silvette

ִ݂⑅ | ᴍᴅɴɪ

[cursedsilvette]

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡ 𝒮𝒾𝓁𝓋ℯ𝓉𝓉ℯ

𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝑏𝑙𝑎𝑠𝑖𝑎𝑛 . 𝐺𝑒𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑖 . 𝑀𝑖𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑒𝑙 𝐽𝑎𝑐𝑘𝑠𝑜𝑛'𝑠 𝑙𝑎𝑑𝑦 𝑖𝑛 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑙i𝑓𝑒

𓏵 𝒩𝒶𝓋𝒾ℊ𝒶𝓉𝒾ℴ𝓃

𝙡𝙞𝙗𝙖𝙧𝙮 . 𝙜𝙪𝙞𝙙𝙚

[cursedsilvette]

sad girl ˖ 〰︎ michael jackson

The ice cream shop is one of those retro places on Sunset, all pink neon and black-and-white tile. You're nursing a strawberry milkshake when the guy slides into the booth across from you. One of Michael's people—you've seen her before, hovering at the edges of Neverland, always with a phone in her hand.

"He wants to see you tonight."

You stir your shake, watching the pink swirl. "Who does?"

"Don't play dumb."

"Michael Jackson?" You let out a laugh, dry and sharp. "Right. And I suppose he just sent you across town to deliver that little love note himself.''

The girl doesn't blink. "I'm telling you what I was told."

"You're full of it." You sit back, arms crossed, chin up. "Michael Jackson doesn't know who I am. He's married to Lisa Marie Presley, in case you missed the tabloids. He's Michael Jackson."

The girl leans in, elbows on the sticky table, voice dropping low. "Being a mistress on the side might not appeal to fools like you… but he wants to see you.''

Your heart does something stupid. You hate it. But a slip of paper slides across the table anyway—an address, a time—and shes gone before you can tell her to shove it.

You look at the paper for a long time. Then you fold it and put it in your pocket.

The address takes you up into the hills, to a house you've never seen before. Tucked away behind gates, all dark glass and clean lines, with a view of the city lights sprawling below. You park at the bottom of the driveway, engine idling, hands gripping the wheel.

You tell yourself you're just looking. Just curious.

But you get out. You walk up the drive. And when you see him standing in the doorway—Michael Jackson, in a black button-down and loose trousers, that soft curl falling across his forehead—your breath catches in your throat.

He's crazy handsome. The girl wasn't wrong.

And then you see it. Parked to the left, tucked under a carport you almost missed in the dark: a black Mercedes. You know that car. You've seen it in photos, in articles, in the background of paparazzi shots.

Her car. Lisa Marie's car.

Your chest caves in. The air leaves your lungs like someone punched you. You stand there in the driveway, and he's looking at you from the doorway with those dark, gentle eyes, and you were supposed to step inside. You were supposed to let him take your hand, lead you into that house, into his bed.

But you can't.

You shake your head—once, small—and turn around. You make it back to your car before the tears hit, and then you're sitting in the driver's seat with your forehead pressed against the steering wheel, sobbing so hard your ribs ache.

You knew. You knew he was married. why'd he wanna talk to you if he was gonna be with another woman?

You drive home on autopilot. You don't remember the road. You don't remember unlocking your door. You're sitting on the edge of your bed in the dark, still wearing your jacket, when your phone lights up.

His name.

You stare at it. It rings again. You pick up.

Your voice is wrecked, raw. "Why was she there?"

"Baby." His voice is soft, that high, gentle lilt. "I had to spend time with her. If I didn't, she would start to wonder. You know how it is."

"I was right there, Michael. I was standing in your driveway. I saw her car."

A pause. A long one. "I know. I'm sorry. I should have told you she was coming by. I should have prepared you."

"I thought—" Your voice cracks. "I thought tonight was ours."

"It is. It is." His voice drops lower, gentler. "I'm coming to you."

You don't lock the door. Forty minutes later, he's there.

He moves differently in your small apartment than he does on a stage. Quieter. Softer. He takes off his shoes at the door, pads across your worn carpet in socked feet, and when he sees you curled up on the couch, your eyes red and swollen, something in his face crumples.

He sits down beside you. He doesn't reach for you right away. He just sits, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, and waits.

"She's my wife," he says finally, quiet. "But she's not the one I think about. She's not the one I drove across town for tonight. She's not the one I can't sleep without."

