Dalila had an appearance so similar to her aunt's that, in certain photographs, it was almost impossible not to notice the resemblance.
It wasn't just a matter of hair, eyes, or face shape. There was something in the way the two moved and tilted their heads that made people comment that they looked like copies of each other.
Dalila, particularly, saw no problem with this.
Quite the opposite.
If anyone were to say she looked like Diana Ross, Dalila would consider that a compliment.
After all, her aunt was a stunning woman.
Of course, Dalila wouldn't be Dalila if she didn't find something to criticize.
She nagged, for example, about the fact that Diana frequently neglected her own nutrition.
When she was a child living with her aunt, that had been one of the things that bothered her most. Diana seemed so busy with rehearsals, commitments, phone calls, and responsibilities that she sometimes simply forgot to eat.
And it wasn't as if Dalila could pretend she didn't notice.
"Have you eaten?" she would ask, appearing at the doorway of the living room.
"Later."
"You said that three hours ago."
"Dalila..."
"Auntie, you need to eat."
Diana usually responded with that tired look of someone trying to end a discussion before it even began.
Dalila, however, didn't give up.
It was particularly irritating because, in Dalila's mind, it was a complete reversal of roles. Diana was the adult. She was the one who should be taking care of the children, not the other way around.
And yet, in certain situations, it seemed that Dalila needed to remind her own aunt that taking care of herself was also a responsibility.
Dalila liked Diana very much, but that didn't mean she was incapable of recognizing her flaws.
In fact, perhaps it was precisely because she liked her that she allowed herself to be so critical.
Diana was a brilliant, determined, and extremely talented woman, but she could also be surprisingly irresponsible with herself. She had the habit of putting work, career, and everything else above her own needs.
She was also quite egocentric and had a reason why she got along so poorly with her bandmates.
She also didn't like it when her manager made unpleasant comments about her own body, trying to convince her that she needed to change her appearance to fit a certain standard.
Dalila knew she didn't need that.
She had a different constitution from Diana's and was naturally a bit fuller than her aunt. To her, this had never been a problem. Her body was simply different.
And, honestly, Dalila preferred it that way.
In her view, someone in that house needed to have enough common sense to eat a meal without turning it into a discussion about appearance.
Perhaps it was one of the few things in which Dalila considered herself more sensible than Diana.
She could be petty, nagging, and even a bit conceited when she wanted to be.
But there was a difference between vanity and concern.
And, when it came to Diana, behind all the complaints there was genuine concern.
Dalila could spend the whole day complaining about her aunt.
She could call her irresponsible, nag about her habits, and make mentally sarcastic comments about Diana's habit of forgetting that she also needed to rest, and there was the whole issue with Michael that Dalila actively tried to forget.
Diana was a shrew, but over time Dalila came to have an almost sisterly affection for Diana, although of course she didn't ignore her flaws, and she would always keep an eye on her to ensure that Diana never got involved with her husband—but such a thing was becoming increasingly impossible to happen.
Diana would never get involved with her niece's husband; that would end her career.
And she knew that Michael would never cheat on her, and when they had children, his loyalty and love would only increase.
(. . .)
Dalila knew that her husband carried an innocence that bordered on reclusiveness—years of forced abstinence, religious shame, a body that yearned for touches it had never received. But he had completely exceeded her expectations.
On that first night, there had been so much accumulated tension—months of waiting, of stolen touches, of fantasies built in solitary nights—that Michael barely lasted a single round. He entered her with a desperate moan, moved against her body in frantic spasms, and came with a muffled cry against her neck.
But in the days that followed... in the days that followed, something awakened.
Michael became an animal.
Not just an eager lover, but a machine focused on a single purpose: reproduction. He was obsessed—obsessed in a way that sometimes frightened Dalila, but that more frequently excited her to madness—
He always ejaculated inside her. Every time. Without exception. Without escape.
He took her in the morning, still sleepy, pulling her beneath him before her eyes fully opened, guiding himself inside with a rough moan of relief. In the afternoon, in the shadows of the darkened room, he pressed her against the wall or bent her over the dresser, his hips slapping against hers in a rhythm that seemed calculated for maximum efficiency. At night, he took her slowly, deeply, his eyes fixed on the point where their bodies joined, watching his own member disappear inside her as if he were seeing something sacred.
