˚₊‧꒰ა XO - Simp ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

𝜗ৎ 19 | She/Her | MDNI 𝜗ৎ Reposter + Writer X reader FanFics ♡ˎˊ˗ Ai not allowed

[asillysimp]

⋆｡♪ ₊MASTERLIST

RINGO

His eyes only 1/4 (series)

JOHN

His eyes only 2/4 (series)

Figure Skater!Reader (Requested)

Please Please Me (18+)

Married life (Requested)

PAUL

COMING SOON 𝜗ৎ

GEORGE

Stylist! Reader (Requested)

𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ THE FAB FOUR

Socially Awkward!Reader x Beatles <3 (requested)

Beatles react to reader wearing a tight outfit

How The Beatles react to the Readers Edits

Rules here

XO -Simp 🫶

[xwixnk]

Ik this might be weird asf but can u make a fic of the jackson family Michael lives on and the whole family goes to the movie because reader starred in obsession as nikki and they're all scared asf of the movie but end up liking it and the ride home they all talk shit about bears character and oh reader is Michael's daughter

Obsession

Michael x daughter! Reader

Summary: You starred in the movie called "Obsession" and you scared your dad but he loved your acting and your cousins and siblings hate the character "Bear"

You sit right in the center, still wearing your glamorous red carpet gown. Your father, Michael sits right next to you, his hand securely wrapped around yours, while your siblings, cousins, and uncle pack the rest of the rows. You all just left the world premiere of your new horror film, Obsession, where you starred as Nikki, a girl cursed by a creepy novelty device into becoming a violently obsessed stalker.

Before the lights went down in the theater, the family was absolutely terrified for you. Now that the credits have rolled the review session has officially begun. "I am still shaking, sweetheart," Michael says, his voice a gentle, breathless coo as he squeezes your hand. He shakes his head, a huge, proud smile lighting up his face.

"When you did that slow crawl across the floor and screamed, 'Why don't you love me?!' I nearly jumped into Prince's lap. You were so magnificent, but you scared your daddy half to death!"

"Half to death? Pop, you literally grabbed my shoulder so hard I think it's bruised," Prince laughs from the row behind him. He leans forward to ruffle your hair. "Seriously sis you crushed it the whole theater was dead silent during that bedroom scene you were terrifying."

"I took a video of Paris hiding behind her purse," Bigi chimes in from the very back a smirk playing on his lips. "She didn't look at the screen for the last twenty minutes."

"Shut up, Bigi, yes I did!" Paris shoots back, laughing as she throws a discarded premiere program at him. She looks at you, her eyes shining with pride. "Okay, fine, I looked away when the blood started splashing. You were brilliant, Nikki. You made 'Freaky Nikki' an instant horror icon."

"Can we talk about the real villain though?" Genevieve asks, leaning across the aisle, her hands gesturing wildly. "Bear was absolute trash!" The entire van erupts into agreement.

"Oh, don't get me started on Bear." Jaafar scoffs, rolling his eyes as he chimes in from the middle row. "The man buys a sketchy 'One Wish Willow' device from a crystal shop because he's too cowardly to just tell his coworker he likes her! He literally robs Nikki of her entire free will because he's insecure."

"Exactly!" Jermajesty yells, slamming his hand playfully against the seat in front of him. "Then he acts all shocked when she starts acting crazy! Like bro you wished for her to love you more than anyone on earth. Did you think that meant she was just gonna bake you cookies? She's literally wearing human hair as a wig by the end to impress him!"

"He was so toxic," Randy laughs, shaking his head. "The man's cat dies from eating his grandmother's leftover oxycodone in the first ten minutes, and instead of mourning, he's using a magic stick to trap our cousin in a demonic love spell pathetic."

Michael chuckles softly at his family’s passionate breakdown of the plot. He leans over and presses a loving kiss to the top of your head. "They're right, my angel," Michael murmurs, his iconic soft tone filling your ears. "Bear's character was very selfish, although the way you played the real Nikki breaking through the trance when you were crying and begging him to end it, it broke my heart your acting was so pure."

"Thanks, Dad" you say, finally letting out the breath you've been holding since the red carpet. "I was so nervous you guys would think it was too weird." "Weird? We're the Jacksons, baby girl," Paris laughs, leaning forward to squeeze your shoulder. "We practically invented dramatic entertainment you fit right in."

"Absolutely," Jaafar agrees, grinning at you. "Next time, make sure your character has a baseball bat to take care of Bear before the curse kicks in."

Taglist!👾: @primaltomeabomination @erynnnn @midnightparagraphs @heyitsm4di @rgg1115 @4ngelonmars @sxphr2 @skylar-g @luminousshardobelisk @raefoxiegirl @s0uash @kisscoqueen @appleheadsbiggestfan @delictezz @a-motherfcking-fish @animegamerfox @blameditontheboogie @mvkas @mileyispunk @missharper33 @raefoxiegirl

[gumdrops-stuff]

[southernvirtuoso]

𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗵𝗶𝗹𝗹𝘀 𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝗲𝘆𝗲𝘀

credits for the gifs to @hooked-on-elvis ! they were too cute and the inspo for this little one shot. 🤍

✦︎ summary: domestic boredom turns into headline gold when you and elvis spy a paparazzo in the bushes of your hillcrest home and decide to put on a little show.

✦︎ word count: 2,3k

✦︎ warnings: au, not historically accurate—that's it.

✦︎ authors note: i missed writing about el so much and this popped in my head when watching the fan footage from the hillcrest residence... so there ya go. please do not copy, translate and/or use for ai purposes u lil weirdo !!!

with the memphis mafia being out to run errands for your husband, it was a quiet afternoon in the hills—quiet except for the sound of someone definitely not being sneaky in the bushes.

you were by the pool, lying on a beach towel two sizes too large, flipping lazily through a paperback while elvis paced nearby, shirtless, barefoot, and chewing a piece of ice like it owed him money.

“darlin’,” he said, squinting up the hill, “you see what i see?”

you lowered your book and looked past the lemon tree. sure enough—half-hidden in the hillside brush, crouched like a war photographer behind enemy lines, was a guy with a telephoto lens the size of a baseball bat.

“paparazzo,” you said flatly. nothing foreign for the two of you, but definitely annoying.

elvis nodded. “i swear, one of these days i’m gonna put a cardboard cutout of myself out here just to mess with ‘em.”

you stretched your legs and gave him a slow, wicked grin. “or… we could give him a show.”

elvis turned to you, eyebrows up. “oh, you wanna play dirty.”

“let’s fake a fight. something big. something tabloid-worthy.”

he rubbed his chin like he was deep in thought. “like... money? jealousy?”

“no,” you said, sitting up. “something juicier. what if you told me you bought another house in palm springs... and didn’t tell me?”

elvis gasped softly, lip quivering with a smirk that threatened to break through on his features. “oh that’s cold. that’s ice cold.”

you nodded. “exactly. i find out right now, by accident. you try to lie. it gets messy. someone ends up in the pool.”

knowing elvis, it was probably going to be you.

he laughed, then got into position, shaking his limbs out like he was about to go onstage. “alright, baby. let’s make some headlines.”

you stood, sucking in a deep breath and trying to suppress the giggles in your throat. you and elvis talked quietly at first, but animatedly, so the fool with the camera in the bushes knew something was up. then your voice raised louder, loud enough for the paparazzo to hear clearly, voice sharp. “palm springs, elvis? you bought another damn house without telling me?”

elvis turned slowly, squinting at you, getting in his role. “now hold on, i was gonna tell you—”

“really?” you stepped closer, pointing a finger in his chest. “when, exactly? after you furnished it? or maybe once the maid called here by mistake?”

“i didn’t think it was a big deal!” he shouted. “it’s just a lil' hideaway, nothin’ fancy!”

“oh just a little hideaway?” you shot back. “jesus, you collect homes like they’re stamps!”

he threw his arms up. “well, excuse me for wantin’ a little privacy!”

you got in close, nose to nose, voice low but harsh—because you knew the paparazzi was trying to get closer, hearing his shoes shuffle through the bushes. “is that what it’s about? privacy? or someone you don’t want me to know about?”

elvis blinked. “you better watch your mouth.”

“or what?”

he grinned, too fast.

“oh no.”

and with that, elvis grabbed you around the waist, hauled you up over his shoulder, and—with perfect comedic timing—tossed you into the deep end of the pool as you were inhaling a deep breath of air before you went under.

the splash was glorious. you came up sputtering, hair in your face, water in your ears, shouting, “you lunatic!”

he stood at the edge, hands on hips, grinning like a man who knew he just nailed it. “you started it, honey!”

then, behind him—crack! snap! crash.

the paparazzo—poor bastard—had tried to get closer during the argument and lost his footing. with a rustle and a yelp, he tumbled out of the hillside and right into the backyard, landing flat on his back in the grass.

elvis turned, not startled—just smug.

“well, look who dropped in.”

the guy scrambled upright, camera miraculously still in one piece, red-faced and panting. “i—uh—mr. presley—i wasn’t—”

“you weren’t snoopin’? you just fell outta the sky, huh?” elvis drawled, arms crossed.

you pulled yourself out of the pool, dripping and laughing, water pooling around your feet. “hope you got the part where i accused him of cheating with a maid. that was good stuff.”

the paparazzo blinked, confused. “wait… it wasn’t real?”

elvis clapped a hand on his shoulder. “course it wasn’t real, son. you think i’d be dumb enough to buy another house without tellin’ her? i like sleepin’ indoors.”

the man looked between you, baffled, then gave a small, sheepish laugh.

“you thirsty?” you asked, wringing out your hair. “you fell hard. you want a coke or somethin’?”

“uh… sure?”

elvis motioned him toward the patio like he was inviting over an old neighbor. “come on, you might as well get a couple planned shots for once. we’ll pose. you tell your editor it was all exclusive.”

“and next time,” you added with a grin planted on your face, “wear quieter shoes.”

the man sat down, clearly still trying to figure out what just happened, while elvis tossed him a towel.

“you ain’t the first one to get played in this backyard,” elvis said. “but you might be the first we let stay for a drink.”

the next afternoon, you were in the kitchen, barefoot, sipping coffee from your favorite mug. elvis was at the breakfast table in a robe, reading glasses he only wore in private sliding down his nose, pouring over a spread of tabloids like he was reading one of your bedside novels.

he held one up between two fingers.

“listen to this: ‘elvis presley’s private poolside blowout: love nest lies and betrayal in beverly hills!’”

you snorted. “is that the national tattler or the daily screamer?”

chuckling at the names you made up, he flipped it toward you. “confidential star weekly—real classy joint. i like the sound of national tattler, we should suggest that one to ‘em.”

you walked over and glanced down at the front page. there it was: a grainy, high-drama photo of you pointing angrily at elvis, face twisted in mock rage, and him mid-gesture like he was defending himself in court. below that was your favorite one—the shot of you mid-air, half-flipped, just before splashdown.

“oh my god,” you said, laughing. “i need to frame that one.”

elvis flipped the page, reading aloud in his exaggerated southern radio voice. “an anonymous source—likely the photographer who risked life and limb to document the encounter—claims the couple was arguing about an alleged secret home in palm springs. could presley be hiding more than real estate?”

you raised an eyebrow. “alleged source? it’s literally him. he was in our lawn.”

elvis leaned back, holding the paper up like it was holy scripture. “they say we’re on the verge of a split. you’ve ‘stormed out before’ and i’ve ‘been seen dining with a mysterious blonde’ who, by the way, is your mother.”

laughing, you poured yourself and him more coffee. “well, it’s official. we’re scandalous.”

he held up a second magazine. “oh, no no, it gets better. ‘presley love triangle: betrayed by a maid?’ apparently, i’m having affairs left and right.”

you nearly spit your drink. “our sixty-eight-year-old maid who only talks about the way knitting is art and her arthritis?”

“the very one.” elvis chuckled and then looked up at you as you stood beside his chair, throwing the magazine down and pulling you on his lap. “this is your fault, y’know that? ya couldn’t have said the name of some starry eyed actress out here in hollyweird?”

you let out a small shriek and laughed as he pulled you down on his lap, your arms snaking around his neck, manicured nails playing with his hair. “no, that would’ve made it too believable,” you teased, grinning as he shot you a glare before laughing again. “you think the fans believe this stuff?”

“some,” he said, wrapping his arm around your waist firmer. “but most of ‘em’ll just laugh. hell, they know i can’t even sneak pie into the kitchen without you findin’ out. you think i could hide a second house?”

“well, that’s what you get for trying to eat pie without me,” you say matter-of-factly, smiling. “so what now? do we clear it up?”

elvis shook his head, eyes twinkling. “nah. let ‘em wonder. at least somethin’s happenin’ around here now.”

you sat back against his chest, watching the afternoon sun come through the kitchen sliding doors, lighting up the glossy mess of headlines on the table. you couldn’t help but laugh.

“you know,” you said, “some people pay pr firms a fortune for this kind of publicity.”

elvis raised his mug in a toast. “and all we needed was a fake fight, a pool toss, and one clumsy man in camo.”

“you think the colonel’s gonna be losing his mind over this?”

elvis laughed, shrugging and then putting his chin on your shoulder, kissing your cheek. “he probably would’ve come up with this foolery himself, but if he does, let ‘im.”

nodding in agreement, you clinked mugs. “to backyard chaos.”

“to free press,” he corrected, grinning.

and somewhere up in the hills, probably sweating in a new bush with a fresh camera roll, the paparazzo waited—just in case the next scandal broke poolside again.

it started with the sound of voices—heated, passionate, and oddly organized.

you stood by the upstairs window in a way nobody saw you there, watching the growing cluster of fans gathering at the front gate. elvis wandered up behind you, fully dressed and ready to start the day, just like you.

“what’s the ruckus?” he mumbled.

you tilted your head. “looks like we’ve got... factions.”

he squinted out the window. sure enough, there were two distinct groups forming outside the black iron gate. one side held signs that read “elvis deserves peace” and “marry me instead, elvis.” the other had a giant banner that said “y/n deserved better.”

“oh lord,” he said, laughing loudly and nearly making you nearly go deaf as his face was right next to yours. “we’ve been turned into a damn soap opera.”

one girl on the “y/n deserved better” side yelled, “he didn’t even bring her a towel!”

another, on the elvis side, shouted back, “she overreacted! it’s not like he sold the house to someone else!”

“oh my god,” you said. “they're quoting the fake argument.”

elvis turned to you with a grin. “well. you wanna go clear our good names or let ‘em keep throwin’ tomatoes?”

you smirked. “let’s go have some fun.”

a few minutes later, the two of you walked down the driveway arm in arm, shit eating grins on both your faces. the second the fans saw you, the shouting kicked up again.

“there she is!”

“elvis, you better apologize!”