You want to push him away. You want to tell him to leave. But he turns to you, and his hand comes up, fingertips brushing the tear tracks on your cheek so gently it makes your chest ache.

"Let me make it right," he whispers. "Please."

He kisses you like an apology. Soft at first, tentative, his lips barely brushing yours. Then deeper, when you don't pull away, his hand sliding into your hair, cradling the back of your head like you're something precious.

He sinks to his knees in front of you, and there's something surreal about it—Michael Jackson on his knees on your thrift-store rug, looking up at you with those dark, earnest eyes.

His hands find the button of your jeans. He works it open slowly, drags the zipper down, presses a kiss to your hipbone through the cotton of your panties. You shiver.

"You're still upset," he murmurs against your skin.

"I'm fine."

"You're not." He looks up, a ghost of a smile. "But I'm going to make you forget."

He pulls your jeans down your thighs, off your ankles, and then his mouth is on you through the thin fabric of your panties. Hot, open-mouthed, deliberate. You gasp, your hand flying to his hair—that famous jet-black hair, soft as silk under your fingers.

He pushes your panties aside, and his tongue touches you. Flat, wet, hot. He moans against you, and the vibration makes your hips buck.

"Michael—"

"Shh." His breath is warm against your slick skin. "Let me take care of you."

He does. His tongue works you open like he's got all the time in the world. He finds your clit and circles it slow, then faster, then slow again, building a rhythm that drives you out of your mind. His fingers slide into you—two of them, long and thin, curving up to press against that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyes.

He reads your body like a song he's known his whole life. When your thighs start trembling, he pushes harder. When you gasp, he hums. When you start to come, he stays right there, tongue flicking, fingers curling, drawing it out until your vision goes white.

You come with a sound you don't recognize, your whole body arching off the couch. He works you through it, gentling his touch, kissing your inner thigh as you shudder.

When you finally go limp, he pulls back, mouth wet, chin slick. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and looks at you like you're the only thing in the world worth seeing.

He carries you to bed. Not metaphorically—he actually picks you up, one arm under your knees, the other around your back, and carries you three steps to your bedroom. He lays you down like you're made of glass.

He disappears into your bathroom. You hear the water run. He comes back with a warm washcloth and cleans you up, slow and careful, wiping between your thighs with a tenderness that makes your throat tight. He finds your sleep shorts on the floor and helps you step into them. He finds your toothbrush, puts toothpaste on it, hands it to you.

When you're both under the covers, he pulls you against his chest. His arms wrap around you, one hand splayed across your stomach.

"I'm sorry," he whispers into your hair. "I want to give you more. I'm trying to figure out how."

You close your eyes. You don't really believe him. But his heart is beating steady under your cheek, and his hand is warm on your belly, and for tonight—just tonight—you let yourself have this.

"Stay," you whisper.

"Always," he says.

It's probably a lie. But it feels good to hear it anyway.

[cursedsilvette]

coney island baby

"mean so much to much to me"

synopsis:You meet Michael Jackson at Coney Island when he’s trying to stay out of the spotlight. You and your friend help him get away from the crowd, and you end up spending the night talking and hanging out by the beach. You two get close, and it ends with a kiss and you starting to dating

Description: light kissing, nun else:)

The boardwalk at Coney Island glowed beneath strings of carnival lights while old soul music drifted from a nearby diner radio. The air smelled like saltwater, cigarettes, and fresh funnel cake. Couples walked hand in hand past arcade booths, girls in winged eyeliner laughed near the Ferris wheel, and the ocean crashed softly behind it all.

You adjusted the sleeves of your oversized cream cardigan while your best friend Rochelle dragged you through the crowd.

“Hurry up,” she complained dramatically. “If we miss the fireworks because you stopped to stare at another vinyl shop, I’m leaving you here.”

“I wasn’t staring,” you argued.

“You literally pressed your face against the window.”

“They had Marvin Gaye records.”

“You already own Marvin Gaye records.”

“There’s no such thing as too many.”

Rochelle rolled her eyes and hooked her arm through yours anyway.

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet you love me.”

“Unfortunately.”

You laughed while the two of you wandered farther down the boardwalk. Neon lights reflected off puddles from the earlier rain while music from the rides echoed through the warm night air.

Rochelle suddenly gasped.

“Oh my God.”

“What now?”

She grabbed your wrist hard enough to almost make you spill your soda.

“Look.”