And always—*always*—he looked intensely at her belly.
"Do you feel it?" he would whisper, breathless, when approaching orgasm. "Do you feel it when I...?"
He couldn't even complete the sentence. The words "impregnate" or "fertilize" seemed too much for his shyness, but his eyes said everything. That dark, possessive intensity, focused on her womb as if he could will a baby into existence through the power of his concentration alone.
He came inside her with a force that sometimes made her scream—not from pain, but from surprise at the violence of that final act, that grip on her hips, that muffled cry against her skin as he pumped his semen as deep as possible.
And afterward, always afterward, he remained inside her. Refused to withdraw immediately, keeping them united, sometimes hardening again while still there, ready for another round, another chance, another attempt.
"Stay," he would whisper when she tried to move. "Just a little longer. Please. Just... stay."
He wanted everything to remain inside. Wanted nothing to escape. Wanted her body to be a perfect receptacle for his offspring, and he treated each ejaculation as an act of conquest, of possession, of promise fulfilled.
Dalila never imagined that shy man, who blushed at mentioning words like "sex" or "desire," could transform into this being so primitively focused on putting a baby in her belly. But Michael Jackson, once freed from his chains, was a force of nature—and she was the territory he intended to colonize, mark, and fill with life.
And when he looked at her that way—those dark eyes fixed on her belly, that large warm hand pressing against it while he moved inside her—Dalila felt a shiver that had nothing to do with fear.
It was pure excitement. Because she knew she could hardly wait, she was fertile and had done all the tests searching for anything that could interfere with a pregnancy; in fact, there was even the possibility of twins.
Dalila Jackson's life was almost perfect. The only thing missing was getting rid of Joe Jackson.
Diana had an eating disorder, and this is quite visible in her photos; in some you can even see her ribs.
Dalila has a slim body but lacks the physique of a gymnast, and sometimes people say she should lose more weight.
In my mind, Michael has a fetish for reproduction.
not proofread and honestly idk how many words this is but it’s long so lock in hoes
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —
𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘯𝘦
“fuck that hurt” you whispered to yourself ,you were a famous hairstylist, just trying to clean up the blue salon room,after a client. The room was vibrant and pretty filled with fake plants,pictures of Michael Jackson,Destiny’s Child,and Rihanna.While also having the type of vibe that made a persons day better.It was 2009 and you were out of it because the passing of one of your favorites Michael Jackson had passed,you looked at around at the beautiful pictures of the artist.
He had been your favorite since you were little , if anybody asked you would’ve said no but you had the biggest crush on him . Especially the yummy Thriller era. You were crazily parasocial and felt that he was going to be your husband one day . Well until you heard he passed . While you were finishing cleaning tears falling, you got a call. It was your mom , you wiped your tears,still sniffing you answered. She then broke the worse news ever “your daddy passed baby”she cried out. All you could do is hang up.That’s how you ended up at home, on the floor crying.
Honestly your we’re depressed , your boyfriend was verbally the worst thing ever when he found you crying on the floor because of mjs passing . Khristian watched you then burst out laughing
“You’re really crying because of a stupid singer?” He teased
“He wasn’t just a singer and stop calling him stupid.” you quietly said almost a whisper,pushing it out because it hurt to know you weren’t going to get any support.
“He was now the nigga just dead.” He laughed out
“your fucking disgusting” you replied in a hard tone warm tears still falling .
He called you every name in the book “whore,slut,disgusting,bitch,hoe.” You thought he was done but he wasn’t which led too cuts on your thighs and arms and legs . He saw them , he called you childish and disturbed then tried to leave. “Khristian please don’t leave” you cried holding back more tears, because what you haven’t told him is that your mother just called and said your father passed .
The same father who introduced you to Michael Jackson by playing his songs every morning before you had to go to school .. elementary through highschool.
The same father that was there for you when your mother ran off to be a hoe in the streets.
The same father who took you to your first fight too make sure you didn’t lose .
Khristian just stood there and finally said “we’re done your pathetic” then walked out , almost sprinting.
You sat there,watching yourself bleed out until you realized that you wasn’t helping. You got up, got in the shower, the hot water stinging your cuts , but numbing the other mental and emotional pain that your father just passed away. The water calming you down, the steam holding you like a hug.
