—✴︎ 𝐵𝓁𝑒𝓈𝓈𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝐼𝓃 𝒟𝒾𝓈𝑔𝓊𝒾𝓈𝑒 ✴︎—
ᴘᴛ.2
Summary: You’re a troubled and struggling model who meets thrad/bad era MJ in disguise at a park. It takes some time for your hurt selves to let your guards down. He falls in love, inviting you to work on the “TWYMMF” music video. // Old wounds resurface as reality begins to settle. Vulnerability and trust becomes the bridge between you two.
Content: Michael Jackson x Reader, second person, love at first sight, a lottttt offfff fluffffff!!!!!!, slow-ish burn??, fem reader, kissing, sfw, emotional hurt/ trauma mention (hints at domestic abuse but nothing crazy), comfort through hurt, JEALOUS MICHAEL!!
AN: I barely proofread, I ran it through Grammarly once and called it a day lmao. I probably added way too much trauma accidently, sorry. Should've just made this an oc type deal but idrfc I wanna imagine myself with him haha. Also remember English is not my first language!! Spare me as much grace as you can pls!
Tags: @dariax2 @iheartpizzamyheart @slavetotherhythmofluv @amazegumballz
7.8k Words
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You sink your finger onto floor twenty, the button’s glow reflecting onto your sharp scarlet-red fingertips. Your hands grow unsteady with impatience, mirroring the suffocation you feel in the elevator. ‘What if the casting director doesn't think I'm a good fit? What if I'm too awkward?’, your inner dialogue doubts its own habitat with its racing pessimistic thoughts. You try breathing exercises to ground yourself, but the door slides open, revealing a dynamic hallway. People shuffled from all directions at urged momenta. You manage to catch a standing woman clasping a clipboard.
“Sorry, I'm here for Joe Pytka?”
She looks you up and down blankly before sticking out an aggravated pointer finger towards the end of the hall.
His company office was painfully familiar, precisely like the booking room at your agency.
Upon walking in, you are greeted by an assistant, a kind, older woman who takes your name and seats you outside the office.
“It'll just be a few minutes, dear. Michael is running a little late and insists he should be here for it all.”
You simply nod and smile, resting your clutch on your knees and trying to seem collected. You were a bit irritated that Michael was running late, since, frankly, you just wanted it over with.
You wondered if his lateness had anything to do with the masses that followed him everywhere. Even now, seated in a plain hallway with your clutch pressed in your lap, you imagined some tabloid photographer hiding near the elevators, waiting to turn one innocent bouquet or glance into a headline.
Michael had told you before that disguises were the only way he could feel human in public, but today there would be no disguise. Today, everyone would know exactly who he was, and maybe even by association, who you were becoming to him.
Ten minutes late to the appointment, he stomps in with residual energy from sprinting and a blush framed by his sweat-glazed skin. He pulls an arm from behind his back to unveil a bouquet double his frame. It featured a magnificent variety of red, pink, and white petals that danced around each other like a hymn.
You nearly choked on your breath. The sight dissolved any annoyance you had with him instantly.
Now standing, you tilt your head in flattery. “Michael, what's all this?”
He extends an arm to greet you and another to offer you your flowers. “Sorry I kept you waiting.” He pecks your cheek.
The staring eyes around the office bring you back to earth. You lean into his neck to whisper into his jaw, “Michael.” You smack your lips to form a thought. “Thank you. I love them, but what if anyone sees?”
He rolls his eyes and smirks, unwilling to whisper, “There's nothing to see. This is all routine under a professional relationship, right, y/n l/n?”
Despite the confidence in his voice, his eyes briefly flicked toward the assistants, the passing crew members, and the half open doors around the office. He was pretending not to care, but you knew him well enough to see the calculation behind his smile. He could joke in public, but he also knew how quickly tenderness became evidence when the wrong person saw it.
Before you could argue, he pecks your lips, clearly testing your limit.
Intrigued by his valor, all you could do was surrender to a blush and giggle.
Watching the interaction from afar, the director introduces himself and invites you in. “I can see you two are already acquainted with one another, and from what Mike’s told me, you should be a promising fit.”
He rests his bulky frame on his office chair and takes a sip from his stained coffee mug. “This shouldn’t be more than twenty minutes; we’ll just run through a few movements on camera, and we’ll roll through the tape later.”