“he’s lucky he didn’t throw me in the pool!”

you held up your hand. “alright! okay! calm down—everyone breathe!”

elvis stopped in front of the gate with you, hand lingering at your lower back. “now what exactly do y’all think happened?”

“she caught you cheating!” someone yelled.

“with a maid!” another added.

a woman near the front pointed at you. “she should’ve pushed you in the pool!”

you cracked a smile and raised an eyebrow at elvis. “wow. tough crowd.”

elvis shrugged. “guess i’m the villain this week.”

a teen girl on your side yelled, “you deserve someone who tells you about all the houses!”

“oh my god,” you laughed. “okay, okay—time out.”

elvis slipped his arm around your waist and pulled you closer. “y’all wanna know the truth?”

everyone leaned in, as if the two of you were going to tell them some scandalous secret. which, maybe, in some way you were.

“it was fake,” you said, holding up both hands. “all of it. we saw a paparazzo in the bushes and decided to mess with him.”

elvis nodded. “i threw her in the pool on purpose. she told me to.”

gasps. someone dropped their sign.

“you mean—none of it was real?” a woman said, deflated.

“no secret house?” another added.

“no cheating?” someone from “team elvis” whispered hopefully.

“nope,” you said, giving that side a raised eyebrow before laughing softly. “just a bored couple with too much imagination and a very bad habit of messing with nosy photographers.”

elvis pointed at one of the magazines someone was holding. “y’all really think i’d get into a screaming match over palm springs? i can barely argue over where to order lunch.”

one fan, who had been clutching her “she deserved better” sign like a weapon, lowered it slowly. “i made a t-shirt,” she mumbled.

you smiled kindly. “wear it anyway. it’s still kinda true—i washed my hair that morning.”

elvis rolled his eyes and laughed, squeezing your hip as some girls giggled like they understood exactly how annoying that was, and they most likely did. more laughter broke out, someone shouting, “you two are evil!” and another followed with, “i love it!”

the inevitable “can we get a picture?!” came and you wholeheartedly agreed, elvis throwing an arm around your shoulder instead and playfully putting his hand around your throat. “only if i get to look like the villain again.”

you both posed for the fans, giving them exaggerated angry faces, fake sobs, and mock dramatics. this time, it wasn’t about headlines, but about having fun with the fans and letting them create new memories they’ll most likely never forget.

after taking more pictures with the fans, elvis signing anything from records to teddy bears and personal photo albums, you and your husband waved goodbye and made your back to the house, still giggling about the whole thing.

“you think they’ll believe it was fake?” you asked.

he tilted his head. “some will.”

“and the rest?”

elvis smirked. “they’ll be back next week—wonderin’ if i’ve got a third house and a new maid.”

[xwixnk]

I have this amazing idea.

How about a fic where both Janet and Michael are in love with reader? And competing over the pathetic puddle of bisexuality that is reader? The girl is mine levels of competing.

It's gonna be hilarious.

Can't Choose

Janet and Michael x bisexual! Reader

Summary: Michael and Janet both want you but your bisexual self can't choose.

The tension in the room is thick. You sit squeezed on the velvet couch overwhelmed by the intense attention of both Jackson siblings. "You look absolutely beautiful tonight, sweetheart," Michael says softly. He places a gentle hand over yours, his thumb brushing your knuckles. He flashes that signature, blinding smile that has charmed millions, but his eyes are locked entirely on you.

Before you can even blush, Janet leans in from your other side, resting her chin on your shoulder. "Don't overwhelm baby girl, Mike," she purrs, her voice dripping with smooth confidence. She slides her arm around your waist, pulling you closer to her. "They know who they really want to spend the evening with right, my love?" You let out a weak, high pitched squeak. Your bisexual heart is beating at a dangerous speed. You look at Michael, then at Janet, overwhelmed by choices.

Michael’s smile tightens. He doesn't drop his grip on your hand."I'm not overwhelming anyone, Jan," Michael says, "I'm just taking care of my angel in fact, I was just about to take them out to the gardens. Just the two of us."

"Oh, really?" Janet laughs, a low, challenging sound that sends shivers down your spine. She tightens her grip on your waist, her fingers splaying against your hip. "Honey told me earlier that they wanted to stay right here and listen to the new tracks I'm producing I think my company is exactly what they need."

"They were just being polite, Janet," Michael counters, his voice dropping an octave. "let's be real darling, tell her you'd rather see the twilight over the lake with me, wouldn't you?"

"Michael, please," Janet sighs dramatically, rolling her eyes. She leans across your lap, bringing her face inches from Michael's, trapping you entirely in their crossfire. "You're living in a fantasy look at her, she is practically melting in my arms, precious belongs with me."

You look between the two global icons. Michael's dark eyes are wide, pleading, and focused. Janet’s gaze is heavy, and full of possessive promise. You are a helpless, puddle of indecision."I... I can't choose," you stammer, your voice barely a whisper.

Michael chuckles softly, leaning in to press a soft kiss to your cheek. "You don't have to choose right now, sweetheart," he murmurs, though his eyes dart to Janet to mark his territory. "She needs to know her place."

Janet counters kissing your other cheek, her lips lingering against your skin. "Keep dreaming, Mike," she whispers against your ear, making you shudder. "By the end of the night, baby girl is coming home with me."

Taglist!👾: @primaltomeabomination @erynnnn @midnightparagraphs @heyitsm4di @rgg1115 @4ngelonmars @sxphr2 @skylar-g @luminousshardobelisk @raefoxiegirl @s0uash @kisscoqueen @appleheadsbiggestfan @delictezz @a-motherfcking-fish @animegamerfox @blameditontheboogie @mvkas @mileyispunk @missharper33 @raefoxiegirl

[maryfett99]

Sticky note — John Lennon ೀ .˳˳.⋅ॱ˙‧͙

Pairing ✧ John Lennon x Fem Reader

Type ✧ Drabble

Details ✧ humor, comedy (I think), Eppy* is Brian Epstein (the beatles manager)

✧Masterlist✧

John had stepped out of the hotel room to grab some sweets you'd both spotted at the reception that afternoon; the ones you liked and wanted to try. But when he came back his hands were empty. He opened the door and found you flipping through a magazine, stretched out on the bed.

-Something terrible has happened- he whispers, expression deadly serious and cold.

You look up at the sound of his voice and see he's already standing beside the bed.

-What? What happened?

The look on his face was actually starting to scare you. You got up from the bed immediately standing in front of him.

-Are you okay?- you start scanning his body as if expecting to find some kind of injury, running your hands along his arms and his torso.

-I'm sorry…- still holding that same expression of pure tragedy, eyes locked in yours.

-John what happened? Did something happen to the boys? Eppy*?- you questioned nervous, already assuming the worst.

He doesn't answer, just kept holding that gaze that stabbed you a little more with every passing second.

-Damn it John say something!!- you grabbed him by the shoulder and shook him.

-They ran out of sweets at the reception

Three seconds. You let exactly three seconds go by before grabbing the nearest pillow and smashing it straight into his face.

-You're an idiot!

John laughed and caught the pillow before you could hit him again.

-But we can buy them tomorrow! the girl at the front desk gave me the brand name she wrote it down for me, right here- from his right pocket he pulled out a small folded piece of paper.

-That doesn't make you any less of an idiot- you yanked the paper from his hands roughly and climbed onto the other side of the bed, placing the note on your nightstand -and you nearly gave me a heart attack!!

-I'm not an idiot! my queen's cravings are a very serious matter- he climbed into bed sliding under the covers with a silly grin.

John hasn't looked at what's written on the sticky note yet. It's the front desk girl's phone number. When you read it the next morning, who'll really be scared?

Credits dividers: cursed-carmine

[shaymewizard]

𓆩𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔯𝔦𝔰𝔱𓆪

🦇 vampire!michael x fem!reader

🧛🏻 You work as a maid for Michael Jackson. After retiring from his music career he vanished from the public eye living hidden in the dark woods under the name "Maestro." Over time your maid role brought you closer to him and bit by bit you found yourself falling in love. However you soon uncovered the heartbreaking truth behind his decision to disappear from the world forever.

Taglist: @tojiswifeforlife , @zanyana626 , @heubstr , @moonaarts, @pyt03 , @ksavamp , @asillysimp , @muddyloserlia , @madsreading

9 | confessions

Janet had never been the kind of woman who let questions sit unanswered.

She stood in the doorway of Michael's study, her arms crossed, her posture radiating the particular impatience of someone who had been waiting for two days and was done pretending she hadn't noticed anything amiss.

The room smelled of old books and the faint, ever-present metallic note that clung to the estate's master like cologne.

"Where is she?"

Michael looked up from the papers he hadn't been reading. Janet hovered above the desk, a single bead of ink trembling at the nib.

"Good afternoon to you too, Janet."

"Don't." She stepped into the room and closed the door behind her. The click of the latch was decisive. "Y/N hasn't reported for her duties in two days. The other maids are having to take over for her. And you've been… different."

"Different." He set the quill down.

"Distracted. Is what i mean." Janet moved closer, her shrewd gaze sweeping over him the way it always did. "I've been in this household long enough to know when something's off. So I'll ask again. Where is she?"

Michael leaned back in his chair. The candlelight caught the angles of his face, the shadows pooling beneath his cheekbones. "She's unwell. A fever."

"A fever."

"Yes."

Janet waited. The silence stretched.

"That's what you're going with?" she said finally. "A fever."

"It's the truth."

"It's not the whole truth." Janet uncrossed her arms and planted her hands on the edge of his desk.

"Michael, I've known you for years. I know what you are. I've kept your secrets without complaint because you’re my big brother. But something is happening with that girl, and I want to know what it is."

The muscles in Michael's jaw tightened. "What makes you think something is happening?"

"You." Janet straightened and began to pace, her shoes making soft sounds against the Persian rug.

"You've been hovering around her ever since she started working here. I've seen the way you look at her. And I've seen her looking back at you the same way." She stopped pacing and faced him.

"Then suddenly she's too sick to work, and you're locked in here staring at blank paper, and I'm supposed to believe it's just a fever?"

"I didn't realize you were watching us so closely."

"Someone has to." Her voice softened, just slightly. "You don't exactly have a lot of friends, Michael. And whatever this is, whatever's going on between you and her, I'm not here to judge. I'm here because I need to know if she's all right."

Michael rose from his chair and moved to the window. The heavy drapes were drawn, as they always were in this room, but he stood near the edge where a sliver of afternoon light cut across the floor. He didn't step into it.

"Perhaps I've been spending more time with her than I should have," he said quietly.

"Perhaps?"

"Definitely." He turned back to face Janet, and the weight in his expression made her breath catch. "I've been spending time with her. Significant time. And now…"

"And now what?"

His silence was answer enough. Janet's eyes widened.

"Is she pregnant?"

The word hung in the air between them.

"Yes."

Janet's hand flew to her mouth. She stared at him, and for a long moment, the only sound in the room was the faint crackle of the candle on his desk.

"You're certain?" she managed.

"She took a test. Two days ago. I was there."

"A test." Janet lowered herself into the chair opposite his desk, her legs apparently unwilling to hold her any longer. Her mind was racing, sorting through implications, questions, concerns. "Does she know?"

"Yes. I told her."

"And she's still speaking to you?"

"She's still processing. But she hasn't run." A ghost of wonder touched his voice. "She hasn't run."

Janet leaned forward. "Well damn Mikey. What else haven't you told me?"

Michael hesitated. Then, with the air of a man who had decided there was no point in half-truths anymore, he said, "I've bitten her. Twice."

"Michael."

"The first time was weeks ago. The second was two nights ago, in my bedroom." He held up a hand to forestall her protest. "I know. I know it was reckless. The side effects are already manifesting. Her reflection is beginning to blur at the edges."

"If you bite her again—"

"She'll turn. Fully. Irreversibly." He met Janet's gaze. "I won't. I've made that decision. Whatever happens, I won't take that from her. She deserves a choice."

Janet studied him for a long moment.

"A baby," Janet said slowly. The word seemed to expand as she spoke it, filling the room with unspoken possibilities. "Your baby."

"Yes."

"Michael, that's…" She shook her head, and then, unexpectedly, she smiled. "That's wonderful."

"Yet so terrifying."

"Those aren't mutually exclusive." She rose from the chair and rounded the desk. "You've been alone in this house for quite some time. Longer than that, I suspect. You've been going through the motions, managing your condition, keeping the world at arm's length. And now—"

"Now everything is different."

"Now you have something to lose." She squeezed his shoulder once and let go. "That's a good thing, Michael. It means you're alive. In the ways that matter."

He looked up at her, and for just a moment, the ancient weariness in his eyes flickered and gave way to something younger. Something almost fragile.

"I always wanted children," he said. "When I was human. Before the transformation. I wanted a family. Afterward, I thought that dream had died with my reflection." He exhaled slowly. "Apparently not."

"Apparently not," Janet echoed. "Now. What are you going to do about it?"

 Across town, in a small apartment with flimsy locks and cheap curtains, you were bent over the toilet, one hand braced against the cold porcelain, the other clutching your hair back from your face.

The nausea had stopped being occasional and had become a constant companion.

It woke you in the morning. It followed you through the empty hours. It tucked you in at night.

You'd spent twenty minutes that morning staring at a jar of pickles and a container of vanilla ice cream, seriously considering combining them.

You hadn't. But you'd thought about it.

When the retching subsided, you sat back on your heels and pressed your palm to your stomach. Still flat. Still silent.

Yet everything about your body felt alien, as if someone had swapped your internal wiring overnight.

"Okay," you whispered to the empty bathroom. "Okay. We're doing this."

Your phone was on the nightstand. You crawled back to bed and grabbed it, your fingers finding Michael's contact before you'd fully decided to call.

He'd programmed his number into your telephone himself, his long fingers navigating the buttons with surprising dexterity for a man who still used quills.

The phone rang once.

"Y/N." His voice was immediate, alert. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. I just—" You swallowed against the residual burn in your throat. "Can you come over? I've been sick all morning, and I don't want to be alone right now."

"I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

He was there in twelve.

When you opened the door, Michael swept into the apartment like a storm contained in human shape, coat billowing, dark eyes scanning the room for threats, hands reaching for you before he'd even spoken.

He cupped your face, tilted it toward the dim light, examined you with an intensity that would have been alarming if it weren't so clearly fueled by concern.

"Tell me everything," he commanded. "When did it start? How severe? Have you kept any fluids down?"

"I'm fine. We're fine." You caught his wrists and gently lowered his hands. "It's morning sickness. Normal morning sickness. The internet says it peaks around this time."

"The internet." He said it the way someone else might say the village soothsayer.

"Yes. The internet." Despite everything, the nausea, the exhaustion, the surreal impossibility of your situation, you felt yourself smile. "It's a modern invention. Very useful. You should try it sometime."

