N: Thank you for your kind words and don’t worry twin me too, I love jealous mj.

a date?

ThrillerEra!Michael Jackson x Reader

warnings: Michael being jealous, possessive, idk what else.

summary: reader has to leave for a date and Michael isn’t having it.

masterlist

Michael was sitting upright against his massive, wooden headboard, and legs stretched out. A yellow, small notepad laying on his leg, twirling a pen as he wrote and scribbled every few seconds.

You were sitting crossed legged on the foot of the bed, your eyes glancing towards the ticking clock, counting down every minute with nervousness. Your fingers tracing the stitch on your pants absentmindedly as you talked with Michael. You side eyed the clock again.

4:42 PM.

A quiet sigh escaping your lips. You and Michael had been best friends for years, you slept in his t shirts, watched old films together, organised days out, he even ended up sneaking through your bedroom window one day because he missed you.

But the intimacy between you had grown thick, it was suffocating. You were entirely, helplessly in love with him. It has been that way for days, months, years, and nothing ever changes. He never made a single move to claim you.

You had finally reached a breaking point.

You were fed up searching for signals and signs that one day he might make a commitment, one day he’ll eventually bridge the gap between best friends and dating. But he never did. Defeated by the agonizing silence and convinced that he only saw you as a permanent fixture in his life. Deciding you need to move on, you had done the unimaginable; you had agreed to go on a date.

It was a date with a kind, average guy you met from a local library named Thomas. The date was scheduled for 6pm. You needed to leave, even though you didn’t want to.

“Hey,” Michael’s soft voice broke through your thoughts, melting over you like warm honey. “You went quiet on me. What do you think of putting Human nature right after Billie Jean?”

“Um, yeah,” you murmured, blinking out of your daze. “I think that transition is perfect, Mike.”

Your eyes instinctively made their way to the clock. 4:51PM.

Panic suddenly flared in your stomach. Your apartment was a fifteen minute drive away, you still needed to shower, do your hair, put on the dress you had spent hours picking out. With a racing heart you slowly slid off the edge of the bed, your feet hitting the floor.

Michael stopped twirling his pen. His large eyes snapping towards your movement.

“Where are you going?” he asked, his brow furrowing into a curious line.

“I have to get going, Michael,” you said. You hardly ever left Michael’s house early, but tonight was obviously different. You reached for your purse on the arm chair. You kept your back turned to him. If you looked at his large eyes now, you’d end up forgetting every reason you had for leaving. “It’s almost five.”

Michael didn’t move for a second, his brain trying to process the words you were saying. “Right. It’s five. My mother usually has dinner ready by six thirty, you have plenty of time to wash up before we go down.”

“No, Mike.” you breathed, finally turning to face him. Your fingers fidgeting with the strap of your purse. “I mean… I have to leave. I’m going back to my apartment tonight.”

Michael’s small note pad slid to the side, entirely forgotten. He sat up straighter, his body becoming slightly rigid. His features showed signs of confusion.

“Your apartment?” he echoed, the words sounding foreign on his tongue. He blinked at you, his chest falling in quick shallow breaths. “But you’re staying here tonight? It’s Friday. We have a whole lineup of cheesy 1960s horror movies to watch.”

“I can’t tonight,” you whispered, looking down at the carpet feeling guilty. “I have to be somewhere.”

“Somewhere? Where?” Michael asked in an instant.

He didn’t wait for an answer. Within a fraction of a second he slid off the bed, his movement hurried. He crossed the room until he was standing directly in front of you. His hand reached for yours, catching the back of your hand, fingers absentmindedly tracing the lines of your palm. He didn’t want you to leave.

“Tell me where you have to go,” he demanded softly, his body vibrating with restless energy. His large brown eyes tracing your features, like he could find the answers there. “You didn’t mention any errands. Why are you abandoning me?” He said dramatically.

“Michael, please,” you scoffed, slightly nervous under the weight of his undivided attention. Your breath catching in your throat as his cologne enveloped you completely. “It’s just… I have plans. I need to go get ready or I’ll be late.”

“Ready for what? Plans with who?” Michael pressed instantly, his grip tightening just a fraction. He stepped closer, his face closer now. His mind desperate to come up with a conclusion. “Is it one of your friends? Did someone call your apartment? Tell me, please? Why can’t I come with you?”

“Because you can’t.” you lifted your eyes, finally meeting his, heart hammering violently against your ribs. “I’m going on a date, Michael.”

The silence that came after was heavy, a completely suffocating weight.