You didn’t expect him to be so unintimidating. He was rather soft-spoken and courteous for someone in his position. By the time he instructed you to act, you had already forgotten about the camera in front of you and, even worse, you had lost sight of how critical this moment was.
“Beautiful, now walk away and act like you're ignoring him.” He crouches to illustrate the vision.
You strut away as you feel Michael’s arms hover over your waist. You should have been nervous; usually, your stomach would be in knots just at the thought of Michael. Instead, a steady warmth filled your abdomen and rose toward your chest. His presence brought comfort rather than nerves.
In a way you couldn't quite explain, you sensed his hospitable eyes on you from behind. Truth is, his eyes truly never left you, observing your grace with appreciation.
An internal struggle emerges as you suppress a smile. The same dilemma would reappear before every act. The corner of your mouth cynically and consistently fought to steal the spotlight by lifting itself.
Before it could, Joe requests that you act as if you laughed at a joke he whispered in your ear. Finally unleashing the delight and amusement you had found in his flirtatious movements, you burst into genuine laughter, his eyes never leaving yours and your faces remaining at a relaxed close distance. His knees always weakened at your smile and laughter, drawing you further into him with your undeniable allure.
Losing himself in the moment, he clasps your waist and draws your hips near his. His forehead now rested against yours, your noses grazing each other, but lazy lips holding a dangerously tempting distance. He took in your breath, trying to soak in as much of you as possible, but he was still left craving more. A fleeting glimpse of Joe in his peripheral vision snapped him out of whatever this could have been.
He motions a ‘scene’ with his arms and shortly shapes them into applause for you two.
“I’ve never seen a better fit for a role.” His raised brow ridge reflects his satisfaction as it extends to his mouth. “And I've never seen better chemistry, seriously.”
You embrace his neck, sharing a beat of heart-to-heart contact before pulling back to play it casual.
Upon leaving, he hits you with a “we’ll be in touch,” a phrase casting directors for designers often use when plans fall through, but his tone is surprisingly different. You were certain he would call with good news and likely arrange a proper shooting day.
As you step out together, Michael unconsciously rests his hand on your waist while he engages in a few words with the director.
He finally gives you his undivided attention. “Best chemistry he's ever seen! Maybe we should be a thing or something,” he attempts to wink, shutting both eyes in the process.
“Do you think?” You cover your mouth to hide your cheesing lips. “And what the hell was that?”
“The what?”
“The thing you just did with your eyes- what the hell was that?” You cringe into a sneer.
“I winked.” He pretends to look confused.
“You blinked!”
“You're unbelievable,” he shakes his head.
With your uncontrollable giggles trembling your entire torso, his hand felt the mockery that you imposed on him.
As the laughter dies down, your stomach reminds you of its importance, crying for attention. You shut your eyes, covering your blush with your palms in silent embarrassment.
His smug and vengeful eyes narrow at your abdomen, then your rosy cheeks, then your eyes. “Someone skipped breakfast.” He noticed your embarrassment and continued with a less critical tone. “I'm starving, too. Care to grab lunch?”
A breathless chuckle came from you as you nodded. “Do you like sushi?”
“Never had it.” His arm subtly drifts to his face to place his glasses on his nose, then into his pocket. The absence of his touch left you feeling cold.
“Then today you'll have some.” You put on your own sunglasses and fold your hands into your underarms.
“What if I find eating undercooked fish weird?”
“What if you like it?” He couldn't help but smirk at your stubbornness.
You both pick up sushi from a restaurant you suggested a few minutes away from the building, then a limo drives you back to Hayvenhurst.
Upon arrival, an older woman and a young lady meet you at the door. With Michael clasping your hand as he ushers you, they immediately understood who you were.
You, too, recognized them both from photographs that Michael owned. It was Katherine and Janet.
You offered a free hand to greet “Mrs. Jackson, Janet, it's a pleasure to meet you!”
They each took a turn shaking your hand. “Please, just Katherine, baby. I've heard wonderful things about you.” Her eyes crinkle in a smile.
“It's so great to meet you finally!” Janet mouths to Michael, eyes wide, “Wow, she is beautiful!”
He kisses his mother’s forehead in passing and side-hugs Janet briefly. “We’ll be in my room if you need anything.” You fidget with the bag of sushi carryout, feeling ashamed that you didn’t bring anything for them. To be fair, they weren’t home the last time, and Michael didn’t inform you that they would be this time.