Leaning against the railing near the beach stood a man in a black leather jacket with dark curls falling around his face. Even with sunglasses hiding his eyes, there was no mistaking him.

Michael Jackson.

Your breath caught immediately.

Rochelle looked moments away from collapsing.

“That is Michael Jackson,” she whispered-shouted.

“Keep your voice down!”

“I physically can’t!”

As if hearing her panic, Michael glanced over.

And accidentally locked eyes with you.

For a second neither of you looked away.

Then suddenly a group farther down the boardwalk recognized him.

“MICHAEL!”

The crowd started moving instantly.

People rushed toward him with cameras and excited screams while he looked around quickly for a way out.

Without thinking, you grabbed Rochelle’s hand and pushed through the crowd toward him.

“This way,” you told him quickly.

Michael hesitated only a second before following you both down a narrow side path beside the arcade building.

Rochelle kept looking back like she couldn’t believe this was real.

“You know,” she whispered loudly to you, “if I pass out, tell my crush I died glamorous.”

You elbowed her.

Michael laughed softly behind you.

The sound surprised you more than anything.

You finally reached the quieter stretch of beach beneath the pier where the carnival noise faded into distant music and crashing waves.

Michael bent slightly, catching his breath.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

“You’re welcome.”

Rochelle crossed her arms dramatically. “I just wanna say this is the best night of my life.”

Michael smiled. “Mine too so far.”

She slapped your arm immediately. “OH, he’s smooth.”

Your face burned.

“Can you not?”

“No. Absolutely not.”

Michael leaned against one of the wooden pier beams, smiling to himself while ocean wind lifted his curls slightly.

“You two always like this?” he asked.

“She’s worse after soda,” you answered.

“I’m charming,” Rochelle corrected.

“You’re nosy.”

“Also true.”

Michael laughed again, softer this time.

The three of you sat in the sand talking while lights from the Ferris wheel reflected across the water. Rochelle asked him ridiculous questions while you mostly listened.

“What’s your favorite candy?”

Michael blinked. “Candy?”

“Yes. This matters.”

He thought for a second. “Probably Reese’s.”

Rochelle pointed at him. “Correct answer.”

You shook your head laughing.

“And what’s yours?” he asked you suddenly.

You looked surprised he asked.

“Cherry Coke.”

“That’s not candy.”

“I panicked.”

Michael grinned. “Fair enough.”

The conversation kept flowing after that. Easy. Natural.

Not like talking to the biggest star in the world.

Just… talking.

Eventually Rochelle stood up and brushed sand off her skirt.

“Well,” she announced dramatically, “I’m going to get fries before I accidentally become a third wheel in a romance movie.”

Your eyes widened. “Rochelle.”

“What? The tension between y’all is insane.”

Michael looked down trying to hide a smile.

“You are unbelievable,” you muttered.

“I know.” She pointed at Michael. “Don’t break her heart.”

Then she walked off toward the boardwalk before you could stop her.

The silence afterward felt warmer somehow.

Michael looked out toward the ocean before speaking quietly.

“She’s protective of you.”

“She thinks every guy is suspicious.”

“Smart girl.”

You laughed softly.

The wind picked up slightly, making you pull your cardigan tighter around yourself. Without hesitation, Michael slipped off his jacket and draped it over your shoulders.

Your breath caught instantly.

“You’ll get cold,” you whispered.

“I’m okay.”

The leather jacket smelled faintly like cologne and ocean air.

Michael looked at you carefully for a moment before speaking again.

“You know what I like about you?”

“What?”

“You don’t stare at me like everybody else.”

You looked down at the sand.

“Maybe because I see you differently.”

His expression softened immediately.

“How?”

You met his eyes finally.

“Like you’re just Michael.”

The look on his face nearly broke your heart.

Slowly, he moved closer until your knees almost touched in the sand.

The carnival lights flickered behind him while distant music floated through the night air.

“You make me feel normal,” he admitted quietly.

Your heartbeat sped up.

“You deserve to feel normal sometimes.”

For a second neither of you moved.

Then Michael reached up gently, brushing a strand of hair away from your face.

His fingers lingered against your cheek.

Your breath caught.

“So can I do something selfish?” he asked softly.

You swallowed. “Maybe.”

He smiled faintly.

Then he leaned in and kissed you.

Slow.

Sweet.

The kind of kiss that made the whole world feel quieter afterward.

When he finally pulled away, his forehead rested lightly against yours while both of you smiled without meaning to.