You got out and realized you had a client, in less than 3 hours . It was Taylor swift, you weren’t too too excited because you’ve worked with better people but you were happy to be getting paid as much as you were.
Your thoughts came to a halt as you heard three knocks downstairs , you didn’t really feel like talking to people so you tried to ignore it by playing your
“Cater to you” by destiny’s child.
They continued to knock so you put on a robe and walked to the front door, as you swung the door open you saw Alyssa. Now Alyssa is your best friend, been besties since back in 97 since you were 13 and she was 12 now yall damn near live together.
As soon as she sized you up and down her happy eyes drooping as soon as she seen the cut on your leg, her jaw tightening,and breath hitching.
You immediately knew you were in trouble
You pulled her in a hug as soon as you saw her eyes start to water because you knew she knew that you started cutting again .
Alyssa really hated that because yall grew up like sisters and yall promised to get better together, even though her problem was an eating disorder, yours was well self harm . She had gotten better, she was Mexican and thicker than a snicker after she got better.
After you felt her warm tear hit your neck you instantly felt bad. The sniffles,the heat radiating through her crop top and thick thighs.She broke down falling on the floor, finally closing the door with a big bang. She looked up at you and wiped her tears hard with the back of her hand. “YOU TOLD ME YOU STOPED.!YOU TOLD ME WE WERE GONNA GET BETTER TOGETHER,YOU PROMISED ME.”she tried to sound calm but her tears ramped back up. “Y/n you swore on your father you would stop.” she basically cried out.
Until she realized that wasn’t helping she stood up and hugged you .. whispering about how it would be okay, how she loved you and you were her best friend and she would always be there. Then she stood back and finally said “ what’s wrong” even though she had a face that meant if it’s about that horrible nigga you call your boyfriend ima slap you.
Until you broke down finally telling her about Micheal’s passing,Your father’s passing,and your boyfriend leaving you.
Alyssa listened, then took a deep breath and said “okay, so where buying every single Michael Jackson album, planning your fathers funeral, and killing Khristian dirty dick ass?” You giggled at the last part , but watching her expression stay the same you knew she was serious.
you expressed that “there’s no way in hell I’m letting you go to jail behind a nigga.” Alyssa laughed after the first 18 minutes of being in your home.
You realized it was seriously time to get ready to go get ready for your gig . For the next 1 and a half you and Alyssa got ready.Alyssa was a stripper so really she had to do the same makeup you did . As yall were finishing,she grabbed your arm and said make sure to get a picture of Taylor swift for me. She was the biggest fan ever.
You made that mental note and packed all the makeup you needed to do the artist makeup .
You trusted Alyssa with everything so you left her with your house key and told her to make sure to lock the door when she left . You too hugged and made sure to say yall loved eachother .
Before you even drove off Alyssa said “call me when you get there and be safe” you responded “yes ma’am”
You were in the road for about 40 minutes before you made it to the salon that your cousin owned. She always made it clear you were welcome to do whoever’s makeup whenever.
You got there about 1 hour before the
popstar got there. More than enough time to set up and chill.
You put on your headphones listening to lil wanye while dancing and setting up. Trying so desperately hard to not listen to Michael Jackson so the waterworks wouldn’t come.
But his song played anyway it was “Pyt(Pretty.young Thing) that was your favorite song on the thriller album. You were jamming with your eyes closed until you wished you could go back into time to his thriller era.Until you felt almost a million circles spin around you .
Your eyes still closer until you felt almost a breeze and the only thing your holding was your phone , headphone stil in your ears, there was a loud ringing nose. Knocking you out of a nauseating trance.
You finally open your eyes too realize your no longer in a salon your in a hotel room .
You thought you were hallucinating because you and Alyssa did get high asfc off eddies but they wear off in about 30 minutes so you knew you were sober .
The hum of the refrigerator, the deep inhale and exhale of your hot breath,it was all to overwhelming. All to much so you forgot all about the ringing in your ear, until you snapped back into it and looked at your iPhone 3GS. Not knowing what to do you just stared taking it all in.
Seeing the big “PRIVATE SECURE NUMBER” all you could do is be interested and intrigued. You pressed answer and instantly the person in the other end said “hello” all you could say was “hi,who am I speaking too”
The person who clearly was male , but had a very soft voice . Said “Michael” you weren’t really thinking still stunned,about where you were.