“We can eat on the bed.” He twists his room’s doorknob open and shuts it behind you.
“The dinner table would've worked fine, though.”
“Yeah, I just don't want my brothers to bug us.” He bites his lip and clutches the bags from your hands.
He was always discreetly the jealous type, fearing that they would make a move on him, just like they did when they were children. Growing up, Michael’s brothers, particularly Jackie and Jermaine, were quite talented at charming women, sometimes dishonorably taking advantage of their influence. While Michael’s brothers built their reputations as ladies’ men, Michael remained shy around women and remarkably mindful of who he allowed into his life.
“Wanna eat on the floor instead? I don't want to get your bed all gross.” You grab his arm holding the food and caress it.
His stance unstiffens at your touch. He gently tugs a loose strand in front of your face, admiring the beauty of your casually styled hair. He swipes that same strand away from your forehead to make room for a sweet peck in the center of it.
“You know, I can always wash my sheets.”
He begins to unload the bags, then scatters rolls of sushi across. You sit first, cross-legged with your hands in your lap. He sits beside you, resting his back on the bed frame and his legs in front of him.
You watch his hands crack open the wooden chopsticks. His eyebrows furrow, attempting to figure it out independently. The best sense his mind could make of them was to stab the piece by its center with a fisted grip. As he tries to raise his utensils to his mouth, the portion drops tragically. You hold back a giggle with a lip bite.
“No, Michael, watch.” You place your own chopsticks between your fingers and show him how your hand maneuvers the bamboo within your digits.
He tried again while you kept your example held high. “This better?” His attempt improves significantly, but it is still too unstable for a decent grip.
“Think of holding a pencil. It's more like that with these fingers.” Your hands seem miniature as you try to adjust his fingers. “This should do it. Try now.” Your eyes shifted onto his, catching his tight focus on you. You subconsciously wet your bottom lip and instantaneously skimmed his lips. He could’ve eaten you up then and there, with your patience and deliberate care towards something so simple alleviating something within him.
With his free hand, he strokes your cheek with three swipes and beams in appreciation. Now zeroing in on the piece of sushi he failed to grab earlier, he successfully picks it up and places it in his mouth. It was nowhere near proficient, but better than most beginners, nonetheless. Proud, he lifted his eyebrows and widened his eyes, still chewing with his cheeks lifted and smile lines following them.
You leaned towards him and rested your jaw on his shoulder, looking up at his eyes from the side. He sweeps your hair behind you before enveloping his arm around your abdomen.
“How was it?” You take a bite yourself. “Is it as gross as you thought it'd be?” You mocked, knowing he enjoyed chewing whatever was between his teeth.
“It's incredible.” He rushes to inhale another piece.
You place a bead of wasabi under your nigiri and chase it with a slice of ginger. He notices and attempts to mimic, putting an absurd amount of wasabi onto the rice of a roll. You try to stop him, but by the time any of it registers, the piece is gone.
He huffs, and after one chew, he spits it out into a tissue. His hard blinks and cooling breaths sent your hand to his chest, comforting him while you cracked up at him.
“My god, it's wasabi, not avocado,” a snort snuck through your laughter.
Playing upset, Michael teases back, “Another word and I'll have you taste some.”
“Is that a threat or a promise?” Your laughter continues. He is a man of his word, as he drops his chopsticks and sloppily smooches you, with his head occasionally veering left and right to make the most out of his revenge. You push him away, disgusted by your own fishy saliva.
“Eww! At least let me brush my teeth before swapping spit like that.” You hid your face in embarrassment.
He wipes the corner of his mouth in satisfaction, “You tasted fine to me.”
He swallows another mouthful of sushi before declaring an irrelevant thought that settled so comfortably in his mind. “I'm the luckiest man in the world.”
You look up at him as your eyes melt into pleased crow’s feet. “You know I've always wanted to know.” You grasp his arm and tug it towards you. “What were you doing on the park bench that day?”
The question caught him off guard. He drops his chopsticks and sucks his teeth.
“I-uhh,” he gulps, “you know my lifestyle is very isolating.” He rubs his hands together to generate a few words: “I sometimes go out in disguise in public to get a dose of human interaction that would be impossible to get as Michael Jackson.”
You adjust until your head is in his lap. Your fingers curl as he intertwines them with his. He drops a piece of sushi into your mouth, prioritizing you before continuing to feed himself.