"I prefer books." His gaze dropped to your stomach, and something softened in his face. "You're certain? She's all right?"

"She?"

"The baby." He looked almost embarrassed. "I don't actually know. I've been thinking of her as a she."

"We don't know the sex yet. It's too early."

"I know. I just…" He trailed off, and the vulnerability in his expression made your chest ache. "I've been imagining her. What she might look like. Whether she'd have your smile or my—" He stopped.

"Your apple head?"

"My apple head ." He laughed, a genuine sound that seemed to surprise him. "Yes. My apple head."

You led him to the small sofa in the living area, and he sat beside you with the careful precision of someone who still wasn't entirely sure he was allowed to be there. His hand found yours, cool fingers interlacing with warm ones.

"Have you eaten?" he asked.

"I can't keep much down."

"You need to keep something down. For the baby." He was already rising. "What can I make you? Tell me what you're craving, and I'll obtain it."

You hesitated. Then, feeling ridiculous: "Ginger tea. And saltine crackers. And maybe—" you paused, embarrassed, "—maybe those little pickles. The sweet ones."

"Done."

"Michael, you don't have to—"

"I want to." He pressed a kiss to your forehead, his lips cool and brief. "Let me take care of you. Both of you. Let me do this."

And so you did.

He made the tea himself, moving through your tiny kitchen with an unfamiliarity that was almost endearing, opening the wrong cabinets, puzzling over the electric kettle as though it were alien technology.

He found the crackers and arranged them on a plate with the sweet pickles, presenting the meal with the gravity of a five-star chef.

"I should mention," he said, settling back onto the sofa beside you, "Janet knows."

You paused mid-sip. "Knows what?"

"Everything. The pregnancy. My nature. The biting." He held up a hand. "She figured it out on her own, mostly. She's observant. And she's happy for us."

"Happy?"

"She said it might make me less insufferable." The corner of his mouth twitched. "Her words, not mine."

You took another sip of tea, letting the ginger settle your stomach. "What happens now?"

"Now," Michael said, "we take it one day at a time. I want you to move into the estate—properly, not as a maid. Your own rooms, your own space. Whatever you need. Janet can manage the household; you can rest. And when the baby comes…" He paused, emotion thickening his voice. "When the baby comes, we'll figure that out too. Together."

"I haven't agreed to any of this yet."

"I know." He took your hand again, his thumb tracing the lines of your palm. "But I'm hoping you will."

You stared at your joined hands, his pale skin against yours, the contrast stark and beautiful.

You thought about the reflection that was starting to fade, the mark on your throat that still pulsed in the small hours, the impossible life growing inside you.

"I'm scared," you admitted.

"So am I."

"That doesn't make it better."

"No," he agreed. "But at least we're scared together."

And for now, wrapped in a blanket on your threadbare sofa, sipping ginger tea while a centuries-old vampire fussed over your saltine consumption, that was enough.

[princessunicornbunnierainbows]

A Striking Distance

first fanfic sry if it's not the best!! I tried my best :) I'm gonna be honest I love how this turned out!! tysm for requesting this!! 💖 @vanitasyshame

George Harrison x fem reader!!

Warnings: none!! it's just fluff :p (if u could even call it that 😓)

You sat down on a small couch in the dressing room. Needing a break from your members, you wrote in your notebook, also drawing little doodles. Your band just happened to be sharing a dressing room with the biggest male rock band, The Beatles. Your bandmates were absolutely struck at the fact. But you didn't care much for The Beatles.

"Mind if I sit here? It’s a bit mad out there."

You looked up from your notebook to find one of The Beatles, George Harrison. He was standing in the doorway of the dressing room. He looked just as overwhelmed by the loud chaos happening outside of the dressing room as you were. You offered him a small, polite smile and nodded.

"Sure have a seat!"

He sat down on the edge of the cushions, carefully adjusting his suit jacket. He looked over at you, his eyes instantly sticking onto the notebook in your hands, then to the guitar case leaning against the wall. "You're the guitarist, right? I caught your soundcheck earlier. You've got a really clean rhythm style." Your cheeks warmed up slightly at the compliment, and you gave him a shy genuine smile.

"Oh, thank you," you said softly, carefully setting your pen down onto your notebook, and avoiding eye contact. "That means a lot coming from you. I was actually a bit nervous during the soundcheck."

Suddenly a loud, high-pitched squeal echoed through the heavy wooden door from the hallway, followed by the sound of Paul McCartney laughing. You couldn't help but let out a small, amused huff, tilting your head toward the noise. Paul was clearly flirting with one of your bandmates. George laughed and spoke up, "Seems like Paul is interested in someone already." You chuckled and agreed, "Yeah he is." Georges eyes never stopped looking at your side profile, causing your face to flush in a light pink shade.

He suddenly spoke up, "The others are talking about hitting the bowling alley tomorrow on our day off. I was wondering if you'd want to be my partner? We can let them have their competitions while we just play our own game." You looked over at him, your face giving a shocked and flustered expression.

Your voice came out softer than expected, "George are you asking me out?"

George’s cheeks tinted with a sudden, faint brush of pink, matching your own blush. He rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous but incredibly endearing grin breaking across his face.

"Aye," he admitted softly, his dark eyes meeting yours with total sincerity. "Suppose I am. If that’s alright with you, of course."

Your heart gave a sudden unfamiliar flutter against your ribs. You had spent weeks ignoring all the Beatles hype, convinced they were just a group of boys yelling into a bunch of microphones, just for girls to crazy. But looking at George right now so grounded, and sweet—you realized you were completely wrong. At least about him.

A smile broke across your face, your flustered expression melting into something warm. "I would really love that George!" you replied softly.

His eyes instantly lit up with relief, and he leaned back against the cushions with a shy smile, completely forgetting about the loud chaos still echoing from the hallway. You turned back to your notebook, tilting it slightly so he could see, as a new couple began to form right there on the dressing room couch.

[xwixnk]

michael protecting daughter reader when paparazzi are swarming them? maybe some dumbass pushes or pull at her and michael is mad (pictured mature mike for this)

Rude Paparazzi

Michael x daughter! Reader

Summary: Your dad is protecting you from rude paparazzi that tryna force you to get a picture.

The airport had been quiet for exactly thirty seconds, Someone spotted him. "Michael!" The terminal erupted. Camera flashes, questions flying from every direction. Security closed in around the two of you, but there were too many people. Michael reached for your hand. "Stay close to me, sweetheart."

"I am." He gave your hand a reassuring squeeze. You'd done this before. You knew the routine. Eyes down, ignore the yelling. It was overwhelming.

"Michael!"

"Look this way!"

"How old is your daughter now?"

"Can we get one smile?"

"Michael, one picture!"

Flashes burst rapidly they blurred together. You scooted closer to Michael until your shoulder brushed his arm, he noticed. "You okay, angel?" You nodded. "They're loud." His voice stayed calm. "We'll be out in just a minute."

The crowd surged, someone pushed past the security line. Another photographer darted around one of the guards. A hand grabbed your backpack. "Hey, sweetheart! Look over here!" The unexpected tug yanked you backward, you stumbled with a startled gasp. "Dad-"

Michael turned so fast it startled his own security team. His arm shot around your shoulders, pulling you firmly against his side. "Don't touch her." His voice wasn't loud, it didn't need to be It carried enough that several people nearby went quiet. The photographer laughed awkwardly. "I just wanted her to look-"

"I said don't touch her." Michael's expression had completely changed The gentle smile was gone the one he usually wore in public. Security stepped between you and the crowd, the photographer tried again. "I wasn't hurting-" "You put your hands on a child." Michael's voice remained controlled, there was steel behind every word. "That is completely unacceptable."

-------------------------------------------------------

The crowd didn't stop, questions became louder.

"Michael, calm down!"

"It was an accident!"

"You're overreacting!"

Michael ignored every single one of them. He crouched in front of you. "Sweetheart." You looked up. "Did he hurt you?" You rubbed your shoulder where the backpack strap had dug in. "It just surprised me." His expression softened. "Let Daddy see." He gently adjusted the strap, making sure it hadn't scraped your shoulder. "You alright?"

You nodded. "I'm okay." He smiled faintly. "Brave girl." Security started moving again, Michael never let go of your hand. He shifted positions so you were completely shielded behind him. Every time a camera moved toward your side he moved with it amd stepped between them.

One reporter shouted, "Michael, why are you hiding her?" Without even looking over he answered, "She's my daughter." Another voice called, "She's used to this!" Michael stopped walking. The terminal fell quiet.

He turned just enough for everyone to hear him. "No child should have to get used to grown adults invading their space." Silence. "No photograph is worth frightening a little girl." His words landed harder than if he'd yelled.

--------------------------------------------------------

Outside wasn't much better, the crowd had spilled onto the sidewalk As security opened the SUV door, another man leaned in far too close. "Just one picture!" He reached past the doorframe, Michael caught his wrist before he could get any closer. "No." The man blinked, Michael looked him directly in the eye. "You will respect her personal space."

The man quickly pulled back. "Sorry." Michael released him. "Thank you." Once inside the SUV, the door shut. The noise disappeared, you let out a long breath you hadn't realized you'd been holding. Michael noticed, he pulled you into a side hug. "You did so well." "I got scared, I thought I got lost."

"You didn't." He kissed the top of your head. "You never will." After a few minutes of silence, you frowned. "Did I make you mad?" Michael looked at you in complete surprise. "You? Never sweetheart" "'You sounded really angry." He smiled softly. "Love my anger wasn't for you."

"It wasn't?" He shook his head. "Never." He tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. "I was angry because someone forgot their manners." "They grabbed me."

"I know they shouldn't do that." He gave your hand another gentle squeeze. "They should never touch you without your permission. You nodded. "What if they're famous?" Michael chuckled quietly. "Especially if they're famous."

-----------------------------------------------------------

Later that evening, one of the security guards apologized. "I'm sorry we didn't stop him sooner." Michael shook his head. "You handled it as quickly as anyone could." He glanced toward the living room where you were curled up on the couch, happily watching a cartoon with a blanket wrapped around your shoulders, his expression softened. "I've spent my life in front of cameras."

He looked back at the guard. "She didn't choose this." There was a long pause before he quietly added, "As long as I'm breathing" His eyes drifted back to you. "My little angel will always know someone is standing between her and the world." You somehow sensed him watching, you looked over from the couch and smiled. "Daddy?"

"Yes, sweetheart?" "Movie night?" His serious expression melted into a grin. "How could I say no to my favorite girl?" You giggled. "You can't."

"I suppose I can't." He crossed the room, scooped you into a gentle hug despite your mock protests that you were "too big to be carried," and carried you the last few steps to the couch anyway. "My baby," he teased. "Daaad!" "You'll always be my baby, angel."

You rolled your eyes with a smile, settling against his shoulder as the movie began, the chaos of the airport already starting to fade behind the comfort of home.

Taglist!👾: @primaltomeabomination @erynnnn @midnightparagraphs @heyitsm4di @rgg1115 @4ngelonmars @sxphr2 @skylar-g @luminousshardobelisk @raefoxiegirl @s0uash @kisscoqueen @appleheadsbiggestfan @delictezz @a-motherfcking-fish @animegamerfox @blameditontheboogie @mvkas

[niallspyt]

off the record

PAIRING: mature era!michael x podcast host!reader (afab)

SUMMARY: michael listens to your podcast Off The Record and loves how you give celebrities the space to be themselves. when he insists (with the help of his PR team) to do multiple episodes with you, it turns your world upside down. you expect a polished version of the king of pop, but as you get to know him, you quickly find out there's more to him that his persona on stage.

WARNING: slow-burn romance, mostly fluff (some angst in this part) & eventual smut, 18+, age gap (Michael is in his 40s & reader is mid-to-late 20s)

PART 2 of ? (part 1 can be found here)

WC: ~5.5k (I went overboard LMAO)

A/N: hi lovelies!! tysm for all the love on part one, I appreciate you all 🥺 I hope that you enjoy part two!!! I apologize that it took so long, I wanted it to be a bit longer than part 1 and editing took me a few days to do <3 if anyone has requests for AUs they'd like to see, feel free to send me a request! I also have a couple of ideas lined up for future Michael fics 🫶🏽

TAGS: @pulsingeternity @lanibuggg @thebabykashmere @animegamerfox @munsons-mayhem28 @styleslover-1994 @wildpandorasky @thatpettyho @cafe-lectura @ella-jolie @fiyerobridgerton @xoxogossipgirl02 @notyourusualnia @mydeerest1 @peacemakersbeloved @mazza-0 @justboredroaming @oidloid @sclareclipse7 @niadaboss @flesheatingvamp @gingerrsnapp @slowlikehoney-stronglikemusic @moontunee @lovelyreadersposts

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The first recording session with Michael is scheduled for the following afternoon.

You spend the night before sitting cross-legged on your bedroom floor, surrounded by notebooks that you barely end up using. Normally, you research every guest extensively, filling pages with timelines about their careers and possible talking points for the episode.

But for Michael, you close the notebook you have in front of you.

You know that the entire reason he wants to come onto Off the Record is because he's tired of conversations that already know where they're going. So instead, you write only three things on an index card to bring with you (along with your recording equipment).

Who are you when no one's watching?

What makes you feel safe?

What do you hope people remember?

Suddenly, your landline phone rings. You put the index card down on your bed and walk over to your nightstand to pick up the receiver. “Hello?” You say.

“Hi, Y/N? It's Michael.” Michael's voice echoes through the line.

“Michael? How did you get my number?” You ask with surprise lacing your voice as you sit down on your bed.

“I asked Frank to give it to me...I wanted to hear your voice before tomorrow.” He replies, and you can tell that he sounds nervous on the other end.

You blush at his words. “What, you can't get enough of me?” You tease him, and laugh when you hear him sigh.

“Haha, very funny. I just wanted to triple check that we're still good to go for tomorrow?” He asks shyly.

You smile. “Yes, of course.”

“Okay great...I also wanted to ask you if there's anything you'll need from me for tomorrow?”

Your smile widens and your heart warms at his kindness. “Well...I do love coffee, especially vanilla lattes with whipped cream and caramel syrup on top from Studio 28 Café. It's my go-to drink whenever I do an episode for my podcast. I'm sure I can grab one quickly though before Bill picks me up.”

Michael is quiet for a second, and you can almost hear him smiling through the receiver.

“Vanilla latte,” he repeats softly, as if committing it to memory. “Whipped cream...caramel syrup.”

“You don't have to memorize my coffee order!” you laugh.

“I wasn't.”

“You absolutely were.”

"Maybe a little."

The grin on your face grows wider. “But seriously,” you continue, “all I really need is you. Just be yourself.”