You hissed out in a nasty tone “nigga Michael who?”
He said with a hurt but understanding tone “Michael Jackson?” that left you completely confused and stunnedq
You froze
“Yeah right dude get off my phone.” you said laughing this cruel joke off
But he stayed silent until “no I’m being serious”
you held your breath because what tf is going on ?
He sounded completely serious,and that’s what completely scared you, down too his controlled breathing,complete empathy,and seriousness you didn’t know what to expect .
You finally realized he was still there so you said “like “Bille Jean?”
“yes that’s me” he replied softly
“So your like famous” you questioned with a little sass in your tone
“mhm” he let out a soft chuckle
“are you a fan?” he quickly added
you ignored him and asked.
“what year is it” you finally let out
“1984” he explained
You froze.
Waiting on yourself to giggle
Spoiler it never came
1984? You thought to yourself
Almost, Maybe, No definitely scared
you hung up .
you just decided that it was bed time,you couldn’t sleep. It felt like a hand was sliding between you shoulder blades all you could think about is Michael Jackson.
You felt like calling that number again,but something was stoping you. It might’ve been the soft hum of the refrigerator,or the smell of honey and vanilla, or maybe even the feeling that if you called the number again I’d take you back to 2009, if you weren’t still there . To say the least you were confused and overwhelmed
It was around 2am, you could hear birds,the ruffling of the sheets and blankets, and finally constant clicking noise .
Then it all hit you , the fact you didn’t have anything,but a phone and fucking headphones . “Shit” is all that came out. You decided it was just best to force yourself to go to sleep .
After thinking of all the bad things that could happen. All the what if’s taken over your brain “what if I die” “what if I’m broke and die.” You kept thinking. Trying to figure out what to do. Without realizing you finally went to sleep. Dreaming of cows and chickens.
It was around 8:am when you woke up,the birds chirping,sun shining and rising just 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩t,you then walked to the bathroom and realized that had everything you needed,toothbrush,toothpaste,body wash,
shampoo,conditioner,even a wash and dry off towel.
You made piece that was probably going to be the most normal thing that you did or hell even seen today .
You peeled all your clothes off and stepped in the shower,turning on the hot and steamy water.
The water pressure great as you turned around and let the water hit your back .
The steam silencing the days problem by relaxing you .
You made sure to use all the mini bottles of body wash, the little conditioner, and shampoo.
You smelled like cucumbers but hey beggers can’t be choosers
You finally decided it was time to get out.
It took everything in you not to stay in that warm,calm,and peaceful shower.
But you did want to see if it actually was 1984. So you climbed out and put dried off with the cheap ass towel the hotel had then put on the robe.
Luckily the robe was super long and big so you were very comfortable in it.
You looked in the dresser for something else to wear.
You found a dress,some panties, and a bra . All in your size,which is by the way an extra large bottom and a medium/small top.
You felt bigger all your life even though you didn’t have much belly. You hated how must boys only used you for your body,that’s all they saw. Not the way your eyes lit up when you saw Mexican food,not the way you always cried when you were overwhelmed.None of it, only how you ass sat up in pants, and how your tits moved when you had to jog.
They seen you as a sexual object, not as a pretty girl.Hints why you only have 2 bodies but only Alyssa knows that.
speaking of Alyssa you know she is worried about you . Your phone is letting you call or text anyone but Michael or whoever that is playing or not fucking playing on your phone.
Anyways you’re snapped back to reality by 3 hard knocks at the hotel door.
You get scared immediately.
You froze
No one knows your here
At least nobody should
You slowly walk to the door
Stopping mid walk
still deciding if you should open it
You looked through the small peep hole
it was some type of professional looking man
Then it clicked
Some fucking security
You reached a shaky hand out and gripped the door handle.Just before pulling it open.
But when you opened the door you saw someone behind him and froze all over again.
You weren’t even stunned.
You were scared.