His chopsticks wave at the rhythm of his words, “I'd sit and start conversations with strangers. Just simple, mundane things, like greetings and small talk.” The back of his hand strokes your cheek as an act of gratitude, “But then you sat beside me on that bench. It was by far the most redeeming encounter that’s ever happened to me.” His fingers brush through your hair. “And I've been crazy about you since.”
Your cheeks bubble up as you huff through your nose. “I was covered in snot and complaining about work.”
“You were getting things off your chest, not complaining. And even with all that snot, you were the most captivating girl I've ever seen.” You coo before rolling upwards.
You faced him momentarily, brushing your hair back, and pressing a fleeting kiss against his lips before picking up the mess you’d left on the bed. With an arm tucked behind his neck, he remained seated with his eyes fixed on you.
He strokes his chin as he sinks into a deep thought. He contemplates how easily you slipped that answer from his lips. No matter how ashamed he was to admit his loneliness, he didn’t even consider deflecting or lying. You had successfully stripped away any defenses he had against others because you’re no longer just some girl. You’ve taken so much of his heart that he owes you insight into his most vulnerable emotions and personal anecdotes. His lips curl upwards as his thoughts shift to a discussion about fate. He’s always been a spiritual man, but you’ve made him believe in fate and the concept of a soulmate. You sat on that bench for a reason. What were the odds you had stumbled upon that bench on that day at that time and in such a vulnerable state? Whatever it may have been, he thanked God it happened and gave an optimistic smile.
Later that day, Joe’s assistant informed you of your acceptance of the role in the music video and scheduled the filming in two weeks. Although you had hoped for a sooner start, Michael’s increasing workload with studio-related projects has delayed the process.
Despite his efforts to stay focused on work, the thought of you kept intruding on his mind. Phone calls became a necessity, and occasionally, he would send flowers and handwritten notes to the office. As the days went by, you found yourself keeping yourself occupied with work, trying to distract yourself from his absence with photoshoots and insignificant runway gigs.
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“Yes! Exactly that! Do that again exactly the way you did it, but a little left of the X.” Joe crouches to paint you the visual.
You nod and strut towards Michael as his eyes consume you through the sight alone.
“Perfect.” his ankles snap as he stands upright. “Do exactly that tomorrow. Remember, slightly left with your arms swinging with attitude.” He soon dismisses his crew as the crowd that watched you a few seconds ago disbanded one by one.
Without giving you a chance to leave, Michael’s hands latch onto your arms, with a soft stroke and occasional pat to your elbows. “How do you feel? Is it as stressful as you expected?”
You refrained from meeting his loving gaze out of shyness. “We haven't even started filming, and I'm already screwing up.” Your lips fold into a fine line.
“Baby, I'm your supervisor, and I think you did extraordinary,” he inches closer.
His words convulse through you like a hum. You lean into a loose embrace with your worked-up hair hanging over his shoulder. You breathe in his cologne as he softens at your contact. Unwanting to part ways with him just yet, your mouth rolls out, “Forget work for the rest of today. Come over, have dinner with me.”
“Depends.” He tries to work up a fight, but both of you know the answer will be yes anyway.
“On?”
“What’re you having?”
“Salmon. And some salad.”
He sighs in disapproval. “I have a better idea. Can I bring us tacos from this new stand on Ventura Boulevard? They’re so good.”
You roll your eyes but give in with a smile. “Fine. You bring the food.”
He thanks you for your cooperation with a kiss on the back of your hand before you part ways for the hour.
Your knife rolls on the cutting board, with each slice of cucumber dropping at a steady tempo.
“Hey, angel, I’m outside; when you get a minute, buzz me in.” The scratchy intercom audio interrupts your preparation, leaving a half-cut cucumber and a knife resting on the bare counter.
His knocks soon interrupt you once again, wiping your hands onto the hem of your oversized T-shirt that hangs slightly above your pajama shorts.
“Hey, you.” You wrap your arms around his neck, and his arms clutch your waist with a free hand for a lingering greeting kiss.
“Long time no see.” His sarcasm earns an eye roll.
His eyes scan your loungewear, then your messy low bun that loosely hangs out of its tired claw clip. He moistened his bottom lip and directed his eyes back to yours.
