Drowned Man Aesthetics

he was so V shaped. Very Shoulders

That dance video from earlier reminded me of this clip of Michael showing off his moves in a 20/20 interview from 1979, with some jazzy keys playing in the background (pretty sure the music was added by the original poster.)

Video credits to @decademikee on TikTok.

The movement. The tones. The texture! Michael would have LOVED this! 💖

Video credits to @shaylatukolan on TikTok

Paula Patton and Andre 3000 performing "Movin' Cool" in Idlewild (2006). The actual singer behind Paula Patton's part in the song is Debra Killings.

A couple of michaels in my notes from today

Michael in the Sega simulator AS-1's Scramble Training video 💖

Video credits to @mikjacks on TikTok.

Tyra Banks 1992

Just Michael

Pairing: Bad era Michael x fem!reader

Synopsis: After the roar of the crowd fades, Michael sheds the spotlight, exhausted, glowing, and searching for the only peace he knows: you. In the quiet of dressing rooms and hotel suites, you reconnect after each performance, reminding him that in a world that always wants more—you’re enough.

Tags: fluff, established relationship, bad era, boyfriend material michael….

Word Count: 776

Author’s notes: I’m active on ao3, but this is my first tumblr post! So hello moonwalkers, ily all. Additionally, the fact reader is a girl is only mentioned once, so gender neutral/male readers are welcome :)

—-

The show’s over. The final note has echoed into silence, swallowed by the vastness of the arena. The lights, once a constellation of movement, have dimmed one by one. The roar of the crowd has faded.

This is always the hardest part. Not the show or the spotlight, but the wait after- the long, quiet space between who he has to be and who he is.

You never wait near the stage. That would draw too much attention. Too many eyes, too many questions. Instead, it’s routine that you slip away early, disappearing into the winding back corridors of the venue, finding his dressing room and settling down. You know the drill. The fans still scream somewhere outside, the crew shuffles around with headsets and clipboards, but here is always where he’ll find you.

He offers quick nods and murmured ‘thank you, thank-you’ s to the backup singers, dancers and crew members that pass him on their way out, a brief smile flickering to acknowledge them. He’d often go to his manager to pick up notes or feedback, (ever the perfectionist!), but tonight he seems set on finding one thing.

Tonight as you wait, you’re curled up on the small couch tucked into the far corner, legs pulled under yourself, wearing his worn red tour jacket. You’ve got a bottle of cold water in your hand, the condensation running slowly down your fingers, waiting for the moment he’ll need it. You absentmindedly play with it in your hand.

The door swings open fast, no knock, and Michael steps inside. He’s glowing, radiating exhaustion, (an endorphin induced one nonetheless), he’s sweating, curls damp and unruly, his chest still rising and falling in uneven rhythm. The lights backstage have tinted his skin like a painting still wet with movement.

The second his eyes land on you, something in him melts. The stage presence fades piece by piece, a costume he’s finally allowed to shed.

“There’s my girl,” he says, voice low and raspy.

He crosses the room in a few steps, and without a word more, collapses beside you. His body folds into yours, head falling against your shoulder, arms winding instinctively around your waist- he’s warm, and humming from the adrenaline. “They were crazy loud tonight,” he mumbles into your neck. “It’s not real until I see you.”

You smile into his hair, letting it reach your eyes as he pulls back from the embrace. You brush damp curls back from his forehead. “You were amazing, Mike. They went crazy for Smooth Criminal.”

He chuckles, light and rich, then shifts so he can see your face better, his fingers lacing with yours, thumb tracing gentle circles on your palm. “You know what I was thinking about during the last song?”

You raise an eyebrow. “What?”

“Coming back here. You. Me. No stage. No pressure. Just, yeah… peace.”

Hours pass gently and the dressing room empties, arena goes dark, and the two of you return to the quiet anonymity of the hotel suite. It’s another routine now, familiar but never boring. Room service sits untouched on the silver tray, he barely notices it. He never really eats after a show. He, right now, just want to be near you, press his body against yours and remember that there’s a world outside the spotlight.

In the low golden light of the room, you lie together on the bed, legs tangled, limbs a comfortable mess. This time, he’s got his head resting against your chest, cheek pressed right over your heart.

Michael starts to hum something, a tune you don’t recognise . A melody, unfinished. “What’s that?”

His voice is even quieter now. “Don’t know yet. Saving it for us.”

Outside, people still talk about him and light up when his name is spoken. The world watches, always. Still, in this room, in this bed, wrapped around each other, right here he’s just Michael.