Then he laughed softly under his breath.

“What?” you whispered.

“I was trying so hard not to do that.”

You grinned.

“Good thing you failed.”

And somewhere behind you, Rochelle screamed from the boardwalk:

“I KNEW IT.”

[cursedsilvette]

ℳ𝒾𝒸𝒽𝒶ℯ𝓁 𝒥𝒶𝒸𝓀𝓈ℴ𝓃 𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓃𝓃ℯ𝓁

cotton candy skies

please girl

Daisy girl

Daisy girl ||

Coney island baby

[cursedsilvette]

cotton candy skies

synopsis:She was supposed to follow his instructions. She didn't. And Michael made her regret it—until the night she finally stopped fighting and started listening. One confession led to another. Now she's on her back, silk tie over her eyes, his fingers inside her, learning exactly what happens when a shy girl surrenders to a man who knows exactly what he wants.

description: Smuttttyyy

I had been working for Michael for three months, and in that time, I'd learned exactly two things about him: he was brilliant, and he was terrifying.

The first thing I noticed when I walked into his penthouse that morning was the suit hanging on the back of his office door. Charcoal gray. Three-piece. He'd left a note on the kitchen counter with a sketch of exactly how he wanted the lapels pressed, the tie knot, the pocket square fold. Precise. Demanding. Michael.

And I'd ignored it.

I told myself it was because I knew better. I'd been a stylist for five years before taking this personal assistant job. I knew how to press a fucking lapel. But the truth was simpler and uglier: I wanted to prove I didn't need his hand-drawn instructions like some kind of child. So I did it my way. Softer roll on the lapel. A different knot on the tie.

When he stepped out of the shower and saw the suit, his face went cold.

"What is this?"

I opened my mouth to explain, but he cut me off with a look that pinned me to the spot.

"I gave you specific instructions." His voice was low, controlled. The kind of quiet that made the hair on my arms stand up. "Did you think you knew better?"

"No, I just—"

"Take it off." He pointed at the suit. "Fix it. Exactly how I asked. And if you can't follow simple directions, I'll find someone who can."

I stood there, frozen, heat crawling up my neck. He walked past me like I was furniture, bare chested and dripping, and disappeared into his bedroom. I heard the door click shut.

I fixed the suit. I did it exactly as his note specified. But he didn't thank me. He barely looked at me for the next two weeks.

It went on like that. Every small mistake I made—a coffee that wasn't hot enough, a meeting reminder sent two minutes late—he'd correct me with that same flat, disappointed voice. The shy part of me wanted to shrivel up and disappear. The stubborn part wanted to punch him in his perfectly structured jaw.

Until one night, I stayed late to finish organizing his calendar for the following month. He came out of his study around eleven, still in his dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and stopped when he saw me at the dining table surrounded by papers.

"You're still here."

"I wanted to get it right." I didn't look up. "I know I've been fucking up."

Silence stretched. Then he pulled out the chair across from me and sat down.

"Look at me."

I did. His eyes were dark, unreadable.

"I'm hard to work for," he said. "I know that. But I don't give instructions because I'm trying to control you. I give them because I know what I need. When you ignore them, it tells me you don't trust my judgment. And I can't work with someone who doesn't trust me."

My throat tightened. "I do trust you."

"Then start acting like it."

Something shifted in my chest. Not anger this time. Something softer and more dangerous.

That night we talked until one in the morning. He told me about the pressure of running his company, the board members who second-guessed every decision. I told him about my father, who never thought I'd make anything of myself. It was the first time he looked at me like I was a person instead of an employee.

A week later, he asked me to stay late again. This time, there was no work involved.

He poured two glasses of whiskey and handed me one.

"I was too hard on you," he said.

"You were fair."

"I was harsh because I saw potential in you." His eyes held mine. "And I didn't want to watch you waste it by being stubborn."

"I'm still stubborn."

"I know." A ghost of a smile touched his mouth. "I'm starting to like that about you."

The whiskey burned going down. The space between us felt electric.

We moved closer without deciding to. His hand came up to my jaw, thumb tracing along my cheekbone.

"I'm going to kiss you," he said. "Tell me to stop if you don't want this."

I didn't tell him to stop.

His mouth was firm and precise, just like everything else about him. One hand slid into my hair while the other gripped my hip, pulling me against him. I made a sound against his lips, something between surprise and relief.