“You look lovely, girl.” His eyes swell with tenderness, asserting a lasting glance before setting the food on your dinner table. A gust of charmed breath passed through your teeth.
“I look a mess. I had some cleaning to do before you came.”
“You don't have to do all that.” He leans on the counter behind you as you grab silverware.
“No, I know, but I had to do it anyway.”
His mind wanders as he watches you prepare. This had been his first time seeing you in such a natural state. Somehow, he feels as if he cannot catch his breath around you. You believe you are underdressed and a scruffy mess, while he believed you glowed in your natural radiance. Your career required a consistently polished public image. But at home, you were simply you—raw and breathtaking.
“Sorry, I went ahead and made some salad. I've got a show in a few days and can't risk going too crazy on food right now.” You set down a glass bowl and peeled back its aluminum foil cover.
“Mmkay,” he mumbles absentmindedly as he unwraps your taco from its paper and sets it on your plate. You thank him with a smile and take a nibble immediately.
“Mm!!” Your face fills with light in pleasure.
He pushes his bite to the side of his mouth to utter, “I told you so.”
You shake your head, irritated and enchanted by his cockiness.
“Oh!” You muffled with a pointer finger against your lips, begging him to wait for the thought. “Remind me to grab your shirt that I stole last time.”
“Stole? I offered it to you.” He smiled through his chews.
“Right.”
Shaking his head at your ridiculousness, he gulps to make room for words. “No, keep it. I'm marking my territory,” he jokes.
“From who? No one even comes around here.” You pay the comment no mind, locking eyes with the unraveling taco between your fingers.
Contemplating whether to bring it up and risk seeming jealous or shifting the mood, he sets down his burrito.
“What?” You ask, noticing the transition in his face.
He tried to ignore it at first, chewing slowly and staring down at his food like the answer might be hidden in the foil wrapping. But his jaw tightened anyway.
“It's nothing.”
“Michael.” You knew him too well for his sorry attempt to play it off.
Squinting his eyes and cringing at the words that forced their way out of his mouth, he tsks—not loud enough to be dramatic, but enough for your heart to hear his discomfort and sink. “The guy in the pictures—who is that?” His eyes shy away from your face. “He held your waist and stuff—like he owns you. You know the pictures on your fridge and— um,” his words fade as he redirects his mouth to biting his inner cheeks.
“Oh.” You gulp and set your own meal down.
“Oh what?” His tone rises slightly, sending a shock down your spine.
“Why are you asking it like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like I'm doing something wrong?”
He breaks eye contact and lowers his voice. “Just—who is he?”
“Michael, those pictures are old.”
“They're still up.”
“I didn't get around to taking them down.” your eyes appear glazed and your eyebrow twitches.
Your lips parted, but nothing came out at first. The defensiveness drained from your face, replaced by something much smaller.
“My ex-fiancé.”
Michael’s face fell, but yours hardened first, like you had to protect yourself before he could even respond.
“And before you ask, no, I’m not still in love with him. No, I don’t miss him. No, I didn’t keep them up because I wanted to look at him.” Your voice shook despite how sharp you tried to sound. “I just didn’t know how to take them down without feeling stupid for ever putting them up.”
His anger disappeared almost instantly, replaced by guilt.
As you pick at your nail beds—a nervous tic he noticed you have occasionally— an uncomfortable queasy feeling shadowed above his gut.
Sucking his teeth, he said in a lower, gentler tone, “Ah.”
“I know I should have told you.” Your eyes get glossy. “I—um—just. I don't love to talk about it, you know?”
A tear escapes from the corner of your eye.
He reaches for your hand, noticing it flinches. “Baby, it's okay, you don't have to— I didn't mean—,” you cut him off with a vigorous head shake.
“No, I know. You have a right to know, though. You're my man now.” Your eyebrows twitch as they force themselves upward and against each other.
He sighs and squeezes your hand, now glancing at the half-finished taco that his inquisitiveness forced you to abandon.
“You know, my dad leaving screwed up my idea of men— and love, in general. It's like— putting up with misery is better than being abandoned.” Another tear escaped, a forceful blink bringing it forth. “What he had towards me wasn’t love, but I was convinced that it was just the aftermath of it.”
His lips parted to release a suffocated breath, eyes switching between your eyes and now-bleeding nailbeds.
With guilt eating him alive, he sits on the chair beside you, scooting close enough to cradle you into his chest and hold your hands to prevent your destructive tick. With your chest pumping frantically, you whispered your trauma into his chest.