The end of chapter one
I’m sorry if this is bad , but here yall go .. chapter 2 will be out tomorrow I promise
also this is who requested this @neworleansgurl thank you for the requesttt
🪽— and to the black writers of the mj community, please don’t ever let someone behind a screen dim your light. Don’t let them encourage you to stop doing something you love just because it bothers or doesn’t impact them personally. What you do is art, and if other women or men other races are allowed to do so, we can too. I love you all so much and being in this community with so many black woman has meant the world to me because irl I can’t keep a friend. So thank you for being you. Please don’t let negativity bring you down, as poc we’ve been going through stuff like this for years either way. Don’t let them take what you love away from you too. Don’t let them win.
I love you guys, please don’t leave. Your important.
Synopsis : Dalila and Michael finally got married; no more stolen moments and fighting between two busy schedules and public opinion.
Marrying Dalila was one of the happiest days of Michael Jackson's life — for that was the beginning of a new phase beside the woman he loved.
Michael was nervous on his wedding night.
Well, technically it wasn't a traditional wedding night. There were no confetti on the floor of a hotel room, no champagne waiting in ice buckets. Instead, it had been a journey of plane-helicopter, and now, finally, the private island where they would spend fifteen days isolated from the world.
He wished he could stay a whole month with his wife, just the two of them, but there was a damn awards ceremony on the eighteenth that would force him to attend.
Since Marlon's wedding, years ago, he and Dalila had been exploring each other's bodies in furtive encounters stolen between absurd schedules. They had masturbated together countless times — sometimes in silence, sometimes watching each other, sometimes with hands intertwined while both sought climax.
He knew every curve, every sound, every reaction of her body. He knew exactly where to touch her to take her to the edge.
But still... still he was shy. But shyness and innocence were different things.
Now, in the master bedroom of the island suite, Michael felt his heart hammering against his ribs while Dalila observed him with that hungry look — the same look she used when discovering a new song. She had already removed her travel clothes, and now lay on the sheets wearing a white nightgown that reached her ankles, almost transparent, with a naturalness that left him breathless.
He, on the other hand, still wore his shirt and sweatpants.
"Are you going to stand there forever?" she teased, but her gaze was warm.
Michael swallowed hard. His cock was already hard — hard since the helicopter, hard since he saw her leaving the bathroom in only a towel, hard with a need that ached. But shyness was a mantle he couldn't shed, even now, even as husband and wife.
He approached, feeling his legs tremble, and sat beside her.
Dalila didn't wait — she never waited. She sat in his lap, her breasts pressing against his chest while her hands traveled down his belly, finding the waistband of his pants.
"Let me," she whispered in his ear, and it wasn't a question.
He moaned when she freed him from his clothes, when her hands — those hands that knew exactly what to do — wrapped around his member with firmness. She was dominant, always had been. Where he hesitated, she took the lead. Where he blushed and murmured apologies, she said exactly what she wanted, how she wanted it, when she wanted it.
"I spent the whole day thinking about this," she confessed, stroking him with precise movements that made his eyes roll back. "Thinking about you inside me, finally. Without rushing. Without having to watch the clock."
"Stop worrying about my reputation and virtue," she whispered in his ear. "Now we can moan loud and be as noisy as we want."
Michael let his head fall back, resting on her shoulder. It was addictive — the way she touched him, the confidence with which she explored his body, the husky voice whispering soft obscenities in his ear. He knew every reaction of hers too — knew that if he slid his hand between her legs now, he would find her wet, hot, ready.
And he did it. Timidly, but he did. His fingers found her center, and she moaned against his neck, squeezing him tighter.
"Yes," she gasped. "Don't stop."
They touched each other like that for long minutes — she dominating the rhythm of both, he trying to keep up, trying not to come too fast, trying to be the lover she deserved. When she finally pulled him to lay her down, when her legs wrapped around his waist, Michael felt shyness mixing with desperate hunger.
"You're my husband," she said, looking into his eyes.
Michael guided his penis to her entrance and missed on the first try but succeeded on the second, entering her and moaning at how good it felt to be inside a woman.
"And I want everything. Everything you have," Dalila moaned.
The reality was better than any fantasy, better than any stolen touch in dark dressing rooms. It was real. It was theirs.
"I don't want..." he began, his voice trembling, blushing even now. "I don't want to disappoint you. I want to be..."
"You already are," she interrupted, arching her hips to receive him deeper. "Michael, look at me. You're already everything."