Michael froze, his entire body went still. His lips parted slightly as his brain scrambled to process the words. A scowl instantly settled onto his features, pouting his lips.

“A date?” Michael whispered. He stared at you as if you had just struck him, all the blood draining from his face. “With who? What do you mean, a date?”

“With Thomas,” you murmured. “I met him at the local library. He asked me out a few days ago, and I said yes. It’s at six, and I need to go home to get ready.”

“No.” Michael said, crossing his arms and shaking his head. “No, absolutely not.”

“Michael, I have to!” you laughed gently, your heart doing a wild, dangerous flip at how bothered he looked. “He’s picking me up in an hour. I can’t just stand him up.”

“Yes, you can,” he insisted, his words tumbling in a breathless rush. “Call him. Tell him you’ve caught a sudden, very serious illness.”

“Why do you care so much?” you asked, a sudden spark of bold amusement taking over. “You can’t just hoard me to yourself forever, Mike.”

“Watch me.” He countered, his eyes softening as he reached out and gently took your purse right out of your hand, tossing it onto the arm chair behind you. He caught both of your hands before you could turn to grab your purse.

“Do you really want to go sit across from library Thomas and talk about super boring stuff, or do you want to stay here, eat whatever snacks you want and even have me cater to your every whim?”

You raised an eyebrow. Biting down on your lip to prevent the grin breaking across your face. “My every whim?”

Michael nodded. “Just don’t go hang out with some guy who doesn’t even know what your favourite film is.”

Your heart swelled, the heavy weight of doubt you’d been carrying for months suddenly evaporating into thin air. He didn’t just want a best friend, or a permanent fixture, he wanted you. And it felt so obvious to you now.

“You’re being incredibly unfair right now,” you breathed looking up at him.

“I am desperate,” he admitted. “Please stay?”

You let out a dramatic sigh, Michael instantly smiled. He knew what your dramatic sigh meant. “Fine. I’m staying.”

“Okay!” Michael said eagerly. “Oh right but you should probably call him.”

You were now sitting on the edge of his bed, nervously dialing the number. The second Thomas picked up with a polite, “hello this is Thomas,” Michael didn’t even give you an inch of space. His head right next to yours, eavesdropping the conversation. You side eyed him as you rolled your eyes.

“Hi Thomas,” you were on the verge of pushing Michael off the bed. “I really can’t make it tonight. Something came up.”

Before you could even hear his response, Michael gave an evil, proud smirk before leaning right in, “she’s staying here with me. We have to watch an old movie. Bye!”

“Michael! Stop it!” you squeaked, gasping in utter horror and embarrassment. You quickly smacked a hand over his mouth, trying to push his giggling face away. You slammed the receiver back onto the hook and hid your face. “I cannot believe you just did that!”

Michael burst out laughing, “he was asking for it.”

Can I request a Micheal x quiet! reader, moreover a reader with a resting sad face? Like there on a date, either with Micheal showing her his animals—or out to eat at a diner l couldn't decide myself m'sorry) and he's in a somewhat internal panic about her not having a good time, despite her actually having a good time, and having to reassure him about it.

Thank you,

ThrillerEra!Michael Jackson x Reader

warnings: none

masterlist

A/N: I have to post requests like this because tumblr is being fussy 😑

You walked half a step behind Michael, your hands loosely clasped in front of the simple sundress you had chosen to wear. You were an incredibly quiet person, you’d usually prefer to spend your nights alone, kicking your feet on the bed while flipping through a book. Yet somehow something about Michael pulled at you, which is how you ended up here.

You knew you carried a trait that confused a lot of people, and that was having a sad resting face. Even when experiencing happiness, your natural features always seemed sad, like you were quietly upset about something. You couldn’t count the amount of times people had asked you, “what’s wrong?” Or told you to “cheer up.”

Michael had spent two weeks busy in his studio, and the second he found himself having a free afternoon, he didn’t hesitate to call you.

You had been thrilled. You were still thrilled. As you watch him walk ahead of you, your heart thumps with a mixture of excitement and nervousness.

“Look over here, that’s where we're building a new place for the llamas,” Michael said, turning his head back to you. His large eyes scan your face, looking for a reaction.

You looked over to the place he was pointing at. You loved how much he cared for animals. You nodded slowly, gaze dragging back towards him. “It’s beautiful, Michael.”

Your voice came out quiet, you were lost in thought. Michael’s smile faltered, a sudden, panic sharp in his chest. He interpreted your silence as unhappiness. He lived in a world where he had to constantly entertain people, and seeing you look solemn was like a physical blow to his chest.