He walked me backward until my thighs hit the edge of his desk. Papers scattered as he lifted me onto it, stepping between my legs.

"Tell me what you want."

"You." My voice came out breathless. "I want you."

He kissed down my throat while his hands worked open the buttons of my blouse. Each touch felt deliberate, measured, like he was cataloging every inch of skin he uncovered.

"Lie back."

I obeyed, letting my head rest against the cool wood of the desk. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a silk tie—navy blue, the one I'd pressed for him that morning.

"I'm going to blindfold you." His voice dropped lower. "You'll feel everything more that way. Do you trust me?"

"Yes."

He folded the tie and wrapped it around my eyes, knotting it loosely at the back of my head. The world went dark and soft, every other sense sharpening.

His hands found my waistband, unbuttoning my trousers and pulling them down my legs. I heard the rustle of fabric as he knelt between my thighs.

"Spread for me."

I did. The cool air hit my bare skin, and then his mouth was on me.

The first lick was slow, deliberate, a drag of tongue from my entrance up to my clit that made my hips jerk. He held me down with a hand on my stomach while he worked me open with his mouth, alternating between broad strokes and tight circles with the tip of his tongue.

I was already wet when he slid one finger inside me. Then two. He curled them upward while his tongue kept working my clit, and I dug my nails into the desk as pleasure coiled sharp and bright in my belly.

"Michael—"

"Don't come yet."

His voice vibrated against me. I bit my lip so hard I tasted copper.

He kept going until I was trembling, my thighs shaking on either side of his head, and only then did he pull back.

"I want to fuck you." His voice was rough now, stripped of control. "But first I want to make you come on my fingers."

He pressed them deeper, crooked them just right, and I shattered with a cry that I couldn't hold back. He worked me through it, slow and merciless, until I was gasping and oversensitive.

The blindfold stayed on while he stood up. I heard his belt unbuckle, the zipper of his trousers.

"Hands on the edge of the desk."

I gripped it tight. He guided himself to my entrance, rubbed the head of his cock through my wetness once, twice.

"Look at you," he murmured. "So desperate for it."

"Please."

He pushed inside in one smooth stroke, filling me completely. I gasped at the stretch, at the fullness of him.

He fucked me hard against the desk, each thrust hitting deep. The blindfold made everything feel sharper—the slap of skin against skin, his breath ragged in my ear, the way his fingers dug into my hips hard enough to bruise.

"Take it," he growled. "All of it."

I came again with his name on my lips, and he followed right after, burying himself deep with a groan that sounded almost pained.

Afterward, he untied the blindfold slowly. The light felt too bright, but his face was the first thing I saw—dark eyes soft now, lips swollen, hair disheveled.

He brushed a strand of hair from my face.

"I think we should do that again."

I laughed, breathless and wrecked.

"You think?"

He kissed me, soft this time. "Tomorrow night. My bedroom."

"Your instructions?" I teased.

His smile was slow and wolfish.

"I'll draw you a diagram."

[cursedsilvette]

please girl

synopsis: you wake up with an bad ache and Michael's not there

description: smut smut smuttyyy wutyyy

You wake to sunlight filtering through the curtains, the sheets tangled around your legs. The first thing you notice is the empty space beside you—cold, untouched. Michael's side of the bed is pristine, the pillow still fluffed, no dent from his head.

You frown, reaching out instinctively, your fingers brushing the cool fabric. He must have left early. You don't remember him saying anything about leaving. A flicker of disappointment settles in your chest, but it's quickly overshadowed by the ache between your thighs.

You shift, and the sensation sharpens—a deep, pulsing throb right at your clit. You're wet already, your pussy clenching around nothing, desperate for attention. The memory of last night floods back: his cock filling you, his fingers inside you, his mouth on your skin. Your body responds instantly, heat pooling in your belly.

You roll onto your back, spreading your legs slightly, and slide a hand down your stomach. Your fingers find your clit, swollen and sensitive, and you gasp at the contact. You circle it slowly, but it's not enough. You need more. You need him.

You grab your phone from the nightstand and dial his number. It rings. Once. Twice. Three times. Voicemail.

You groan, tossing the phone aside. You try again. Same result. A third time, and this time you leave a message, your voice breathy and strained: "Michael… where are you? I need you. Please call me."

You wait. Ten minutes. Twenty. Your clit aches, a dull, insistent throb that makes it impossible to think about anything else. You touch yourself again, rubbing faster, but it's hollow. You want his fingers, his tongue, his cock. You want him to take control.