But he needed more. He needed to be the best. When he began to move — timidly at first, then more firmly when she moaned her approval, talking about how his hips were blessed — he felt desire take over, drowning the shame. He loved her with an intensity that frightened him, and seeing her there, naked, open, receiving him with such confidence, gave him a primitive, possessive pride.
Dalila was who he imagined when he touched himself alone on cold days of separation. It was her he wanted to satisfy, now and always. And when she began moaning his name — not "Michael," but "my husband," "my love," obscenities that sounded like prayers — he felt shyness dissolve into the need to make her see stars.
"Let me make you come," he whispered, surprising himself with the boldness. "Please. I want... I need to feel you..."
Dalila smiled — that mischievous, dominant, shameless smile — and held his face between her hands.
"Then make me come, husband."
And he did. With his hands, with his mouth, with his body — everything she had taught him, everything he had memorized in nights of practice. When she finally arched her back, when she screamed his name in climax, Michael felt a satisfaction that no award, no audience, no fame could offer.
He was the only one. The husband. The lover. The man who would do this for her — timidly, desperately, but completely — for the rest of their lives.
(. . .)
After rounds of sex, Dalila passed out from exhaustion. She closed her eyes and even began snoring.
Dalila usually got a bit sleepy after sexual activities, but she had never simply fallen asleep like that.
For some reason, this gave him a small pride, but it didn't last long because as a husband, he had to take care of his wife.
Dalila let out a small indignant moan when he withdrew from her, which made Michael laugh.
He went to the bathroom and checked the room, and to see if the floor wasn't wet.
Michael returned, picked Dalila up in his arms, and placed her on the toilet to clean the semen from her body with a wet towel.
Back in the bedroom, he put her in an armchair, changed the bed sheets, dressed Dalila in panties and an enormous shirt that reached mid-thigh, and put her in bed.
Michael cleaned himself, put on underwear, and went to sleep beside his wife.
Dalila is a very self-confident woman with few insecurities. She is the dominant one because she already knows what she wants, and she doesn't have a shred of shame because she married Michael Jackson — she won at life.
Michael somewhat feels he doesn't deserve Dalila and feels he has to prove he deserves her. This is something that will be worked on in the future.
Some time ago I wrote a version of this chapter for anyone interested.
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: michael jackson x black!popstar!reader
𝐞𝐫𝐚: thrad, early 1986
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: you, known as chanté dove to the public, do an interview with barbara walters. after you reveal michael jackson as your dream collaboration, he sends you a note sharing the same desire. the media notices you two hanging out more with each other, and dating rumors ensue. you both deny everything.
𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: the excerpt is written from michael's pov
Michael hid the bouquet behind his back as he walked in. The door closed with a soft thud. Chanté swiveled in her chair to face him. Her eyes roamed from his head to his feet and then back up. He rubbed the back of his neck. It really was her.
“Michael…wow,” Chanté said, her voice breathy. “About twenty-two years since we’ve last seen each other?”
Twenty-two years? Had it really been that long? The realization of how old he was hit him like a train. A life spent in celebrity, he figured, swept you into a whirlwind that made years feel like minutes.
He had imagined seeing her again an embarrassing number of times. At award shows. Backstage at one of his concerts. Backstage at one of her concerts. Maybe on a flight. Each version of her was a little different, but intimidation remained a constant. None of those imagined scenarios matched the woman sitting before him. He imagined himself being more confident, but every word escaped him.
She smiled. Without lipstick, it wasn’t like the ones from her promotional photos and music videos. It was the same smile she wore when she stood on the chancel in her choral robes all those years ago.
She got up from the chair and crossed over to him. Her stride was long and confident like a model’s. A hypnotic sway in her hips complemented each step. Somewhere between her departure and their reunion, she had learned exactly who she was and what effect she had on others. So close yet so far from the little girl he’d grown up around.
Michael’s eyes dropped to her hips for a fraction of a second. He licked his lips and took a deep inhale, careful not to let temptation get the best of him.
“Enchantée.” She held out her hand, dangling it from her wrist. Michael grabbed her hand and kissed it. He stared into her eyes as his lips pressed against the delicate skin. There was a fire radiating from her brown irises. “You are even more handsome in person.” Michael gulped. He was swimming in sweat underneath all his clothes.