His mind overlapped with new thoughts, one after another: is she bored of me? Should I have chosen somewhere else to take her? Does she not like me?

He swallowed hard, his fingers moving nervously to tug at the collar of his shirt. “We can go look at the deer next,” he said quickly, his words tumbling frantically, desperate to make you feel more thrilled. “The deer are much better. They’re very gentle. They come up right to the fence.”

He reached out, his long fingers gently wrapping around your wrist to pull you along the path. His touch was warm, soothing, yet carried a telltale tremor of anxiety that you couldn’t quite understand. You quietly followed him, your shoes crunching against the gravel. You felt completely content, basking in the sun’s warmth, feeling the heat melt away the tension in your shoulders while being happily dragged away by Michael.

When you reached the deer enclosure, the setting sun was painting the sky in beautiful shades of pink and purple. While you were distracted Michael gently plucked a nearby plant.

“Here,” he murmured, he grabbed the back of your hand gently, pushing a clover into your open palm, his fingers lingering a second longer than necessary. You looked up, his pleading eyes catching yours. “Just hold your hand out really still. Like this.”

He demonstrated, extending his own hand over the wooden fence, three clovers resting against his palm. A young doe stepped towards the fence, eyes curious and wide. She easily nibbled the clover out of Michael’s hand, her wet nose brushing against his palm.

Instead of watching the doe, Michael’s eyes remained on you, watching the side of your face, tracking the movement of your eyelashes, his eyes momentarily dropping down to your lips. He was desperate for signs that showed that you were having a good time.

You stepped closer to the rail, repeating the movements Michael had demonstrated, extending your hand over the wooden fence. Your heart swelled as the doe shifted her attention towards you, snatching the clover out of your hand.

Michael pouted slightly. The silence, the way you sighed, the heavy look still settled onto your features which unraveled him completely. He felt an agonising wave of heartbreak washing over him.

“You want to go home, don’t you?” The question was so quiet, it took you by surprise. Why would you want to go home? Your brow furrowed.

Michael didn’t want to keep you here if you didn’t want to stay, he’d never force you to do something you wouldn’t want to do.

He did everything he could to prevent you from seeing how your mood affected him, he was failing of course.

“What?” You whispered, taking a step forward towards him. “Michael, no. Why would I want to go home?”

“You look so upset.” He confessed, his brow furrowing into an agonising line of worry. “You seem sad. You’ve barely said much, are you sure you’re okay?”

Your lips parted slightly, a sudden wave of hot, embarrassment etching its way through you. You started at him, you had been completely oblivious to the massive misunderstanding that had been brewing in his head.

“Michael…” you said quietly.

“I’m sorry,” he interrupted suddenly, his fingers nervously twitching. “I should’ve planned something better. I'm sorry, I really just wanted to see you. I’ve missed you. I don’t know what to do on dates-”

“Michael, stop.” And suddenly you were standing right in front of him, your palm sliding over the back of his hand, steadying the anxious tremor in his hand. His eyes fluttered with woe. He was vibrating with restless energy. Your heart felt suddenly full realising how much Michael truly cared about what you felt.

“I’m not sad, Michael.” You said timidly. “I’m having the most wonderful time. I love being here, with you.”

Michael blinked, his head tilting. Despite being confused, his features evidently flushed with a wave of relief at your words. “But you seemed so sad.”

You shook your head, “I just have a sad resting face. Even when I’m the happiest, my natural expression always makes me seem sad. I promise you, I love spending time with you.” You said softly.

Michael stared at you. His mouth slightly parted, his brown eyes tracing every single line of your features as if he was rereading a book and this time understanding the true meaning. All of the restlessness, and impatience slowly melting from him.

“A resting sad face?” Michael questioned, his voice taking a curious tilt.

“Yes.” You groaned, looking down at your feet, completely embarrassed. “It’s awful, people ask me what’s wrong at least three times a week. I didn’t think it would make you panic.”

“You didn’t make me panic,” Michael lied, though the flush of pink creeping up his neck and dusting his ears told a different story. His fingers catching your chin, taking a better look at your features. “Okay maybe I did panic a little, I thought you were getting fed up with me.”

“I could never be fed up with you, Michael.”

“Good.” Michael leaned down, kissing your cheekbone. “Now let me go show you the rest of my animals.” He beamed.