“I can do that,” he says, though the uncertainty in his voice makes it sound like a promise he's still learning how to keep.

“Good.”

“I've done thousands of interviews,” he says after a moment. "Magazine articles, television specials, radio interviews and people always have a version of me they want.”

“And I don't.”

“I know.” His voice softens. “That's why this one scares me.”

You lean back against your headboard, twisting the phone cord around your finger. “Being scared isn't always a bad thing.”

“No?"

“No. Sometimes it just means something matters.”

Silence settles comfortably between the both of you and it's a strange feeling. You've only known Michael for a couple of days, but talking to him doesn't feel like talking to the biggest entertainer in the world. It feels like talking to someone sitting beside you in the dark, sharing thoughts you'd never say with the lights on.

“So...” he says eventually. “You're really not going to tell me what you're planning to ask?”

“Nope.”

“Not even one question?"

“You'll find out tomorrow.”

He groans dramatically. "Y/N..."

"Michael."

"Please?"

"No."

"What if I sing for you?"

You laugh so hard you have to pull the receiver away from your ear. "Is that bribery???"

"It's negotiation."

"Nah, that's definitely bribery."

"Well I've been told I'm persuasive."

"You've probably also been told you're charming."

"I have."

"Don't let it go to your head and inflate your ego."

"Too late."

The two of you dissolve into laughter. When it dies down, Michael clears his throat. "I meant what I said earlier."

"About what?"

"Wanting to hear your voice."

Your heartbeat stumbles.

"It's been..." He searches for the words. "A long time since I looked forward to talking to someone who wasn't expecting something from me."

His honesty catches you off guard.

"I don't expect anything from you, Michael."

"I know."

"And tomorrow isn't about getting headlines."

"I know that, too."

"It's just a conversation."

He exhales slowly. "I think I forgot conversations could just be conversations."

You glance at the index card resting on your bed.

Who are you when no one's watching?

What makes you feel safe?

What do you hope people remember?

While talking to Michael, you're not thinking about asking those questions: instead, you're wondering what the answers will be from questions that come up as the conversation naturally flows.

"So," Michael says, his voice lighter again, "what time should I expect you?"

"Bill's picking me up around one and we should be at Neverland by two-ish."

"I'll be ready."

"I know you will."

"And Y/N?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm glad you said yes to do the podcast."

Your chest tightens. "I'm glad you asked me."

Another silence stretches, and neither of you seem eager to hang up. Finally, Michael laughs quietly to himself. "We're doing that thing."

"What thing?"

"The awkward part where neither person wants to end the phone call."

You smile to yourself. "Yeah, you're right."

"You hang up first."

"No, you."

"I'm the guest."

"And I'm the host."

"I think hosts have to hang up first."

"I don't think that's a real rule."

"It is now."

You shake your head, laughing. "Goodnight, Michael."

"Goodnight, and don't buy your coffee tomorrow."

You frown. "What?"

"Nothing."

"Michael..."

"You'll see."

Before you can question him any further, the line clicks. "He hung up on me," you mutter, staring at the receiver. You slowly place it back in its cradle, unable to stop smiling as you head to bed.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next afternoon, Bill pulls up to your apartment building right on time.

"You ready?" he asks as you climb into the backseat, placing your recorder and microphone case in the seat beside you.

"As ready as I'll ever be."

The drive to Neverland passes in a blur of rolling hills and nervous anticipation. However, you're not terrified, you're excited. You've never been this excited to do a podcast episode before: but with Michael, you feel comfortable. You can't wait to get to know Michael Jackson outside of what you already know, and you're ecstatic for your listeners to get to know him too.

When the gates finally come into view, they still take your breath away. Bill whistles. "I don't think I'll ever get used to this place."

"Me either, Bill, me either."

When Bill parks the car, you step out and as you make your way toward the main entrance, you rehearse your opening in your head.

Relax. Listen. And let the conversation go wherever it wants.

The front door opens before you even have a chance to knock.

Michael stands there in dark jeans, a loose white button-down with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, and a warm smile that immediately dissolves the tension in your shoulders.

"Hi," he says.

"Hi."

His eyes flick down to your hands. "You're missing something."

You blink, a bit confused. "What?"

Without saying a word, he steps aside and you notice that sitting on the entry table is a cardboard drink carrier with two drinks: one that you presume to be tea and the other a coffee topped with a generous swirl of whipped cream and caramel drizzle.

Your vanilla latte from Studio 28 Café. Exactly the way you order it.

You stare at it before looking back up at him. "You actually drove all the way to Studio 28?"

Michael suddenly looks bashful, a blush forming on his cheeks. "You said it was your favourite."

"You remembered every detail." You say, stunned that he actually took the time to get it for you.

He shrugs, trying (and failing) to act casual. "I told you, I wasn't memorizing it."

You raise an eyebrow. "Liar."

A sheepish smile spreads across his face. "Okay, maybe I was."

You shake your head, unable to hide your smile as you enter and pick up the cup. "It's still warm."

"I had someone pick it up about twenty minutes before you got here," Michael admits. "I wanted it to be fresh."

"You planned this?"

He scratches the back of his neck, suddenly fascinated by the floor. "Maybe."

"Michael."

"What?"

"That's incredibly sweet."

His cheeks tint pink. "I just wanted you to have one less thing to think about today."

You hadn't expected such a thoughtful gesture over something as small as a coffee order. But it tells you more about Michael than any magazine headline ever could. He paid attention: not because he had to, but because he wanted to.

Bill clears his throat from behind you. "I don't mean to interrupt this adorable moment," he says with a grin, "but I've got equipment to unload."

Both you and Michael immediately look away, embarrassed.

"Right," you mumble.

Michael laughs quietly. "I'll help."

A few minutes later, the three of you have transformed one of Neverland's cozy sitting rooms into a makeshift recording studio. A cream-coloured sofa sits opposite two matching armchairs as sunlight spills through the tall windows overlooking the gardens, where you can just make out the tops of the carousel and Ferris wheel in the distance.

You set your recorder on the coffee table and carefully attach microphones to their stands.

Michael kneels beside one of the microphone cables. "Does this go here?"

You glance over. "No, but thank you."

"I tried."

"You did, I appreciate it."

Bill smirks. "I've never seen him take directions this well."

Michael playfully glares at him. "I can hear you."

"I know."

The easy teasing fills the room. It's different from the tense atmosphere you'd expected surrounding someone as famous as Michael Jackson. There's no assistants rushing around and no publicists hovering nearby. However, as if on cue, Frank pokes his head into the room. "Do either of you need anything before I disappear?"

"We're good," Michael says.

Frank looks between the two of you, noticing the matching cups in your hands, and grins knowingly. "I'll leave you to it."

"Frank," Michael warns.

"What?"

"Nothing."

Chuckling to himself, Frank disappears down the hallway. The room grows quiet again as you finish connecting everything. You finish checking your levels and slip on your headphones. "Okay," you say. "Would you mind saying something for me?"

Michael sits across from you and leans toward the microphone. "Something."

You roll your eyes. "Real mature."

"You didn't specify."

You adjust one of the dials. "Fine. Count to ten."

Michael obediently begins. "One... two... three..."

His speaking voice is softer through the headphones than you'd expected. It's warm and gentle, and it makes you blush.

"...eight... nine... ten."

You make a few adjustments. "Perfect."

He watches you curiously.

"What?" You ask, tilting your head slightly.

"You look different."

Your hands pause over the recorder. "Different how?"

"When you're working."

You blink.

"I don't know." He tilts his head thoughtfully. "You're...quieter."

"I usually am."

"No." He smiles. "You're confident."

The observation catches you off guard. "I've never really thought about it."

"I have."

You meet his eyes across from you, and you see how sincere he is as he continues to speak. "The second you started setting everything up," he says, "it was like you weren't nervous anymore."

He isn't wrong. The butterflies from the excitement that had followed you all morning had vanished the moment you'd started plugging in cables and checking sound levels. Behind the microphone, everything made sense.

"I guess this is my safe place," you admit.

"The microphone?"

You nod.

"It gives people permission."

"Permission?"

"To slow down."

You glance around the room. "When people know they're being interviewed for television, they perform."

Michael nods almost instinctively.

"But when it's just voices, people listen differently. They imagine instead of judge."

His expression grows thoughtful. "That's beautiful."

"It's why I started the podcast." You take one last sip of your latte, set the empty cup on the table beside your recorder, and glance down at the small index card you'd brought with you.

Three questions.

Michael notices it. "Is that your whole interview?"

You smile. "It was."

"Was?"

You look back up at him. "I'm not so sure anymore."

His eyebrows lift. "Why not?"

"Because after talking to you the past couple of days..."

You switch on the recorder, and the small red light flickers to life between you.

"...I think I'd rather find out where the conversation wants to go."

The recorder hums quietly, its reels beginning to turn.

You let the silence exist for a few seconds. It's something you've learned over the past two years since starting your podcast: the most honest conversations often begin in the spaces where no one rushes to fill the quiet.

"Welcome back to Off the Record." Your voice naturally settles into the calm tone millions of listeners have come to know.

"I'm here today with someone who probably needs absolutely no introduction."

Michael chuckles across from you.

"But, introductions usually tell us what someone has accomplished. So please join me in welcoming Michael Jackson."

Michael glances at the microphone, then back at you with a smile. "It's an honour to be here, I'm a big fan of your podcast."

You smile back at him. "The honour is all mine. I do have one rule though before we start."

"I'm listening."

"If there's a question you don't want to answer, just say so."

He looks at you with surprise. "That's it?"

"That's it."

"No follow-up or trying to convince me?"

You shake your head. "If you tell me something is off-limits, it stays off-limits."

He studies your face for a long moment, as if searching for the catch.

"There isn't any catch," you say, reading his expression.

His shoulders visibly relax. "Thank you."

You nod once before leaning toward your microphone. "Whenever you're ready."

Michael inhales slowly, and nods at you, ready for the first question. You glance at the recorder, then back to him. "Michael?"

"Yeah?"

"Who are you when no one's watching?"

Michael lets out a quiet laugh that doesn't quite become a smile.

"That's a hell of a first question."

"It is, that's why I wanted to ask you."

He looks past you instead of at you, eyes settling on the window where both of your reflections hover faintly over the glass.

"When no one's watching..." he repeats. "I don't know if anybody's ever asked me that."

"They are now." You say with a smile.

He rubs his thumb against the seam of his cup, buying himself another second. "I think..." He exhales. "I think I'm tired."

You wait.

"Not physically. Well, physically too. But I mean..." He searches for the words carefully, like they're hidden somewhere beneath years of rehearsed answers. "People know versions of me. The one that's useful. The one that's dependable. The one that's funny enough to keep things light. The one that's got everything under control."

"And when no one's watching?"

"None of those guys stick around." His eyes finally meet yours.

"It's just me. Quiet. Usually making tea I forget to drink. Reading the same page three times because my brain wandered somewhere else. Wondering if I made the right choices. Wondering if the people I love actually know me, or if they just know the version that's easiest to love."

You pause before answering. "That sounds lonely."

"It can be."

"You said 'versions.' Is the real one different?"

Michael considers the question longer this time. "I don't think the real one's different." He shakes his head. "I think he's smaller."

"Smaller?"

"Less impressive." A faint smile flickers across his face. "He talks to himself. He apologizes to furniture after bumping into it. He cries at documentaries about old dogs. He worries he'll disappoint people. He gets scared."

"You make that sound like a flaw."

"I spent a long time thinking it was."

"And now?"

"Now..." He leans back in his chair, staring at the ceiling for a moment. "Now I think that's probably the only version that's actually mine."

You glance down at your notes but don't write anything. "So, who are you when no one's watching?"

Michael looks at the recorder, then back at you. "I'm someone who's still trying to figure out if being enough is something you become, or something you finally stop arguing against." He smiles, small but genuine.

You nod and reach for your coffee out of habit before remembering you'd already finished it.

Michael notices. "You drank it."

"I did."

"Was it right?"

You laugh softly. "You seriously want a review in the middle of the interview?"

"I worked very hard arranging that coffee."

"It was perfect."

He beams. "I knew extra caramel was the right choice."

"You added extra caramel?"

"You seem like someone who deserves extra caramel."

You shake your head, smiling. "I don't even know how to respond to that."

"You don't have to." Michael says with a smile.

The tension dissolves for a moment. It's subtle, but you notice how naturally he moves between seriousness and playfulness: as though humor is the bridge he uses to return from difficult places.

You make a mental note of it for yourself.

"Can I ask you something?" he says suddenly.

"You just did."

He points at you. "See? That's exactly what I mean when I keep telling you I wanted to meet you."

You laugh. "Go ahead."

He shifts in his chair. "Why radio?"

You blink. "What do you mean?"

"You're good at this." He gestures around the room. "You could have your own television show."

"I've been offered."

"And?"

"I turned it down."

"Why?"

You think for a moment. "I like that people can't see us. They have to listen and not judge."

His expression softens.

"Exactly."

You nod. "I think voices tell the truth before faces do."

Michael sits with that thought for a moment. Then, almost absentmindedly, he says, "I wish more people believed that."

You glance at the recorder. It isn't even twenty minutes into the interview, but you've already forgotten about your three questions. You let another quiet moment settle before speaking again.

"Can I ask you something a little personal?"

Michael smiles. "I thought that was the whole point."

"It is."

He nods once. "Go ahead."

You glance down at your index card, your thumb brushing over the second question.

"What makes you feel safe?"

His smile fades, but not because he's upset: rather, you can tell he's taking the question seriously. He doesn't answer immediately. Outside, you can hear faint laughter from somewhere on the grounds.

Michael listens to it before he speaks. "Children."

The answer comes so quietly you almost miss it.

"They've always made me feel safe. They don't ask for explanations." He folds his hands together. "They don't care who I am or how many records I've sold or what the newspapers are saying about me. If they like you, they just like you." He shrugs, a small smile returning to his face. “They'll ask you the most random things, for example: they ask me why do I wear hats all the time."

"You do wear a lot of hats." You say with a laugh.

"I know." He says, laughing along with you.

"They're not wrong."

"They're very observant and very honest." His grin widens.

"Exactly."

The lightheartedness lingers for a beat before he grows thoughtful again. "When I was little," he says, "I used to think adults had everything figured out."

"And now?" You say.

He lets out a quiet laugh. "I think most adults are just children who've gotten better at pretending."

You nod slowly. "I've met a few of those."

"So have I."

You notice how relaxed he looks now compared to when you'd first turned on the recorder. His shoulders aren't as tense and one of his ankles is resting casually over the opposite knee.

It reminds you why you started Off the Record in the first place. You wanted to make people forget they were being interviewed at all.

"You built Neverland because of that, didn't you?" you ask gently.