Finally, you hear the front door open. Your heart leaps. You sit up, pulling the sheet over your naked body, but you're too needy to care about modesty. You hear his footsteps in the hallway, and then he appears in the bedroom doorway, still in his suit from last night, looking slightly disheveled.

He raises an eyebrow when he sees you. "You're awake."

"Where were you?" you ask, your voice coming out more desperate than you intended. "I called you. I—"

He smirks, stepping closer. "I had to take care of something. Didn't check my phone." He stops at the edge of the bed, looking down at you. "You look needy."

"I am," you admit, your thighs pressing together. "I woke up and you weren't here, and I'm so fucking horny, Michael. My clit is aching. I need you."

He chuckles, slow and deliberate. He doesn't move to touch you. Instead, he unbuttons his jacket, shrugs it off, and drapes it over a chair. Then he sits on the edge of the bed, not close enough to touch, just watching you.

"Show me," he says.

You blink. "What?"

"Show me how much you need me. Touch yourself. I want to watch."

Your cheeks flush, but the command sends a jolt of arousal straight to your core. You hesitate for a second, then let the sheet fall away, revealing your naked body. You spread your legs, your pussy already glistening, and slide your fingers down to your clit. You rub in slow circles, your breath hitching, your eyes locked on his.

He watches, his gaze dark and hungry. He doesn't move. Doesn't speak. Just watches as you touch yourself, your hips beginning to rock against your hand.

"Faster," he says quietly.

You obey, your fingers moving quicker, the pressure building. But it's not enough. You whimper, your hand faltering. "Michael, please. I need you to touch me. I need your fingers inside me. Please."

He leans forward, finally, his hand covering yours, stopping your motion. "Beg," he says, his voice low. "Beg me to fuck you."

"I'm begging," you gasp. "Please, Michael. I need your cock. I need your mouth. I need you to eat me out until I come. Please."

He smiles, a slow, satisfied curve of his lips. "That's my good girl."

He pushes your hand away and lowers himself between your legs. His breath is hot against your wet folds, and you shiver in anticipation. He doesn't dive in immediately. Instead, he trails his fingers along your inner thigh, teasing, watching you squirm.

"Please," you whisper again.

He leans in and licks a long, slow stripe from your entrance to your clit. The sensation is electric, and you cry out, your back arching. He does it again, slower this time, savoring the taste of you. Then he wraps his lips around your clit and sucks, his tongue flicking against the sensitive nub.

Your hands fly to his hair, gripping, pulling. He groans against you, the vibration sending shockwaves through your body. He slides two fingers inside you, curling them, pressing against that spot that makes your vision blur. He pumps them in rhythm with his tongue, fast and deep, and you're already close, the pressure building too quickly.

"Michael, I'm gonna—"

He doesn't stop. He doubles down, sucking harder, fingers thrusting deeper, and you come with a scream, your body convulsing, your juices flooding his mouth. He drinks it all, lapping at you until you're trembling and oversensitive.

He pulls back, his chin glistening, his eyes dark with hunger. He crawls up your body, positioning himself between your legs, his cock hard and pressing against your entrance.

"Now," he says, his voice rough, "I'm going to fuck you until you can't walk."

[cursedsilvette]

Daisy girl ||

here is part 1.

synopsis: your a girl from the country and you have a childhood friend michael Jackson and y'all soon to grow up and he visits you:)

description: Fluff, light kissing

“Miss Y/N!”

You turned just in time to see David jogging back toward the house with dirt all over his shoes.

“…Oh.”

Michael looked between you and the boy.

Then something in his expression shifted.

“You have a kid?” he asked carefully.

Your eyes widened immediately. “What? No!”

David looked equally offended. “Absolutely not.”

Michael blinked. “I mean… he’s here, he called you Miss Y/N, and—”

“He got caught stealing crops,” you interrupted.

Michael paused.

Then slowly, a smile spread across his face.

“Oh.”

David pointed toward him. “Why’d you say ‘oh’ like that?”

“Because,” Michael laughed softly, “I used to do the same thing.”

David stared. “Wait, seriously?”

You crossed your arms. “Exactly the same thing.”

Michael pointed at you dramatically. “And she was mean to me too.”

“I was not mean.”

“You made me put half the vegetables back.”

“Because you were stealing!”

David looked at Michael. “Did she really?”