Thank you so much for your sweet words!! I’m happy that you enjoy my fics, I hope that you’ll enjoy this one too 🩷

OtwEra!Michael Jackson x Reader

warnings: reader mentions people talking bad about her nose, that’s all.

masterlist

You had known Michael since you were both children. Michael knew everything about you, the things that made you nervous, your favourite type of food, what angers you so easily.

But you knew how stressed Michael was, how he found it hard to relax because he had the weight of fame on his shoulders. An unbearable amount of pressure you find unimaginable. Because of that, you worked incredibly hard to keep your insecurities down low. You wanted to be his anchor, a safe haven, someone’s emotions that he didn’t have to carry. You wanted to seem confident, not someone who’s self conscious

Your biggest insecurity being your nose, you tried your best to not make it obvious around Michael. It was past two in the morning, you were sleeping over at Michael’s house, sitting on the cream coloured carpet of his bedroom floor. Back leaning against his bed, while Michael sat beside you talking. A single amber lamp making the room feel incredibly cozy.

For the past hour the conversation had drifted from various subjects, the topic becoming slightly more personal and intimate.

“Sometimes I look in the mirror, and I just don’t like what I see,” Michael murmured. “People think that just because I’m on television or an album cover that I’m something special, but I’m the opposite. It makes everything I think about myself so much worse.”

Your heart ached for him. You shifted closer towards him, your knees only a few centimetres away from his. “Michael, you’re beautiful. The whole world sees it.”

Michael finally lifted his head, eyes locking onto yours. His eyes looked incredibly sad, wide, pooling with vulnerability. “Joeseph used to call me ‘big nose’ when I was a kid. He thought it was just a joke but it stuck to me.”

He sighed a shaky breath, looking back down at the carpet. “I just wanna change it. I look at off the wall shoots, and all I can see is this.” He said tapping at the bridge of his nose.

Seeing Michael so vulnerable and honest with you made you feel your carefully built walls coming down, you knew exactly how he felt because you’d been there before. You felt the need to confess your biggest insecurity tugging at you, wanting to let Michael know he wasn't the only one who felt like this.

“It doesn’t stay with you just when your father says it,” you found yourself saying quietly, the words slipping past your lips before you could stop to take them back.

Michael blinked, he tilted his head, dark eyes searching yours with a sharp intensity. “What do you mean?”

You swallowed hard, a certain shy nervousness hitting you, you looked down at your hands fidgeting with the fabric of your pants. “I know exactly what you mean Mike. The things people say. Except it’s not just family, it’s everyone.”

“What do people say to you?” Michael asked, his voice taking a sudden protective tilt.

You let out a breathless, shaky laugh. Your mind instantly making you try to downplay it, you smiled though it was evident that it was entirely fake. Your eyes not crinkling at the corner like they usually do. “People are just sometimes mean, y’know? Always making jokes about my nose…”

You didn’t want to risk taking a glance at Michael. This was the first time you had ever talked to him about this, you felt like both relief and shame saying it out loud to someone.

Michael was staring at you, his brown eyes wide with utter surprise.

“You?” He breathed, he asked with profound disbelief. “You’re insecure about your nose?”

“Well… yeah.” You murmured, it felt a little strange being so vulnerable around Michael, yet it felt so relieving.

“But… why?” Michael asked softly, he shifted closer to you. He wanted to hold your hand so desperately, but he fought himself against the idea.

“Michael, please.” You groaned softly. “You don’t have to be polite about it just because we’re best friends.”

“I’m not being polite!” He insisted immediately. “I’m being honest with you. I’ve looked at you everyday since we were kids, I’ve never thought your nose to be something you were insecure about.”

“Well, the rest of the world surely does.” You scoffed. You refused to believe that Michael was being honest. Yet, his features spoke true to his word, showing slight confusion and disbelief. “People make comments all the time about me, Mike. I always have to just pretend that it doesn’t bother me.”

Michael’s features slowly melted away from surprise to deep empathy and understanding. He reached out carefully, taking a hold of your chin, gently forcing your eyes to catch his.

“They’re fools,” he whispered. “You’re beautiful, you’re so beautiful. I can’t believe you’d ever be insecure about your nose.”

His hand moved to cup your face, your bottom lip wobbled at his words, eyebrows pulling together. He was so incredibly sweet with you, it made your heart thump violently against your ribs, threatening to make its way out through words.

“Oh, baby.” Michael whispered, kissing your cheekbone. You smiled, feeling shy at his gesture. “You’re beautiful too Mike.” You said quietly.

Michael smiled back, a slow blush making its way on his face which only made you laugh.

You didn’t say anything else, both you and Michael felt incredibly understood by each other.