Moonwalker and new writer who just started making Michael Jackson fanfiction. 18+ content. MDNI. For those uncomfortable with NSFW stuff involving Michael, just block and move along. I am currently not taking requests.
146 posts
Latest Posts by starlightz4mj - Page 2
His dancing was always so smooth <3
Video credits to @mjmediafanaccount on TikTok.
MICHAEL JACKSON // Trip to Mainland China on October 1987 (01/∞)
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.
Megan Hundley // Ph: Clint Robert
The Oval, Naoshima Island, Japan, designed by architect Tadao Ando
The movement. The tones. The texture! Michael would have LOVED this! 💖
Video credits to @shaylatukolan on TikTok
STEEL BALL RUN TV ANIME CONFIRMED!!
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.
He's so Disney coded 💖
Video credits to @isa2mjj on TikTok
THRILL HER TONIGHT
[after his historic win, you win the thrill of your life] | 600+ words
WARNINGS: sexual themes , penetration , dirty talk? , genderless reader
[1984]
you’d probably felt a million hands as you left the shrine that night, congratulating the both of you, but mainly him, with boisterous greetings, solid pats on the back nearly knocking him over. long fingers wrapped around your bicep and offered a knowing wink that you took with an electric pride. whispers of something caught between luck and envy sailed into your ears as the cameras captured every single movement. the humble smiles and goodbyes, the excuse me’s and sorry’s, the cries for him as the crowd mutated around the venue to see. in the midst of it all, every eye caught his hold of you, his hand tucked proudly into your waist.
when his car pulled away from the scene, the dark los angeles sky seemed to cover the world. the glitz and glamor of it all was straight out of the hollywood dream, even the stars knew they were just as famous. you look over at him, his face and hands polite in his lap, and squeal like a schoolgirl. “michael!” you wrap your arms around his jacket, jostling him and cupping his face. “you did it, baby!” you kissed his cheek. “you did it—oh!” you kept on, kissing him madly, your lipstick leaving and endless smear of red. “think about everybody back home, they’re all gonna be so proud of you!”
he spoke, honestly, for the first time since his acceptance speech. at least with more words than the thank you’s he’d given in his seat and on the carpet and in the pictures with quincy and them.
“i don’t wanna think about all them right now.” he wet his lips. “i’ve got everything i need right here.”
your eyes locked, passing under streetlights and curving around hills. you knew then that those words had sealed your evening’s fate.
his glove was gone, he’d let you take it off him, and you still felt the stony gems on the tip of your gum behind your front teeth. the glowing white stained now with the rouge from your lips. his face, too, had plenty more of your mark. his ebon skin like a red leopard all the way down his neck and chest.
your hand bends to your headboard, each naked thrust drilling a hole into your wall. the lamp strings dangling on your nightstand clink, vibrating back and forth like the divine man above you, driving into you. his whole body kissing you from the inside out. “mike—“ you gasp, head arching backward in a mess of curls on your pillow. “michael.”
he wants you calling his name like they did at the grammy’s. and he makes it so easy for you. his hips curl into you, his slip like magic. the black coils that flower beneath his hips grow damper, mixing with your need and the spit he gave you when he had you in his mouth and your long nails in his curls. those two syllables were the only language your brain could spare.
his kisses come sloppy, your lips like clay on each other, malleable and wet. his breath comes heavy, grunting and whining in the back of his throat into yours. you lick his tongue and taste the gold he won. you squeeze around him and he takes it, stroking heartily. “take me, baby,” you sigh into him, the pitch high and dehydrated. “you deserve it—ah—mi…”
you goad him with one hand on his back, splaying your fingers to grab his skin. he huffs, tiny beads of sweat cutting into his brow.
he grabs both your thighs and folds you like the pleats in your clothes, mumbling, with his lips by your ear. “what’s my name?”
“michael jackson,” you moan obediently, a decadent smile lacing your voice.
“keep goin’.” his hips kept on, railing your body, sinking you deeper into the bed, going until he was satisfied with it, until your chanting was the only thing he could hear, until you were coming hard singing his praises.
-
requested by @writtenbychris (ILY)
MICHAEL JACKSON // Interview with ABC News in 1979 (02/∞)
(via michaelswaist, natdizzzle, natdizzzle)
Another unreleased track I wish could've made it on Dangerous 💔
I can definitely see the chrome armor and suit MJ wore during the HIStory Tour being based off of these:
Hajime Sorayama
Michael in period piece/royalty photoshoots 💖