His eyes drift toward the window. "I built it because I wanted a place where I didn't have to grow up all the time." He smiles wistfully. "When I was a kid, work came first. Rehearsals. Recording. Touring. I don't regret it though, I love making music."

"But?"

"But I missed things."

He doesn't elaborate, but he doesn't have to.

"So I suppose..." He glances out toward the amusement rides again. "I suppose this place is my way of keeping a promise to the little boy who never really got to be one."

It's the kind of answer you know that your listeners will remember long after the episode ends, because it's heartbreakingly simple and true to what he had to endure all these years.

You decide not to chase the answer with another difficult question. Instead, you smile. "Okay."

He looks back at you, surprised. "Okay?"

"Yeah."

"Aren't you going to ask me what I missed?"

"If you wanted to tell me, you would have."

He studies you for a second before letting out a soft chuckle. "You really mean it."

"What?"

"You don't force people."

"I don't think honesty responds well to being cornered."

He smiles at you. "That's exactly why I wanted to do this."

You feel warmth creep into your cheeks. "Well...I'm glad you did."

"So am I."

Michael suddenly leans forward with a mischievous glint in his eye. "My turn."

You look at him, confused. "Your turn?"

"You've been asking all the questions."

"That's usually how interviews work."

"Not this one." He folds his arms with mock seriousness. "I'd like equal opportunity."

You laugh. "Fine."

He pretends to think very hard. "Hmm..."

"Oh no."

"What?"

"That face means you're about to ask something impossible."

"I've got it." He smiles triumphantly. "What makes you feel safe?"

Your mouth opens. "You stole my question!"

"I borrowed it."

"You absolutely stole it."

He grins, clearly pleased with himself. "You don't have to answer if you don't want to."

You narrow your eyes. "Using my own rule against me?"

"I'm learning from the best."

You shake your head, laughing under your breath. "You clearly are."

The smile lingers as you think. Unlike him, you don't have years of media training to fall back on.

Finally, you speak.

"My grandpa."

Michael's expression softens immediately.

You smile to yourself. "He raised me, and he was the first person who taught me that listening is more important than talking."

You glance down at your hands as you continue to answer. "When I was little, if I had a bad day, he'd never jump in with advice. He'd just sit with me until I was ready to tell him what happened."

Michael listens intently.

"I think that's where all of this started." You gesture toward the microphones. "I realized people don't open up because someone asks the perfect question. They open up because someone makes them feel like they don't have to rush."

A quiet smile spreads across Michael's face. "Your grandfather sounds like a wonderful man."

"He is."

"And your grandmother?"

You laugh. "She thinks everyone leaves my podcast sounding like they've accidentally been to therapy."

Michael bursts into laughter, throwing his head back. "Oh, she's absolutely right."

"I know."

"You should invite your grandmother onto the next podcast episode we do."

"Oh?"

"So she can explain how she knew exactly what was going to happen to me."

You grin. "I'll see if she's available."

"You'd better."

The interview keeps going, and you ask Michael questions about his album Invincible and the creative process, which he happily talks to you about. He lights up as he describes the late nights in the studio and the songs he rewrote countless times before they finally felt right. Every answer comes with an easy smile and the occasional laugh, his passion for music making it impossible not to smile along with him.

After a while, you glance at the recorder's timer and notice that just over an hour has passed. There are still questions on your index card that haven't been asked, ones that you quickly added as backup as the interview went on. But as you’re sitting here with Michael, you realize you don’t need to ask anymore questions, except for the final one

What do you hope people remember?

You almost don't ask it, but you decide it's worth hearing the answer in his own words.

"One last question."

Michael straightens slightly. "This is the last one?"

"I promised I wouldn't keep you all day."

"I wouldn't have minded." The words leave his mouth so naturally that it causes you to blush.

“I mean-”

“I know what you meant.”

“Good.”

A faint blush creeps across his cheeks anyway, causing you to smile at his reaction.

“When all of this,” You gesture vaguely, encompassing everything from the room to the world outside it. “is over. The records, the tours, the awards...”

His expression grows thoughtful.

“What do you hope people remember?”

Unlike the other questions, this one doesn't seem to surprise him. It's almost as though he's been carrying the answer for years.

“I hope...” he begins quietly, “I hope that they remember I tried to make people happy."

He looks down at his hands. “Music can do that. A song can stay with someone after a bad day.” Then he looks back at you.

"I hope the people who actually knew me” His voice softens, as he slightly hesitates. “I hope they remember that I tried to be kind."

Kind.

Not legendary or iconic.

But kind.

You know in that moment, that’s all you need.

“Well, I think that perfectly captures this episode. Thank you for listening to Off The Record, and I’ll talk to you all in the next episode.”

You reach forward and press the stop button, watching as the red recording light disappears.

“That's it?” Michael asks.

“That's it.”

He exhales, almost laughing. “I think that's the shortest interview I've ever done.”

“It was also the longest conversation.”

He smiles. “I suppose it was.”

You begin unclipping the microphones from their stands and look at Michael.

He stands up and looks at you. “Y/N...thank you. Doing this, it's made me realize that this is what I've been missing from interviews all these years. I just needed someone to listen to me and not judge me. You're truly wonderful at this and I can tell this was your life's purpose." He says with a heartwarming smile.

You feel a blush form on your cheeks at the unexpected praise, and you let out a soft, almost embarrassed laugh. "Thank you, Michael. That... honestly means more than you know." You reach over to put the microphone away. "I just wanted to make sure people got to hear you, not just the headlines or the rehearsed answers."

Michael nods thoughtfully, slipping his hands into his pockets. "That's exactly what you did." He pauses for a moment before adding, "Most interviews feel like they're racing toward the next soundbite. While this," He gestures between the two of you with a small smile. "felt like a conversation."

You smile. "Then I did my job well."

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Packing up takes longer than setting everything up, because neither of you seem particularly eager to rush.

Michael coils one of the microphone cables with surprising care.

"You do this often?" you ask.

"I've wrapped enough guitar cables in my life."

"I was going to compliment your technique."

He grins, handing you the cable. "I'll take it."

When everything has finally been packed away, you lift the recorder case off the coffee table. But before you can get very far, Michael reaches for it, brushing his hand against yours. The contact is brief, almost accidental, yet neither of you pull away immediately. You look up at him to meet his gaze, his brown eyes filled with something you can't quite explain. His fingers linger for just a heartbeat before he gently takes the case from your grasp.

"Let me get that for you," he says quietly, offering a small, genuine smile. "It's the least I can do after everything today."

You hesitate before nodding, returning the smile. "Thanks."

He smiles with quiet satisfaction and continues carrying the case toward the front of the house. You and Michael walk side by side toward the front entrance while Bill loads the equipment into the car a short distance away.

Michael sets down the recorder case and turns to you. "I was worried."

"About today?"

He nods. "I thought I'd spend the whole interview wondering if I was saying the right thing."

"And?"

"I forgot there was a microphone."

You smile. "That's the highest compliment you could give me."

"I mean it."

He steps a bit closer to you, so close that you can see the sincerity in his eyes. "I've never forgotten the microphone before."

The words settle somewhere deep inside you. "Thank you."

"No." He shakes his head. "Thank you."

Bill closes the trunk with a solid thud. "Whenever you're ready," he calls.

You nod, but neither you nor Michael moves. Michael slips his hands into his pockets.

"So..."

"So."

"I guess this is it, until the next episode."

"Well, I might have to bother you while I'm editing this episode."

He smiles, looking down at you. "You'd never bother me, Y/N."

You smile and look down, feeling flustered at his words. "Even someone that you barely know?"

He pauses for a moment. "I don't feel like I barely know you."

"Neither do I."

The admission hangs gently between you. A breeze stirs through the trees lining the driveway, lifting a loose strand of your hair across your face.

Before you can brush it away, Michael instinctively reaches toward you.

His hand stops halfway.

The movement is so quick, so unconscious, that you know he hadn't even thought about it. He catches himself. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"I..." He glances at his suspended hand before lowering it awkwardly. "I wasn't thinking."

You understand immediately. You tuck the strand behind your own ear and offer him a small smile.

"It's okay."

His shoulders ease, though he still looks embarrassed.

"I just..." He laughs quietly at himself. "I wanted to move your hair out of your eyes."

Your heart gives an inconvenient little flutter. "I figured."

You both stand still for a few moments, until Bill's voice drifts over from the car. "If I leave without you, don't blame me."

You both laugh. "I should go." You say.

"You should."

Neither of you move. Then, finally, you take a step backward. "I'll call you when I've finished editing."

"I'll be waiting."

You smile. "I believe you."

As you turn toward the car, Michael calls after you.

"Y/N?"

You look back.

He hesitates, almost as if he's reconsidering saying it. "I'm really glad you came."

The simplicity of it makes your chest ache. "So am I."

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When you get home, you unpack your things. As you put away the recorder case, your index card from the podcast slips out and falls to the floor.

You pick it up, and on it are still the three questions you brought with you. Except now, beneath the last one, written in neat black ink that definitely wasn't there this morning, is a single sentence.

I hope they remember that I tried to be kind.

You stare at the handwriting for a long moment, and then you smile.

He must've picked up the card while you were packing the equipment away, and he didn't crossed out your question: he'd simply answered it.

That one sentence makes you smile, and it makes you look forward to talking to him again.

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A/N: thank you all for reading this part!! part three should be ready later this week <33

[niallspyt]

off the record

PAIRING: mature era!michael x podcast host!reader (afab)

SUMMARY: michael listens to your podcast Off The Record and loves how you give celebrities the space to be themselves. when he insists (with the help of his PR team) to do multiple episodes with you, it turns your world upside down. you expect a polished version of the king of pop, but as you get to know him, you quickly find out there's more to him that his persona on stage.

WARNING: slow-burn romance, mostly fluff but eventual smut, 18+, age gap (Michael is in his 40s & reader is mid-to-late 20s)

PART 1 of ?

WC: ~2.7k

A/N: hiii!! this is my first Michael fic on here, i'm super excited and i hope y'all enjoy it <3 i was inspired to write this AU after listening to my favourite podcast on Spotify earlier this week, and i thought it would be fun to have mature mike on a podcast talking with the reader and it turning into something more 😝

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When you started your podcast, people always expected it to be loud, kind of like you. They expected confrontations, big headlines and carefully edited clips designed to go viral by the next morning.

However, Off the Record has become famous for its raw and real conversations. You valued the cozy vibes that you offered, putting your communications degree to good use and making a safe space for your guests. Each episode was filled with long conversations that gave everyone the room to exist without feeling like they had to defend themselves or put up a wall.

Your podcast started out with rising stars and then quickly started to host B-list celebrities, but now that it's so popular you've started hosting people such as Britney Spears and Beyonce. You couldn't believe the warm reception that your passion project has gotten, but you were eternally grateful.

It's a hot summer day in Los Angeles as you get up and start your coffee machine in the kitchen of your one bedroom apartment. When your coffee is ready, you decide to check your emails to see if any new celebrities have asked to sit down for an episode of your podcast. You usually get your communications team (namely, your best friend Y/B/N who joined your podcast team a year ago) to check, but you enjoy sipping your coffee and seeing them for yourself sometimes.

You grab your fresh coffee and head to your office space. You log into your computer and click on your inbox. As you scroll through, you see a few emails, like a joint email from Hilary Duff and Lindsay Lohan's teams about doing a teen-focused episode and one from Leonardo DiCaprio's team about his upcoming projects - but you stop at one from very early this morning and your eyes nearly pop out.

From: [email protected] To: [email protected] Subject: Michael Jackson Podcast Appearance Date: July 21st, 2002 Time: 3:21 AM

Dear Miss Y/L/N, Mr. Jackson has been listening to your work on Off The Record for quite some time. He'd be honoured to be a guest, if you're willing to fit him within your schedule. Best, Frank Cascio PR Manager for Mr. Michael Jackson

You stare at your computer screen for nearly five minutes. Michael Jackson? The Michael Jackson wants to be on YOUR podcast? You almost feel like it's some elaborate prank, until you look at the second email that came in about an hour ago.

From: [email protected] To: [email protected] RE: Michael Jackson Podcast Appearance Date: July 21st, 2002 Time: 8:33 AM

Dear Miss Y/L/N, Our apologies for the very early email before. I was speaking with Mr. Jackson and he would love to do a couple of episodes with you. Looking forward to hearing your response. Best, Frank Cascio PR Manager for Mr. Michael Jackson

You were stunned. Michael Jackson wants to do more than one episode with you???

Taking in deep breaths, you knew you had to take this opportunity, you'd be insane not to. But how could you keep your composure in front of your childhood idol? You would have to though, your reputation depended on it.

With shaky hands, you type a response to Michael's PR manager.

From: [email protected] To: [email protected] RE: Michael Jackson Podcast Appearance Date: July 21st, 2002 Time: 9:48 AM

Dear Mr. Cascio, Thank you very much for reaching out. I would be deeply honoured to do a couple of episodes with Mr. Jackson. Please let Mr. Jackson know that I am flexible and can host the episodes wherever he feels comfortable at. Best, Y/N Host and Founder, Off The Record Podcast

You get up to start your breakfast, but almost immediately, a new email comes through.

From: [email protected] To: [email protected] RE: Michael Jackson Podcast Appearance Date: July 21st, 2002 Time: 9:49 AM

Dear Miss Y/L/N, Great! How about we meet this week at Mr. Jackson's Neverland Ranch to discuss logistics? We will send a car to transport you to the residence. Best, Frank Cascio PR Manager for Mr. Michael Jackson

You reply to Mr. Cascio's email saying that the timing works for you, and you turn off your computer, unable to pay attention to any other inquiries for the day. You were really about to meet Michael Jackson.

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A few days later, a car arrives outside your apartment building to take you to Neverland Ranch.

On the way, you spend the entire 45 minute car ride rehearsing questions and preparing yourself mentally to meet the King of Pop. When the car pulls into the estate, you audibly gasp. Lush gardens line the mansion and you can see the various rides that make up the theme park further on the property.

The driver - who you recognized immediately when you were at your apartment as Bill, Michael's longtime security guard and friend - opens the car door for you. You step out, smoothing the front of your jean skirt and pulling your jean jacket over your shirt.

As you step up to the front door, it opens before you can even knock. Michael stands there, smiling warmly. "There you are!"

It's such an ordinary greeting that it catches you off guard.

He looks nothing like the larger-than-life figure that's printed across magazine covers. His hair is framing his face softly, a navy shirt replacing the glittering jackets the world associates him with. Thin reading glasses rest on the bridge of his nose, and there's a well-loved novel tucked beneath one arm.

He seems peaceful. And extremely handsome.

"I'm Michael, it's nice to meet you." he says, extending a hand with a shy smile.