“I never wanted to marry him. I was scared of what he would do if I told him ‘no’.” You take an abrupt break to breathe and formulate your words. “That's it. I was scared. You're my man, Michael; that’s what matters now. You showed me how love should be.”
His throat tightens, “I'm sorry.”
You shook your head against him, but he held you firmer.
“No, stop, I am. I came to your house to accuse you and sound like a jealous idiot” His thumb brushed over your injured nailbeds. “I don’t ever want to sound like him. Not for a second.”
That broke whatever strength you were pretending to have left.
His hand brushes your hair against his chest as he shushes you. His heart against your ear silenced you like a lullaby.
He whispers. You feel his words vibrate within his chest. “It's alright now, y/n. You're safe. I'll never hurt you. I'm sorry, angel.”
He kisses your forehead and releases a breath. “And I love you, too.”
You dig your head further into his neck to feed off the high that his scent sends you into. He rocks between tasting the salt on your cheeks through delicate pecks and sinking into your authorizing touch.
A steady moment passes until he tries to shift the mood.
“C’mon, baby.” He slowly stretches upward, now rubbing your back up and down. Your weary eyes lift to pierce through his. “Baby,” he rests his forehead against yours while brushing a thumb against both of your temples as support for your head. “You promised you’d play me something on your piano when I came over.” His voice elevated slightly to push you upright.
“Mmm,” you whined, forcing your feet to hold what seemed like dead weight. “I promised you no such thing.” A smile peeked through the hurt that had left your face.
“There's that beautiful smile,” he flatters you into compliance.
As expected, you see right through it: “Stop it; I'm not falling for that.” You shove him off of you until his strength brings you back into his embrace despite it.
“Nope,” he holds you tight, continuously and annoyingly kissing the center of your forehead until you tap out.
“Fine. God, you're so needy,” you grunt, with the raised corners of your mouth contradicting your utterance. He gives a satisfied smirk and releases you from his clingy grip.
He leans against your armoire with his arms folded.
“Faure’s Barcarolle No. 4,” you propped up the pages of sheet music, “one of my favorites.”
A caramel dim light accentuated your movements, casting a coppery glow on your face as your expressive facial features conveyed the heavenly notes that resonated through the warm air. Mesmerized by your fingers that waltzed across the keyboard, drifting like the leaves that fled trees in the autumn, his body could not help but be drawn by your magnetism.
He fought against interrupting your performance, but absentmindedly found himself seated beside you, with his mind losing control of his hands. His fascination led a stream of touch from your shoulder to your hands, minimally slowing your movements. You try to resist the urge to give in to his touch, but you notice yourself slowing.
Sweeping the loose hair that escaped your bun off your shoulder, he trails your neck with endearing kisses that leave indelible marks. It was as if he yearned to absorb every bit of you before this moment could end.
Between kisses, he mumbles, “You’re unbelievably good,” another kiss, “You’re so perfect.”
You sigh into a smile, and your fingers fall into the keys, singing a frustrated, short-lived tune. You held his head, drawing his attention to you directly.
His delectable breath warmed the lower half of your face as he exchanged a glance into your irises before sinking his mouth onto your smile. Despite his hungry and driven nature, the kiss was tender and humbly passionate. The apprehension you had built up earlier, triggered by memories of your past, had dissipated into the blissful sensation you felt within his embrace.
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The week slips by in a blur. He squeezed himself into your packed schedule, knowing his was far more chaotic. He didn’t mind it at all. You were the only one who truly understood him—being without you, even for a moment, felt like he had lost a part of himself.
You had completed days one through three, making today your final day. Today, you filmed the final scenes: the crowd reactions, a few close-ups, and the ending. It was an explosive, sensual, and authentically harmonious performance. Joe had never witnessed anything like it. Every shot of you two was phenomenally well-executed.
“Alright, everyone, that's a wrap! I want to thank everyone here; it's been a pleasure working with a team like this. I am beyond…,” your brain drifts off as he gives a concluding drabble. Your mind would rather focus on the man who still held you in his embrace after the director yelled ‘cut’. Michael, whose chest indicated every tired breath he took after his many dance sequences, caught onto your gaze and endorsed it with a tug at your waist that drew you closer despite already being tight against each other.
“How’d I do, Michael?” You fish for a compliment.