Michael nodded sadly. “Cold world.”

You rolled your eyes while David snorted out a laugh.

For a moment, the tension disappeared completely.

Then David grabbed his sack again. “Well… I’m gonna go before she starts making me return stuff too.”

“She probably should,” Michael muttered.

David grinned before jogging off down the dirt path again.

The two of you watched him disappear toward the road until everything got quiet once more.

Then Michael looked at you again

“You scared me for a second,” he admitted quietly.

You laughed softly. “Why?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “I don’t know. Guess I just started thinking about how much time passed.”

The wind moved lightly through the field around you.

You leaned against the fence. “You thought I had a whole family out here?”

“A little,” he admitted with a small smile.

“And that bothered you?”

The question slipped out before you could stop it.

Michael hesitated.

“…Yeah.”

Your heartbeat stumbled slightly at how fast he admitted it.

You looked down for a second, suddenly very aware of how close he was standing.

“You disappeared, Michael,” you said quietly. “You became… all this.” You motioned vaguely toward the cars, the suits, the expensive clothes. “I didn’t think you’d even remember me.”

His expression softened instantly.

“Are you kidding?” he asked. “Y/N, I used to think about this farm all the time.”

You looked up at him.

“The tours, the cities, all those people…” He shook his head lightly. “Nothing ever felt real like this place did.”

Your chest tightened a little.

He stepped closer to the fence beside you, resting his arms against it.

“You know what I remembered most?” he asked.

“What?”

“The way you used to look at me whenever you caught me stealing.” He laughed quietly. “Like you were trying to decide if I was stupid or just hungry.”

You smiled despite yourself. “Usually both.”

He laughed harder at that.

The sound felt strange and warm out here in the quiet countryside.

Then his smile faded into something softer.

“I missed you,” he said.

The words came out so naturally that neither of you moved for a second after he said them.

Your breath caught slightly.

“You missed me?” you repeated quietly.

“Yeah.”

You looked down at your hands. “I didn’t even know where you went half the time.”

“I wanted to come back sooner.”

“Why didn’t you?”

Michael hesitated, eyes drifting toward the field.

“Because every year that passed made me think maybe you forgot about me.”

You let out a small breath. “I tried to.”

That made him glance back at you quickly.

“Tried?” he asked softly.

You shrugged lightly, though your face felt warm now. “You were hard to forget.”

The air changed after that.

Not dramatic.

Just heavier somehow.

Closer.

Michael stared at you for a long moment like he was trying to figure out if he was imagining this conversation.

Then he smiled a little. “You know… you’re still mean.”

You laughed quietly. “And you still steal from farms.”

“Not anymore.”

“No?”

He stepped a little closer.

“No,” he said softly. “Now I just come back looking for the girl who yelled at me.”

Your heart started beating embarrassingly fast.

“Michael…”

“What?”

“You’re flirting with me.”

“I think I’ve been trying to for years.”

That made you laugh again, but quieter this time.

The wind brushed through the fields around you while the sun started dipping lower behind the farm, covering everything in warm gold light.

Michael looked at you carefully, almost nervous now despite everything he’d become.

Then his eyes dropped briefly to your lips before meeting your gaze again.

And somehow that tiny movement said everything.

“You can tell me to stop,” he said softly.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you stepped closer first.

His breath caught slightly at that.

Then his hand gently brushed against yours before he leaned in slowly, giving you enough time to pull away if you wanted to.

You didn’t.

The kiss was soft at first. Careful. Like both of you were still trying to believe this was real.

And somehow it felt nothing like the loud world he came from.

Just the smell of dirt and summer air and the boy who used to steal tomatoes kissing you beside the same field where you first met.

When he pulled back slightly, both of you stayed close enough that your foreheads almost touched.

Michael let out a quiet laugh under his breath. “Wow.”

You smiled shyly. “What?”

“I should’ve came back years ago.”

Before you could answer, one of the men near the cars suddenly shouted,

“MICHAEL!”

The two of you turned.

Another car was pulling into the driveway fast.

And judging by the look on Michael’s face…

Whoever had just arrived definitely wasn’t supposed to be there.

[cursedsilvette]

Daisy girl

synopsis: your a girl from the country and you have a childhood friend and y'all grow up and it goes from there:))

description: FLUFFFFY fluff,

maybe I'll make a smut version

In Gary, Indiana, your farm sat on the quiet edge of the world, where mornings started with dew on the crops and evenings ended with the sound of wind moving through endless rows of green. You grew up learning the land first, people second, and trusting silence more than noise.