"As if I need the introduction." You say, blushing and taking his extended hand.

His laugh is quiet and almost sounds like he's slightly embarrassed. "I suppose that's fair." Michael's handshake is gentle, almost hesitant, like he's never quite gotten used to introductions despite decades of being recognized everywhere he goes. "Come in." He says, gesturing for you to come inside.

The entrance hall somehow feels less like a celebrity mansion and more like someone's home. Sunlight pours through enormous windows, catching polished wooden floors and shelves filled with books. There are framed drawings from his children hanging beside expensive artwork, and fresh flowers sit in nearly every room.

You expected grandeur, but instead you notice the warmth that his home brings. Michael notices you looking around. "I know people expect..." He gestures vaguely. "Something different."

"They probably expect gold statues and peacocks walking through the living room." You say jokingly.

"I mean..." He scratches the back of his neck sheepishly. "There are peacocks."

As if on cue, one lets out a dramatic cry somewhere outside. You can't help but laugh. "So that's one point to the tabloids."

"They're occasionally right." He says, grinning.

The ice between you dissolves almost instantly. As you both walk and continue to chat, Frank appears from another room carrying a folder. "Y/N! You made it." He smiles politely before handing Michael several papers. "Just the scheduling options."

Michael barely glances at them before setting them on a nearby table. "Later."

Frank gives him an amused look. "You've been talking about this interview for three weeks."

"I have not."

"You absolutely have." Frank says, smirking

Michael gives a playful glare to Frank. "Frank..."

"You made me listen to six episodes."

"They're good episodes."

"You quoted one of them."

"I did not."

"You quoted the communication boundaries episode yesterday." Frank says matter-of-factly.

Michael sighs while you stand there trying not to laugh. "I walked into that one."

"You really did." Frank turns toward you, giving you a smile. "I'll leave you two to it."

After he disappears, Michael rubs a hand over his face. "I promise I'm not usually this embarrassing."

"I don't know," you smile. "I think it humanizes you."

He looks at you for a second before smiling in return. "See? That's exactly why I wanted to meet you."

The comment catches you by surprise. "What do you mean?"

He motions for you to follow him down a hallway toward what appears to be a sunroom.

"I've done..." He pauses as soon as the both of you enter the sunroom, thinking. "Thousands of interviews."

"I can imagine, everyone wants to talk to the King of Pop." You reply.

"They're usually about records, sales, rumours." He shrugs, putting his book down on a coffee table. "Or they already have the story they want before I even sit down."

His voice isn't bitter, but you can tell that he's tired of how the media spins the narrative about him. "They ask me a question." He sits in an armchair near a wall of windows overlooking the gardens. "But they aren't listening to the answer I give them."

You settle onto the sofa opposite him. "I notice that."

"You do?" He asks, shocked that you picked up on it.

"I notice how journalists interview people, it helps me be mindful of how to ask questions to guests on my podcast...and with you, most interviewers interrupt you a lot."

His eyebrows lift, waiting for you to continue.

"You answer one question, and they're already onto the next."

"Exactly." He says, sounding relieved that you understand him. He looks at you and says "The episode with Britney..."

You blink. "You listened to that one too?"

"I've listened to all of them."

"...All of them?"

He nods. "You asked her what made her feel happiest when no one was watching."

You remember the question immediately.

"She said driving with the windows down." He continues. "And singing badly."

You smile. "You really did listen."

"I liked that you didn't ask her about the headlines."

"I figured she'd answered those enough." You say with a shrug.

He nods slowly. "I thought..." He hesitates, searching for the words. "I thought if someone asked me something like that..." His eyes drift toward the gardens outside. "...I might actually remember who I am for an hour."

The room grows very still, but you don't rush to answer him. One of the first things you'd learned while studying communications was that people often kept talking if you gave them space.

"I don't mean Michael Jackson." He then says quietly, continuing his thoughts.

You stay silent.

"I mean Michael." He lets out a small laugh. "I don't know if that makes sense."

"It makes perfect sense."

His eyes meet yours. "You didn't answer immediately."

"I wasn't supposed to." You say, a smile forming on your lips.

He tilts his head. "What do you mean?"

"You were still talking, and I was listening to what you had to say."

A smile slowly spreads across his face. "...Nobody usually does that with me." Then he says, "I think we're going to make a good couple of podcast episodes together."

Your smile widens. "I think so too."

Suddenly, he snaps his fingers. "Oh! I forgot something, give me a moment." He stands and disappears down the hallway before returning less than a minute later carrying a stack of CDs. "I made you something."

"...You made me something?" You ask, shocked that Michael Jackson would make something for you.

"I didn't know what music you liked." He sets the stack on the coffee table, rubbing the back of his neck. "So I made several."

You stare at them, and notice that each jewel case has neat handwritten labels.

Driving.

Rainy Days.

Books.

Happy Songs.

Late Nights.

"You...made playlists for me?" You ask, looking up at him.

"I wasn't sure which one you'd like."

You're completely speechless. "This is..." You pick up one of the cases. "...possibly the nicest gift anyone's ever given me."

His smile turns bashful. "I like making people mixtapes."

"You realize you're Michael Jackson."

He shrugs. "I also own a lot of CDs."

You laugh so hard you nearly have to set them back down. For the first time since arriving, you've stopped seeing the icon sitting across from you. Instead, you see someone who's thoughtful, slightly shy, curious, and surprisingly funny.

You have a feeling that your audience is about to meet this version of him, too: the one that very few people ever get the chance to know.

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A/N: thank you all for reading!! let me know your thoughts and if you'd like another part 🥺

[imn0tblonde]

hii! can i req fluff parents john lennon x reader?

“Mini Me”— ᨳଓ .

࣪ ִֶָ☾.࣪࿐ John Lennon x F!Reader

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A/n: why the heck did it take me so long to get to this what the fart

content: tooth rotting fluff, short little drabble

“John.” You mutter half awake, face buried deep into the pillow you used to try and drown out the relentless cries your husband had somehow managed to sleep through. You felt bad ignoring your baby like this, but for months it’s been nonstop wailing, diaper changing and rashes—not to mention the baby food that would somehow always end up flung around the kitchen.

And John was the one who got to sleep through it?

You put forth more effort into now nudging your husband, causing him to only stir ever so slightly. “John…” You whine, sitting up to shove him awake.

He doesn’t move. Good lord, is he dead or something?

“John Lennon. Wake up and go tend to our baby before I—“

He stirs once more, taking in a deep breath of life and rubbing his eyes with the heel of his palm. “What’s going on?”

“Do you not hear the wailing!?”

He listens for just a moment, then finally registers the sound you’d been enduring for the last fifteen minutes. “Oh. What about it?”

“For the love of god. Go change our baby before I divorce you.”

He sighs, flipping up the sheets and padding over to your son’s crib across the room. John had an odd magic with children. With just a couple of back pats and humming, he was able to knock them right asleep. You on the other hand felt as though you struggled for hours just to get them tucked in and settled for the night.

John’s singing nearly made you fall asleep, a slight smile falling over your lips at the sight of him patting your sons back so…domestically. It’s something every man should do, of course. But something about actually living in this moment made you feel so warm inside.

After the baby was changed and rocked back to sleep, John crawls back into bed beside you.

“I love you, beautiful.” He whispers, wrapping an arm around your waist and tugging you to his chest. You hummed in approval, resting a drowsy hand over his own, caressing the back of your husband’s knuckles with your thumb.

“I love you too, John.” You stay quiet for a moment, taking in the sound of your child’s sound machine that somehow managed to blend with his father’s breathing. “You’re quite good at this parenting thing.”

John breathes out a quiet laugh, the sound vibrating against your head as he presses a kiss into your hair. “You think so?”

You just nod, flipping over your body to face the man.

“I know so. Without you I’m sure I would’ve ripped my own hair out already.”

“Well, don’t do that.”

You shrug, letting him lull you to sleep with a flat hand on your back rubbing in wide, soothing circles. And you best believe that if he ever so much as feels you shiver, John would be more than happy to throw his leg over your entire body and snuggle closer.

At least until the baby cried and ruined the moment again.

please don’t copy my writing or feed it into ai, thanks!

[asillysimp]

Hello!! could you write 1970! john x reader’s married life fic? i’d love to read some sweet and cozy every moment between them, with lots of teasing, silly little jokes and cute fluff

sorry if my English isn’t perfect it’s not my first language 🥹 i’d hope you’ll understand

THANK YOU!!!🩷🩷🩷

And I Love Her

1970 John x reader

Masterlist

Married life with John is just amazing, and here are some moments of being with him after being married!

Just fluffy, wholesome, will make you giggle, kicking your feet scenarios, no use of y/n, GN!reader

. ۫ ꣑ৎ Cuddling

It’s no secret that John loves a good cuddle, even if he says he doesn’t, you know he is lying just to save face.

That is why you always prove a point when John says “ I don’ even like cuddles, luv.” In his posh accent, turning his head away from yours.

“Oh yeah? Well what about the time, THE DAY OF our own wedding by the way, you didn’t want to go out of bed because you wanted to hug me all day.”

“Well-“

“And the time Paul and Ringo had to pull you away from me cause you didn’t want to rehearse with them, while George had my hand, trying to pull me away from your firm grip.”

“You see-“

“ And let’s not forget the time I was making breakfast, you decided it was a great idea to hug me from behind while I was making pancakes.”

“Okay! Okay, I see your point. You are right and I am wrong.” In defeat with a smile, he put both of his hands up while walking up you.

“You’re always right.” He says as he wraps his arms around your waist, as you wrapped your hands around his head.

“And it’s going to stay that way for a looong time.” A kiss came soon after as each of you smile.

. ۫ ꣑ৎ Taste Test

You love baking, and John loves tasting your baking, so whenever you have the time to make, let’s just say, a simple lava cake, or cheesecake, or cupcake.

John will be right behind you with a smile and a spoon in one hand, ready to dig in, especially when you call him in the kitchen to try something for a second opinion.

“Johnny! Can you come and taste this for me?!”

You then heard a thump from the second floor, footsteps becoming rapid from the stairs going down.

“Did you fall from up there?!” You screamed “Are you okay hun?!”

John then came running down the stairs, with a spoon in his hand, drool coming down to get ready for a bite.

“Don’t mind tha’ lovey, now what’s the sweet treat that I’ve been smelling all day?”

“Well if you must know, I attempted to do a lava cake, mind trying it for me hun?”

“Don’t mind if I do~”

John then took a bite and with so much dramatics, he went down on his knees and starting fake crying.

“It tastes so beautiful! I wanna marry you all over again! Please luv, marry me!”

“Hehehe! Honey we’ve been married for 3 years now. You’re so dramatic~”

“You just don’t get how lucky I am to have you wit’ me!” You can only shake your head and smile.

. ۫ ꣑ৎ The Press

There will always be days where the Press will always want to cause drama, but it never ends well cause John can only mention you.

“Do make these questions quick, my beloved is waiting for me at home.”

“My beloved has a wonderful recipe for that! It’s my favourite treat after a long day!”

“If I could date any other person instead of my beloved? Psh, just shoot me, I would rather date a bullet through the head than marry anyone else other than my beloved.”

“Well my beloved has similar issues with that, which is why we always come up with solutions together!”

“Oof- can’t answer that one, my beloved would have my head!”

“And what would you say is your type?”

“My beloved~”

Hiiii, I hope yall like this short fluffy fic!!

Just so yall know, I am starting school in a few days, so if you notice that your request is taking forever, it’s probably cause I’m busy😅

But anywayyys, if yall like this fic, request some more!!

XO - Simp🫶

[imn0tblonde]

hello!!!!

I’m not sure if this counts as “poly” but its more just welp i guess everyone is just here so…..yk…. 🫤

Basically (this is like teddy/teen ish era +ringo) and reader is baking or just having a lazy day at home and one by one, each of the guys just come in… for whatever stupid reason

reader’s kitchen is suddenly filled with four guys and she has to double her cookie recipe sigh

It’s totally okay if you can’t do it but I think your writing charm could make my domestic beatles dreams come true🥹🥹 thank you!!!

“Cooking by the Book ! !” ˚.⋆꒰১ ໒꒱⋆.˚

‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹ Ringo Starr x F!reader

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a/n: Sorry it took me so long to get to this! Good lord 😭 Anyways this req is so cute and our boy ringo needs some LUV!

Content: fluff and stuff!

Paul, George, and John all admired the efforts you made towards baking and cooking. Some days the boys would go over to your flat just to see what snacks you had packed up in your fridge or on the counter—which Ringo didn’t mind too much.

You loved giving them sweet treats and fussing over the boys like a pestering mother. Hell, they appreciated it sometimes as well. They’d stop by with an empty stomach and then stay with glasses of milk and delicious chocolate cookies, seated in front of the telly as they watched cartoons.

“I wish I grew up with a mum like you.” John once dramatically sighed, flopping his head back against the couch to stare up at you as you flipped through a cookbook.

You cocked a brow and tilted your head with skepticism.

“John. You’re a grown man.”

He just shrugged. “I’m only twenty-one!”

You just frowned at him with pity. “Still too grown to be actin’ like this. Should I call your mimi?”

Ringo appreciated this little tweak of yours the most out of everyone else. You’d pamper him when sick, prepare a bath for him after a long day and best of all—let Ringo cook with you.

He was okay, but he just liked it when you would yell at him for folding the cookie dough incorrectly. (With love of course)

One particular day, Ringo decided to skip band rehearsals and visit your families home. Immediately the smell of bacon, biscuits and something heavenly filled his nostrils. He just loved the environment. It was a nice, humble place with warm tones and portraits hung over each wall you looked. Ringo liked the pictures of you caught in action, looking happy and unaware of the camera on you. It just felt so…domestic.

You were seated on the floor of your living room, twirling rug wool around your finger as you watched the telly; some morning cartoon that everyone was a fan of. Ringo cleared his throat, catching your attention with a slight smile pulling at his lips.

“Richie!” You jumped up, running towards your boyfriend and immediately enveloping him in a tight hug. He caught you, stumbling back ever so slightly with a laugh.

“Baby!” Ringo grins, pressing his nose into your soft hair before pulling back to look at you with admiration.

“I’m glad you’re here…but wait.” Your brows furrow in confusion and you step back, glancing at the clock over your boyfriend’s shoulder before meeting his eyes again. “Aren’t you supposed to be at some type of recording session for the group?”

He shrugs. You sigh.

And just like habit, Ringo follows you into the kitchen as you two discuss what it is you should bake today. You get out the ingredients as Ringo flips through the pages of your mothers cookbook— finally finding a page that sounds appetizing.

Chocolate cake.

Then comes the knocking, or rather, banging. Loud. Familiar. Ringo’s shoulders fall in disappointment with recognition that he’d just been caught by the others.