He shrugged it off sarcastically, “Fine, I suppose.”
You scrunch your nose in annoyance, teasingly pushing away from the hug. He grabs your pushing hands and locks his fingers between yours.
“You were magnificent.” He kisses the backs of your hands. “Are you busy after this?”
“Michael, it’s nine pm—“
“So?”
You look at your feet and smile at the ground. “No longer than twelve, deal?”
His satisfied grin lifted his cheeks, giving his eyes warmth. “Deal. My place, though.”
“Fine,” you pinched his lively cheeks to annoy him with your babying. Little did you know he enjoyed it.
Before either of you could leave, one of his security men stepped close enough to lower his voice. “There are two photographers near the side exit.”
Michael’s expression changed so quickly it startled you. The softness remained, but something guarded settled over it.
“How’d they know?” he asked.
The man only shook his head.
You felt Michael’s fingers tighten around yours. It wasn’t painful, but it was enough to remind you that love with him would never be simple. A walk to the car was not just a walk. A dinner was not just dinner. A kiss, if caught at the wrong angle, could become a headline by morning.
He turned to you, apologetic already. “We’ll go out the back.”
You nodded, though your stomach dipped. For the first time, you understood that being loved by Michael Jackson also meant being hunted beside him.
The concrete tiles at Hayvenhurst felt familiar and welcoming. The night had consumed the estate with its darkness, muting its grandeur. Katherine and Jos*ph were sound asleep, so you two snuck through the back entrance.
His room remained unchanged from your last visit. It was still the tidy, nostalgic space you admired, except for a collage of posters now hanging on the wall beside his bed. The familiar color schemes and the figure of a woman instantly triggered a silent investigation. Leaning in, you catch his proud posture in your peripheral vision. These were all snippets from magazine pages or shows that put you front and center.
“This is the sweetest and creepiest thing anyone’s ever done for me. You’re so adorable.”
“Creepy? A man can’t hang pictures of his girlfriend?” His hands shot up in defense.
That word was like music to your ears.
“You could’ve used any other pictures that don’t involve work,” you pleaded.
“I don’t have any pictures of you, girl. I’m just being resourceful.”
“Weirdo,” you scoff while running an index finger through his book collection.
His smile shakes with his head, slowing while following your investigation in the corner of the room.
“Wait a second,” he says, pointing to the children’s book you unthinkingly ran through mindlessly. “You have to watch it. We have to watch it now.”
“Peter Pan?”
He nods.
You didn’t want to burst his enthusiasm, despite the clock now reading nine forty-five. “It’s already so late, though,” you appealed softly.
“Please? Stay up just tonight. It's not every day you're here.” His pure-hearted request made it impossible to argue.
The corner of your mouth betrayed you, as your face relaxed into an accepting smile.
“You’re a bad influence on me, Michael Jackson.”
His face lit up like a child opening presents on Christmas. He sprang up, kissed your temple, and led your hand downstairs to the television.
He sat you down while he gathered the tape, blankets, and snacks. Before you know it, he stretches his legs out onto the coffee table, leans against you, and shoves a bowl of popcorn between you.
“Baby, you know it’s my kryptonite. Why do you do this to me?” You complain before a handful of popcorn silences your whining.
He shushes you and gives a devious, guilty grin.
The arm that rested above you softly massaged your neck, acting as a stress reliever and a sleep aid. Not even twenty minutes into the film, you drift off into a deep slumber. Your weight rested fully on his shoulder, with your arms and legs nestled under the velvety blanket.
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The stream of unconsciousness recasted the darkness into sunrise within a blink—golden rays filtered through the blinds, antagonizing your eyelids and coercing your body into alertness. You reach for Michael, who was beside you in what seemed to be a minute ago, but your hand fell in his absence. Scanning the scene, you softly call out, “Michael?”
A photograph appeared at the coffee table in front of you while you were asleep. Crouching down to pick it up for a closer look, your thumb senses the image's freshness through its warmth. He had turned the camera to include him in the frame, his face beaming with the cheesiest grin as your head faintly revealed itself, so deep within the comfort of his chest. On the footing of the image, written in permanent marker, was “Sleeping Beauty”.
You hold it to your chest and inhale deeply, attempting to relive the state you two were in last night.
The floorboard warns of approaching footsteps, startling you into turning around, the photo behind your back.