And then there was him.

Gary, Indiana had plenty of kids running around, but only one kept showing up in your fields like he belonged there, even when he didn’t.

At first, you only noticed what he left behind. Bent corn. Missing tomatoes. Small footprints cutting through the dirt like shortcuts through your life.

One morning, you finally caught him.

He was crouched behind a row of crops, stuffing vegetables into a sack. When you stepped closer, he froze instantly.

“Don’t run,” you said sharply.

“I wasn’t gonna run,” he said too fast.

“You’re in my field.”

He slowly stood up, holding the sack like it suddenly weighed a thousand pounds. “Okay… yeah. I am.”

You crossed your arms. “So explain.”

He hesitated, then sighed. “My brothers eat a lot. Sometimes… there isn’t enough food.”

You stared at him for a moment. “So your solution is stealing from strangers?”

He frowned. “Borrowing.”

“That’s not borrowing.”

“It is if I bring it back someday.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You planning on returning half-eaten tomatoes?”

He paused. “…Okay, that one sounds worse when you say it like that.”

Despite yourself, you didn’t yell. You just watched him for a second. “What’s your name?”

“Michael,” he said.

“And Michael,” you added, “you can’t just take from people.”

He kicked at the dirt. “So I just leave empty-handed?”

You thought for a second, then pointed at the sack. “Put half back.”

His eyes widened. “Half?”

“Half.”

He groaned. “You’re strict.”

“You’re stealing my food.”

He muttered, “This is isn't fairr”

“Put it back.”

He did… slowly. Like it physically hurt.

When he finished, he sat on an overturned bucket like he’d just survived something life-changing.

“You’re not very nice,” he said.

“You’re not very subtle,” you replied.

He smiled slightly. “Fair.”

Then he tapped the side of the bucket. Not random. Not careless. A rhythm. Clean, sharp, like it had structure even though it was just fingers on wood.

Tap. Tap tap. Pause. Tap tap.

You frowned. “Do you always do that?”

“Do what?”

“That.”

He looked at his hands like they didn’t belong to him. “Yeah. It just… happens.”

“You’re weird,” you said.

He grinned. “You’re.... out of the ordinary.”

That was the beginning.

After that, he kept coming back.

Not always stealing. Sometimes talking. Sometimes fixing things without asking. Sometimes just sitting at the fence like the farm was part of his day.

One afternoon, he leaned back on the fence post. “You ever think about leaving this place?”

You didn’t look up from your work. “No.”

“Ever?”

“This is home.”

He nodded slowly. “I think I’m gonna leave someday.”

You finally glanced at him. “For what?”

“Music,” he said.

You squinted. “That’s not a place.”

“It is for me.”

You shook your head. “You’re strange, Michael.”

He smiled. “You’re still mean.”

Years passed like that.

Then life pulled him away completely.

No more fence visits. No more stolen crops. No more rhythm tapping on your buckets.

Just silence.

By the time you were 22, he was just a name buried under old memories, like footprints washed out by rain.

Until one afternoon.

A black car rolled up your dirt driveway.

You froze.

Nothing that expensive ever belonged here.

You wiped your hands on your jeans as the door opened.

A man stepped out.

Older. Changed. Familiar in a way your mind couldn’t immediately place.

He looked at you like he already knew you’d need a second.

Then he smiled.

“It’s me,” he said.

You narrowed your eyes. “…No way.”

He nodded.

Michael stood in front of your farm like the past had suddenly decided to walk back into your life.

“You look completely different,” you said.

“I hear that a lot,” he replied softly.

Then recognition hit you all at once.

“Michael,” you said again, quieter this time.

He nodded once more.

You stepped forward and pulled him into a hug before you could overthink it. He hesitated for half a second, then hugged you back like something in him finally settled.

When you pulled away, you shook your head. “I can’t believe you actually came back.”

“I wanted to see if you were still here,” he said.

You gestured around. “Never left.”

He looked over the fields slowly. “Yeah… I thought you wouldn’t.”

For a moment, everything felt paused between you. Not awkward. Just heavy with years neither of you said out loud.

Then he spoke again, quieter. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

You frowned slightly. “What is it?”

He opened his mouth—

But before he could answer, his gaze shifted behind you. you turn around then back at him wide eyed.

"m-michael.. its not really what it seems..''