“(Name)! Is Richard in there with you!?” Paul shouts, his voice muffled by the wooden material of your front door. You sigh, clapping off baking powder from your hands and rubbing the remainder on your apron.

“One moment, I’m coming!” Ringo grabs your arm before you can even move, shaking his head pleadingly.

“All I wanted was to spend the day with my girl.” He practically whines. You send him a look.

“Hush. You were being lazy. Don’t try to charm your way out of this.”

Ringo groans, arm falling limp to his side as you stride to the door.

And then you open it to just one Beatle. A nosy one at that.

“Hello.” Paul acknowledges, peering over your shoulder and sticking his head in the house to look around. “Is Ringo with ya? We need ‘em for a song.”

“Goodness gracious.” You huff under your breath, stepping aside to let the younger lad in.

Paul nods politely, taking tall strides through your home (which he is familiar with due to his frequent visits with the other boys) in hopes of finding the flake.

That’s when he catches glimpse of your kitchen counter; baking ingredients lying about on the surface as well as a mixing bowl and whisk.

Then, Ringo is forgotten about. Paul’s ears perk up at the cartoon playing on the TV, and he feels as though he’s in heaven.

“You’re baking?” He asks, glancing over his shoulder to see you adjusting your apron. You nod. Immediately, he sits down on your couch and leans back like an obnoxious younger brother.

“Alright then. Sorry to interrupt. Carry on.”

You roll your eyes fondly. “Why thank you, Paul. Am I wrong to assume you’d like a slice of chocolate cake as well?”

“Not wrong at all.”

“Right then. I’ll get onto it then.”

“Ah, I’m sure John might want some too. Might I use your phone to give him a ring?” Paul suddenly asks, turning to look back at you as you crack an egg into your mixing bowl. You nod, and he walks over to your landline.

After punching in just a few numbers, George answers at the studio.

“George here.” He coughs, probably choking on the smoke of a cigarette.

“George. Where’s John?” Paul asks, pulling the phone away from his ear at the sound of loud incessant banging.

“Oh. On Ringo’s drums trying to see if he can carry a beat.”

“Did you say he was playing Ringo’s drums? Oh, he isn’t going to like that.” Paul shakes his head.

“On me drums!?” Ringo shouts from the bathroom, suddenly stumbling out with an angered expression.

“Wash your hands please.” You command in the softest voice on that side of liverpool.

Ringo sighs dejectedly, glaring at you as though you’d just kicked him. Paul nods for a few more moments, mumbling to the phone before putting it back on the hook.

“Alright then. George and John are coming too.”

…

And soon, you had four boys all sitting around the TV, forking sweet chocolate cake down their throats with groans of delight. And as per ritual, you’d set down a glass of milk on the counter waiting just for them.

“Absolutely delicious, Mrs Starr.” John teased, lightly elbowing Ringo whose face had already gone bright red. You sighed, taking his plate and bringing it to rest in a sink filled with dishes.

“You’re flustering Richard, John.” Paul teased, standing up from the ground with a plate in hand. Wiped clean of all that was on the tupperware, Paul nods to you with a smile on his lips, quietly thanking you for the desert.

It was only mid-day by now, and George had suggested the idea that you teach the boys how to whip up delicious desserts like the one you baked today. However, you already taught Ringo everything there is to know about the craft.

“Ah, Richie will teach ya! I’m his mentor, so it’s basically the same experience.”

John blew raspberries, sticking his thumb down in the air. Paul smacked his arm.

“Come on. You don’t want a charming lad like me teaching you wankers how to bake?” Ringo complained sarcastically. You rolled your eyes.

“We want the pretty one to teach us.” George joked, causing the other boys to laugh.

You obliged with a heavy sigh.

“Next week, if you aren’t busy, then I’ll let you come over and take a few baking lessons.”

They cheered.

“BUT—“

They stopped.

“Only for today, Ringo gets to stay home with me and you will NOT bother us.”

The room was silent, leaving the other three Beatles to look between each other; lips pursed in thought.

…

“Deal?”

And sure enough, Ringo kicked them out and slammed the door right behind their sorry arses.

Now it was just you two. Warm candles filled the atmosphere with their inviting sent. Chocolate cake sat flat square in the middle of the counter, just begging to be shared.

Ringo led you to the couch, started the kettle for some tea, then came to sit beside you. His lips curled up kindly, one large hand repositioning to rest on the small of your back, pulling you closer and closer—

“(name)! Your mother and I are home—…oh.”

…Ringo’s luck could not have been worse.

don’t feed my work to ai or copy it pls thanks!

[pinkpearledswan]

Heeey!

Saw you were looking for requests and I have one I’d like to ask!!

I was wondering if you can make a George x Reader where the reader made too much sweets cause of stress baking.

And decided, to surprise George by giving some sweets to the him and the band as a surprise !!

Take your time!

XO - Simp 🫶

oh my love this is too cute <3

ofc i've got to fulfill this ;)

𝓅𝑒𝓇𝒻𝑒𝒸𝓉𝓁𝓎 𝓈𝓌𝑒𝑒𝓉!

george harrison x gn!reader

a/n: disclaimer!!!! I understand these are real people, this is for entertainment purposes only!!! excuse any grammar mistakes! not proofread. summary: Trying to put your mind at ease from the stress, but after your kitchen is filled to the brim with sweets it says otherwise. wc: 735 warnings: sickeningly sweet

The past few days have been weighing you down. Keeping up with George and all of his necessities. Sometimes became overwhelming, but you tried your best to keep everything calm. And by doing that, you tend to stress yourself out. 

Many people have ways to cope with stress. Yours was baking. By baking you meant baking millions of sweets without realizing until you've finished. Which was the problem here. 

This wasn't something that happened occasionally or rarely. No, it happened quite a lot actually. 

-

The sweet comforting smell of vanilla and sugar pastries coated the air of your house. Pulling out another sheet of cookies from the oven. As you lay the hot pan on the counter, you realized something felt wrong. Thinking you forgot a certain ingredient or you accidentally over baked them.  It wasn't until you glanced around the kitchen to see dozens of baked goods on every surface possible. 

Your eyes widened “What! This can't be right.” you spoke under your breath while you shook your head slightly. 

Rubbing your hand on the apron that was tied on you by the neck and the waist. You couldn't believe it. Half the kitchen was filled with sweets. Not that you were complaining, but how were you going to eat all of these before they go bad?  

Your stress baking always got the best of you. It's never gotten to you this good, you'd say that.  The only thing to do was to give them away. To who though, you thought. 

Before you could start to overthink. The brightest idea popped in your head. George and the boys had just gotten back from several horrible interviews these past weeks. Reporters going crazy while the band was running off of 2 hours of sleep. Answering the same questions over and over again. 

You knew they were all at the studio talking about who knows what and putting together whatever songs  came to mind. They had been working hard for a while. Probably haven't had any food. Especially sweets, since George kept telling you how the fans started to whack him with jelly babies on stage. 

You started to pack all the sweets that could fit in these little boxes you had. Wrapping a lace or ribbon around each box to make it look appealing. Not that they would care, but at least it looked cute. You didn't count how many boxes. You just stuffed everything in the car and left. 

-

Carefully taking everything out and having a precise hold on the boxes. Making sure you didn't drop any of them. And walking to the front of the building to the door. You gently pushed into the door with your side and walked in. 

By taking a wild guess. You hoped that everyone was in the main room because that's where your feet were taking you. And your hopes were right. Peaking around the stacked boxes in your arms. You were met with lovely familiar faces.

“Oh love, what's all of this?” George spoke out. As he walked over towards you. Grabbing a few of the boxes. Lightening the weight you carried in your arms

“Well I had just over baked i guess. Had no idea what to do with all of it. Thought maybe  I could bring them here.” you huffed.

“You guess? It looks like you baked for the queen and her royals!” John scoffed

“Well I'm not complaining.” Ringo's voice made an appearance. Coming over to help you with the other boxes left in your hands. 

You thanked him as everyone else started to come around. People were impressed on how much you had made. Some couldn't tell if this was intentional or not.

“How do you manage to even do this?” Paul quested curiously. Amazed by how much covered the table. 

“I don't know, I didn't even realize how much I made until I found out I had no more space in my kitchen.” you laughed. 

It was a shocker, but yet again nobody was fussing. Seeing everyone indulge your bakes was soothing. Not just to you, but to everyone else. It was like your sweets had cured their sickness. 

George had clung by your side after getting through everyone. 

“You know you didn't have to do all of this love” He leaned to whisper in your ear. 

You glanced up at him and leaned in “Oh trust me this wasn't planned.”

[maureensmistress]

Good Girl - Linda McCartney x Paul McCartney x Reader

NSFW, smut, porn without plot, d/s relationship, threesome, dom Linda, switch Paul, sub reader, oral sex, vaginal sex, strapon, orgasm denial, I'm going to hell for this one for sure

Word count ~ 3.5k

You knelt on the cold wooden floor, your knees aching already, but you would wait forever if that was what Linda wanted.

She and Paul sprawled on the couch, Paul kissing up Linda's neck as she gently stroked him through his trousers. He was already hard -- who wouldn't be hard for Linda? -- but you knew Linda and knew she didn't give her pets their reward until they'd earned it.

And you were her pet now. Paul's, too, because that was what Linda wanted. She liked watching her husband fuck you, like watching you squirm and beg for her touch on your body, anywhere she deigned to touch you. You'd never known a man could make you so hot. But then, he didn't. Linda did. And all you wanted, all you could ever remember wanting, was to be a good girl for Linda.

But Linda made it so hard.

Tonight was one of those nights when Linda had a little bit of a mean streak, the kind of mean streak you loved. She'd left you naked and on your knees for at least ten minutes now, taking her time with her husband, getting him all excited. They might even make you watch while they fucked, forbidden to touch yourself no matter how much it made you ache with need. It was up to Linda if and when you got any pleasure. But obeying her was a pleasure unto itself, even when it hurt.

The sound of Paul's kisses was wet and lewd, punctuated by his deep moans and desperate little gasps as Linda played with him. You almost felt sorry for him, except you knew how good it felt to be under Linda's touch, totally under her power, and you were far too envious to have any room for pity. You pressed your thighs together, whimpering, and Linda turned from Paul to look at you with amusement.

"Look at our poor little girl, Paul," she said, tone just on the line between affection and mockery. You just stared back, eyes huge and begging, your hands obediently at your sides.

"Go on, then," she said with an indulgent smile, almost giggling at how desperate you were without even being touched. "Why don't you play with those perfect little tits for us? Give Paul something to look at while I get ready."

You shivered at that, hands immediately going to your breasts both out of obedience and desperation. You brushed over your nipples and bit your lip, letting out a needy little sound. Paul watched you hungrily, transfixed by your body, but like you he couldn't give himself any relief until Linda said so. His tongue flicked out and licked his pouty lips as your hands moved to the underside of your breasts, bouncing them slightly, giving him something to look at just like Linda had said.

Get ready could mean a lot of things with Linda. She had an endless supply of filthy ideas for ways to make you feel good -- or to bless you with just a little bit of pain -- but you knew what you were hoping for. There was nothing sexier to you than when Linda used a strap on. Sometimes when you'd been good, and especially if Paul had been bad, she'd stretch your little pussy with it and pound into you while Paul could only watch. It made you feel so owned, so possessed, and so special because you got Linda's full attention while Paul only got to look.

Other times you weren't quite so lucky, and she would fuck Paul with it while you knelt on the floor, hands folded obediently, pussy dripping because there was something so humiliating and exciting about being forced to watch, desperate and jealous, while Linda stroked Paul's face and shushed and soothed him through the overwhelming sensations.

Linda hadn't explicitly told you to watch Paul, but you were always so eager to please her that you kept your eyes fixed on him anyways, making sure he was enjoying the show you were putting on. That's why you didn't expect it when you felt Linda's hands rest on your shoulders from behind.

You gasped and jerked slightly, but kept your gaze fixed on Paul. His eyes were huge and now transfixed on Linda, watching as she sat down behind you and slipped her hands to your hips.

"Come here, darling." She gently guided you backwards into her lap, and you felt her hard strap brush against your inner thigh. Your heart jumped in your chest and goosebumps broke out over your arms and chest. You whined, squeezing your tits involuntarily.

"Put it in, honey," Linda said, voice gentle. "But don't stop playing with those tits. Don't disappoint Paul."

You nodded wordlessly, heart in your mouth, and with one hand you reached between your legs to grip the strapon and guide it to your entrance, while your other hand squeezed and bounced your left breast. You couldn't help letting out a desperate little moan as you lowered yourself onto the strap, feeling it spread you open and stretch your walls.

It was just a little bit too big, nudging against your cervix once you were fully settled so that you bit your lip and hissed. You loved the slight pain, loved how it pushed everything else out of your head until you were a mindless, whining toy for Linda to use. Or Paul, if that's what Linda wanted.

And tonight that's what Linda wanted. "Paulie," she said, her voice mischevious, "I don't think is enough for our little girl, do you?"

Paul shook his head mutely, eyes still wide and unable to look away. You were still playing with your breasts with both hands, almost whining with much your pussy ached for more stimulation, but Paul was only watching Linda. You could see him straining against his trousers, could imagine how badly he wanted to touch himself. But not as bad as I do, you thought rather desperately.

"I think our little girl needs to be stuffed at both ends, don't you?"

You shifted slightly in Linda's lap, whimpering, and her strong, long hands gripped your hips tighter, not letting you bounce. You only felt how her thick, hard strap stretched your little pussy, giving you none of the movement and friction you needed.

You wanted desperately for her to pound into you, to take away this aching need and make you feel so good, but Linda liked to tease you, liked to tell you how cute it was when you whined with desperation, how pretty you looked with tears in your eyes because your poor little clit wanted her touch so much that it hurt.

So instead you sat nicely on her strap, hands still on your breasts because Linda hadn't said you could stop, and watched as Paul stood and unbuttoned his pants. He brought out his cock, sighing in relief. He wasn't particularly large, at least in your experience, but that didn't really matter. You'd had it halfway down your throat before and knew it was plenty to choke on.

"Go on," Linda encouraged gently. And then she moved her hands from your hips, squeezing hard before she let go like a reminder to keep still, and she placed them firmly on either side of your head. You obediently opened your mouth, tongue out like you wanted to taste him.

Paul twisted a hand into your hair so now they were both holding your head in place, and with a deep moan he pushed into your mouth. His eyes closed in pleasure and you sucked at his cock as best you could, even as he was pumping in and out like he was fucking your face. You couldn't possibly move with both of them holding you still, so you just did your best to relax your throat and give Paul as much pleasure as possible, because pleasing Paul meant pleasing Linda.