“‘Morning.” Jackie rubs his eyes in a circular motion while narrowing his eyes at you.
You freeze in place but respond out of habit, “‘Morning.”
He rests his arms at his side. “Ah, I see. You're Michael’s girl, right?” He steps forward, taking in the sight of you while offering a hand to shake.
You shook it limply and forced an awkward laugh. “Yeah, y/n.”
“Jackie. Pleasure to meet you.” His vibrant energy contrasted with your embarrassed and tired mannerisms. “He's in the kitchen. He's trying to make pancakes.”
Your face smooths at the thought of him, now smiling at the thought of his cooking. “That man should not be trusted in a kitchen alone,” you joke to alleviate the awkward tension.
“Ha. Yeah, you might wanna go help him out,” he pats your shoulder and nods in passing, and sets off in a trot up the stairs.
Passing through the kitchen header, you flatten the flyaway hairs that made it seem as if you'd been struck by lightning.
“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty,” he greets you before you can spot him at the counter.
You sigh into a breathy laugh, “Morning, love.” You greet him with a peck on the cheek.
“You're just in time. I just finished.”
“What are those?” You point to a pile of black and brown slop on a paper plate.
He side-eyes you, “Mess-ups.”
You giggle into his shoulder as your arms wrap around his resting arm.
“I'll never forgive you for sleeping through it.” He makes an effort to glance at you as you rest behind him.
“Mmhm,” you hum as you squeeze tighter.
“You're not listening.” He scrapes his last pancake onto a tall stack and turns the stove off.
“Sure I am.” You nearly fall back asleep into his shoulder.
“I made you a coffee. Just the way you like it,” he idles, to give you a moment to stand on your own two feet before dragging the plate to the dinner table.
“You're the best,” you declare as he seats you like the gentleman he is.
You hold the coffee mug with both hands to warm them up after they've gone cold.
Your upper lip samples its heat and flavor with a narrow sip. “It's really good.” Your eyes soften as a smile presses into your drowsiness.
Satisfied with himself, he beams. “Take a bite.” He holds a fork to your face, delivering a bite of the stack he made for you. You lick your lips and peel it off his fork with your lips.
“Damn it, the pancakes are good, too. I should've never doubted you.”
Your words brought him a satisfaction that was visible in his smug stare. He sighs and rubs his chin, appearing to sink into a brief thought to compile his words.
“What’s wrong?” You immediately sense there is something unusual.
He shakes his head, “Nothing, love. I’m just thinking.” He pauses long enough to disorient you.
“About what?”
He grabs your hand in reassurance. “You know I have to go on tour soon. And-uhh— I don't think I can go that long without you.”
You furrowed your eyebrows, waiting patiently for his point.
“And it would be a nice feature for the fans to have the beautiful woman in the music video re-create it on stage with me.” His eyes now look directly into yours, pulling your hands closer to him with a thumb stroking your knuckles. He hesitated, rubbing his thumb over your knuckles. “And I know how this sounds. I know it sounds selfish.”
You watched him carefully.
“But I keep thinking about leaving you here. About people calling you. Men from your agency. Photographers. Your psycho ex somehow hearing about you again.” His eyes lowered in shame before returning to yours. “I trust you. With my life. I don’t trust the world around you.”
He gulps and tightens his grip on your hand before pecking it. “And I don't trust myself without you.” A deep puff gave his words space to breathe.
“Come with me on tour.”
Your jaw falls, failing to mouth out any words, licking your lips to fill the gap.
He takes this as an opposing sign, racing to justify himself, “I need your energy. No— I need you. I never want to leave you, y/n.”
Your eyebrows rise in flattery, then sink into an exhaled chuckle. You grabbed his face with both hands, caressing his sideburns and fading into the back of his head.
“I’d be an idiot to say no.” You lean in and rest your forehead against his, now wrapping your arms around his neck. Your lips crash against his ear-to-ear grin that sighed into your mouth from relief.
His mouth pulled back for a moment to whisper, “I love you more than words can say.”
The words were followed by an echo, “And I love you.” He held on to you for as long as he could before you wanted to break free. He never wanted this moment or this love to end.
Luckily for him, you didn't plan on quitting anytime soon, as you remained interlaced against him, with your lips locked together. The pain that had made you both shield yourselves from the world was the very bridge that brought you together.
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That's all ✨✨🌟 thx for reading <3