Giving head was something you hadn't really enjoyed until you met Linda. At least, not with men. But the way Linda cooed in your ear, obviously loving the feeling of your cheek distending under her fingers, the way she gently wiped away the spit dripping down your face and thumbed at your throat, pressing on her husband's cock through your thin, fragile skin -- you were overwhelmed by it.

You didn't know anymore if the tears in your eyes were because of Paul's cock in the back of your throat or how desperately you wanted Linda to move her hand to your pussy and stroke your aching clit. Or just let you bounce on her strap until you came like a little slut, again and again, so needy and desperate you wouldn't be able to stop yourself.

Linda wouldn't even have to order you to keep bouncing until coming hurt, you would just do it because you were that much of a slut for her, because she liked it and you only existed to give Linda what she liked, no matter what.

It was like she could read your mind -- or, more likely, she could read the desperate sounds you were making in the back of your throat -- because to your delight and horror one of Linda's hands finally moved to your clit and began to rub slow circles around it. You whined desperately around Paul's cock -- you weren't allowed to come unless you asked for permission, and you certainly couldn't ask for permission with Paul gagging you like this.

You mentally begged Linda to tell Paul to take his cock out of your mouth so you could ask permission, but instead she was drawing tighter and tighter circles around your clit, now brushing right over your it so your eyes fell shut and you practically sobbed. Paul was hitting an unsteady rhythm now, gasping and murmuring to himself, head thrown back like he was in another world. You knew he was going to come soon, and if you could just make it until then he would pull out of your mouth and you could beg Linda to let you come.

But as Paul's hips stuttered and he moaned Linda's fingers finally stroked your clit, rubbing it almost roughly like she wanted to make sure the orgasm was drawn out of you no matter how hard you tried to hold on. Paul's hot seed filled your mouth, and you knew you were supposed to swallow it all but you were coming over Linda's strap now, little pussy clenching around the hard toy, tears spilling down your face. Maybe because it felt so desperately good to come, and maybe because you were so desperately sorry to disobey.

Linda continued playing with your clit, drawing out your orgasm while Paul pumped through his. You couldn't help the come dripping down your face, so overcome with this brutal pleasure that you couldn't even think to swallow, your whole body tensing and relaxing as Linda brought you to the end of your orgasm. Your eyes were still shut when Paul drew his soft cock out of your mouth, and you began to babble, come dripping over your lips.

"Please, Linda, I'm so sorry, I couldn't wait--"

"Shh," Linda shushed you, mouth right by your ear so her breath tickled your skin. She wiped two fingers through the come on your face -- not wiping away nearly all of it, but some -- and you could hear her suckling it off her fingers right by your ear. "You did your best, didn't you, little girl?" she cooed gently.

You nodded silently, wanting to cry with relief. Linda guided you off of her strap and pulled you back into her chest, wrapping her arms around your naked body so she was hugging you tightly from behind. It felt so calming, after the rush of your orgasm, and you relaxed to the rhythm of her heartbeat through her shirt as she tucked her chin over your shoulder. You felt so limp and weak, and her strong arms were so safe and kind, holding you like a ragdoll. It was like being surrounded by her, enfolded into her, and you closed your eyes.

You could have stayed like that forever, but Linda wasn't done with you.

After what felt like a minute or so of respite, Linda moved a hand to start absentmindedly toying with your nipple. You squirmed in her strong arms, wondering what she was doing. You'd already come once, was she trying to get you hot again? The idea sent electricity shooting through you, as exciting as it was overwhelming.

"She may have done her best, but she was still a bad little girl, wasn't she, Paul?" Linda mused. You almost sobbed, though you didn't know if it was fear or anticipation or just feeling so beautifully overwhelmed. "She ought to explain herself, at the very least."

Paul smiled mischievously at Linda, like the whole situation was amusing, and then he cupped your chin and tilted your face to look into his eyes. They were full of wicked laughter.

"Tell him," Linda said softly in your ear, "why you wouldn't swallow his come like a good little girl."

You opened your mouth, not sure what you were going to say, but before you could speak Paul shoved his thumb into your mouth and you almost involuntarily closed your lips to suck on it like you knew he liked.

"I don't want to hear it," he said, smiling mockingly. His face was shiny with sweat after his orgasm, hair tousled like he'd run his fingers through it. "Just show me how sticky that little pussy is after coming like a bad girl."

You whined at being called a bad girl, his thumb still in your mouth, and moved a hand down to your pussy to spread the swollen lips. You went to gather up the slick, to smear it over your pussy lips, but Linda gripped your hair roughly and tilted your head back. "You can't do anything right tonight, can you?" she tsked. "Dirty little girls aren't supposed to touch their pussy without my permission."

You shivered. Linda and Paul loved to play this game, to trick you into being a bad girl because they loved to punish you as much as you loved to be punished, and you would never disobey either of them on purpose. Could never. Linda had a hold over you that you didn't even want to understand. It was like she'd usurped your will, fucked the self-possession right out of you, til you were just a little fucktoy for her to play with or pass around to whoever she liked.

Paul drew his thumb from your mouth with a plop, and, "I'm sorry," you said, trying to sound truly contrite. Linda shushed you again.

"Why don't we make it nice and simple for you, so even you can understand?" Linda asked. You nodded silently, and she squeezed you a little tighter.

"You're going to go down on all fours in front of the couch and put your pretty little ass and naughty pussy in the air for Paul to see, and then he's going to spank that ass while you eat me out, and then you're going to thank both of us for the privilege. Do you think you can do that?"

You bit your lip, already hot again at the image. "Yes," you said breathily.

"Yes, who?"

"Yes, Linda."

Linda nipped gently at your bare collarbone like she was saying That's better, and then she let go of you and you shakily moved into position in front of the couch, facing it so that Linda and Paul were behind you. Your legs felt like rubber, and you genuinely wondered if they'd give out before Paul had finished spanking you. But you obediently arched your back so that your ass and pussy were presented to the room behind you.

"Isn't she lovely?" Linda asked rather fondly. You blushed to your roots as Paul made a noise of agreement, but the words shot to your core and you thought you might already be dripping again.

Linda made herself bare below the waist, and she moved to sit before you on the couch and guide your face to her pussy. You weren't sure if you were supposed to start right away or wait for permission, but then you felt Paul's hands on your ass. He rubbed it gently, seeming to admire the smooth skin, and then he asked, "Shall I start?"

Linda must have nodded, because the next thing you knew was cold air where his hand had been, and then a loud smack and sharp, stinging pain. You cried out, and Linda fisted a hand in your hair and asked rather coldly, "Doesn't that mouth have better things to do?"

You knew she was right. The pain was already receding -- you'd been spanked much harder than this before -- and you pushed it away and licked Linda's pussy open with a strong, broad stroke. The hand fisted in your hair relaxed so it was more just holding you now, and in gratitude you circled your tongue around her clit and lapped at it like it was made of candy.

Linda hummed appreciatively, stroking you tenderly, and you were so wrapped up in eating her pussy just how she liked it that you almost forgot about Paul until the next spank landed on your ass. He spanked the other cheek this time -- hard enough to sting, but not so hard that it would leave a mark, and you managed to resist crying out.

Instead you focused your attention on the task in front of you, alternately sucking and lapping gently at Linda's clit and drawing your tongue up her slit to spread the slick around. She tasted divine, making your mouth water and your pussy tingle. You wanted to rub your thighs together but you knew Paul would see -- even so, you could feel slick running down your legs.

The spanks were becoming welcome, just because the moment of sharp pain drove away the growing, unbearable ache of arousal. But as soon as Paul began to rub the pain away you felt the ache even more than before, and you moaned into Linda's pussy involuntarily.

"Oh, God, Linda--" Paul suddenly said, voice choked. His hands were gripping your ass, and he rubbed his thumbs in circles, feeling the red heat under his hands.

"Yes, honey?" Linda answered, and her voice was unbelievably controlled, like she wasn't getting her pussy eaten out right at this second. Only a slight breathiness gave her away.

"C-Can I..." he trailed off, moaning again. You waited impatiently for another spank, dutifully lapping at Linda's pussy. You were going to show them that you were such a good girl.

"Use your words, honey."

"Can I fuck her? Please?"

His voice came out in a pleading whine, like he was so, so desperate for your pussy. You clenched hard at his words, and you felt another drop of slick on your thighs. Oh, God, please say yes.

Normally you'd rather be fucked by Linda, but to be fucked on her command while you ate her out, fucked hard and fast and careless by her husband because it amused her to watch him get off in your pussy while she took her pleasure from your face... It was like she was using Paul as another toy, another extension of herself, another way of owning and using your body for her own enjoyment. And you only existed for Linda's enjoyment.

"Hm..." Linda sounded considering, like it was an interesting idea.

"Please, Linda, I just need it so bad," Paul whined, gripping your ass even tighter.

"I suppose it's not your punishment," Linda said, sounding a bit amused. "If you're really that needy again already, I guess you can get off in her pussy."

Paul sighed in relief. "Thank you, Linda."

You didn't even have time to comprehend what was happening before Paul slammed into you. You made a high pitched, desperate sound in your throat. Paul's cock finally gave you that movement and friction you'd been desperately wanting, and after needing it for so long your legs almost gave out.

He pounded into you roughly, rapidly, with short, deep thrusts that you felt against your cervix. The hurt was so delicious, you ground back involuntarily, hoping desperately this wouldn't count as being disobedient. You just needed to feel his length inside you as deep as possible, needed to feel it grinding against your G-spot, to feel him go as deep as he could again and again and again without a moment's relief, so careless of what it was doing to you.

He was groaning in pleasure, his fingers digging into your hips. You were so close to orgasm, but so desperate to be Linda's good little girl, to at least get half of your punishment right. So you latched onto her clit and sucked as hard as you could, staying latched on as her hips bucked. Please come, you thought desperately. Please, I just want to be your good little girl so bad.

You were rewarded when Linda gasped loudly and pulled at your hair, pressing your face into her pussy so you couldn't breathe. It was just in time, because Paul's thrusts had grown erratic again, and when he hit your G-spot hard you finally just let go. You might have cried out, or moaned, or even sobbed, you didn't know. The orgasm started in the pit of your stomach and spread throughout your entire body in waves, so that your whole being went limp and trembled with pleasure. Even your mind was utterly blank, just awash in electric pleasure.

Paul was the only thing holding your body up, his hips twitching as he spilled the last of his load deep inside of you. You could feel the heat like hot water somewhere deep in your body, and it made you want to squirm a little, but you were too tired. You just breathed, letting him get the last of his pleasure from your body, eyes closed in exhaustion.

You felt Linda's hand stroking your hair, and you blinked your eyes open to watch her smiling down at you. You remembered the last of your punishment, and you managed to breathe out, "Thank you, Linda. Thank you, Paul."

"That's my good girl," she whispered, and something warm spread in your chest. "Always my good girl."

I am, you thought deliriously. I am.

[asillysimp]

hihihihihi can you do smut w john if its comfortable for you?

Please Please Me

John Lennon x Fem!Reader

Masterlist

You’re John’s apartment Neighbour in New York, he invited you over for a listening sesh as he makes new music. That’s all, or so you thought~

Omg first smut request lowkey nervous 🤪

Cock warming, Teasing, P in V, orgasm denial, being bend over, Porn w/ tiny plot, Aftercare

It wasn’t uncommon for you to visit John in his apartment and vice versa.

In fact it became such a norm, you both even have dinner in each other’s apartments.

But how did dinner, get to you being inside his cock while he strums his Guitar on your lap.

Well before the whole thing happened, John called you in the morning asking if you wanted to have dinner at his place, of course you said yes.

Because one, you can never say no to free food, two, you were planning takeout, and three, you always want an excuse to hang around the person you fancy.

When dinner came ,John mentioned on saying he has a few ideas on a song and wanted you to listen and get your opinion on it. So you both went into his room where his guitar was.

That’s where you are now. You couldn’t think, just listen to the taunting strumming as your pussy becomes more wet. And so, you try to move to get some friction.

“Ah, Ah.” A slap on your thighs was when you made noise.

“Don’t try to move luv, I told you, you have to listen or you won’t get rewarded. And don’t you want to get rewarded?”

“John. Please, can I move just a bit- please, oh please~”

“Not yet lovely, you’ll move when I say you move. Understand?”

You can only nod your head in compliance, but John wanted and answer, not a signal. So he humped in you once, for you to moan,

“I need an answer sweetheart, not an action.”

“Yes John, I-I understand.”

“Good girl~”

John then started the song again, explaining slowly about the process, and the meaning behind every lyric. You tried to listen, really you did, but all you can think about is how long will he be explaining before fucking you whole.

Your eyes, down warded, looked at John while he was strumming, trying to get him to look at you, trying to tell him that you need him.

“Looking at me won’t help y’know, but I guess I can comply to your cute begging~”

Just then, as he removed the guitar away from both of you, John picked you up swiftly away from his dick as he lays you face down on his bed. You moaned, as John manhandled you to move your hips up.

Spreading your legs to show more of you wet pussy, he put his thumb on it and rubbed it up and down, teasing you as he smirks at your moans.

After a few seconds, he stopped and slapped his dick a few times with your pussy, before putting it in.

A hard groan came out on him, as he enjoys the feeling to be inside you.

“Oooh, so wet yet so tight you are darling- ah- is this what you wanted, hm?”

“Yes! Please John, more~ I need you!”

John then pounded, and he pounded hard! The pleasure is just too good, and you can’t help but be loud, just for him.

John started groaning, as he praises you for doing so good for him.

“Augh- so good fa me baby~”

“You like that? Huh?”

“You’re my little pussy slut, ya?”

He just continues, and whenever he does, you just tighten around his dick, wanting to release so soon.

And John is aware.

“Oh? You about to come love? Ya? Oh that can’t do. You can’t come until I tell you to.”

“Please! Ah- I feel it coming close~”

John slowed his place, which makes you whimper in need, you wanna let go but you have to listen to him to earn it.

Although, not long after, John is also getting close to come undone.

“Oh Johnny~” “Come with me love, please. Ugh~”

After a few more pounding from John, you both came undone on each other. Finished inside each other like lovers in a honeymoon.

Tired and weak, but still, John got up and went to the bathroom as you stay still in the bed, about to pass out.

When John came back, he had a wet cloth with him and wiped you down, making sure you are relaxed and clean. Once he was done, he put the covers on each other and held you close while kissing your forehead.

“Did I went to hard love?”

“No, you were perfect. Thank you~”

Both of you were sleepy, and as you fell asleep, John admired you for a bit before saying.

“You’re so perfect for me.”

If yall can’t tell this is the first time I write smut so I’m sorry if it’s ass🥀Btw so much respect for the smut writers, cause idk how yall write something so good and nasty while not cringing

Lemme know if yall want more fics!

XO -Simp🫶