Thank you so much for the tag 🥹 some of my faves are @1andonlytashae @multifandomposts-blog @blkkbratt @curlypytclubx @naturallykae @narratedillusions @plan3tch1ld (I love all of y’all though)
Warnings: smut but no p in v, smoking, dryhumping (what is a story of mine if it doesn't have any?!), finger sucking & soooo many pet names if you couldn't tell by the title
1 8 + , pairing: gf/ bmreader x bf/ bdmichael
a/n 1/2: your daughter is referred to as Pumpkin. there's a drought in sub mature era fics, sub doesn't always have to be equivalent to inexperienced!
˖ ݁♬⋆.˚𝄞 ˖ ݁♬⋆.˚𝄞
Today was an absolute success.
Was it chaotic?
Yes!
But still, it was a perfectly orchestrated, chaotic, success.
For the first time in the three years of you and Michael owning your luxurious family home in Malibu, you'd thrown a cookout.
The cookout was everything you'd envisioned and more.
A part of you realized that you and Michael had isolated yourselves from everyone, but the thoughts didn't really settle until it was too late.
After having your first child, the two of you had gone to unimaginable lengths to protect her. Michael especially. He'd grown this wondrously protective persona that he'd turn on and off like flipping a light switch. So when it came to his daughter.. don't let it come to her. That fierce instinct isolated you both from everyone. Including family.
You'd learned very quickly that snakes lived within every instance of your lives, but Michael — as he lived constantly in the starlight—had known that.
The morning after you found out you were pregnant Michael had already spoken to your landlord. He told you, and I quote "I'll be damned if I have my girl and child living here. You know I've been trying to move you out for months."
This was true. But you stood on the fact that you didn't want to be dependent on him. That you would still work, still live in your own house, and be the same independent woman you were before you and him became an item.
God forbid you got into an arguement with him and he left you stranded.
You knew he'd never, but thoughts like that didn't just disappear with conformation, they lingered even in your happiest moments, and furthur prevented you from moving in with him. Regardless of the fight you put up (you'd given up when he stared at you with puppy dog eyes) you ended up living with him by the end of the week.
The following week Michael approached you with various home designs much to your surprise. Once again, your complaints were futile, and when you finally gave in and accepted one the designs, Michael cheered — literally cheered —and with this he began renovations of his own home —orginally designed for one, now fit for family. Your home was far from basic, the usual minimalist coastal style of typical Malibu homes having nothing on him and his creative mind.
20 acres of beautiful green grass full of sprawling opportunity; (would've been more but you didn't want anymore land), and a custom modern lit family home spanning 6,000 feet of the property.
˖ ݁♬⋆.˚𝄞 ˖ ݁♬⋆.˚𝄞
The men tended the grill, Joseph hovering close with a watchful eye as his sons grilled ribs, hotdogs and hamburgers.
Even from the kitchen you could tell it was plethora of food, the amount where even after people grab extra plates for the ride home, there would be enough to eat off of the next three days. But by then you'd be sick of it. And Michael would serve you hand and foot to whatever your pretty heart desired, especially when it came to food.
The Jackson women (excluding Katherine because she was in the living room playing with your babygirl), were fixing sides in the kitchen. Greens, baked beans, mac and cheese, all the sweet and savory food that were usually paired with the meat.
You prepared your famous banana pudding, already having made a cake earlier in the day. Everyone kept insisting you rest and have fun like the rest of them, but you were hosting, so that was never an option.
"Word on the street is that one of y'all got a new boo and ain't tell me?" You roll your neck, tilting your head as you scanned over the three Jackson sisters with an arched brow.
Rebbie continued slowly stirring the pot of greens, an amused lilt grabbing the corner of her lips. "Well I'm happily married so excuse me."
LaToya pled the fifth, reaching into her bag and pulling out a compact mirror to fluff her blowout and reapply her lipstick.
Janet rubbed the side of her arm nervously, cracking under minimal pressure. "Okay fine! You got me.. there is someone." Quickly she shifts, changing the subject. "Don't you have pudding to finish?"
The cleanup following the phenomenal food and camaraderie was all but slow. Jackie and Tito put their muscles to work to help get everything stuff thrown away quickly and efficiently.
Mama K was simply content on the couch, rocking your toddler in her arms and passing her off to you when she notices your arrival. "She's been an angel this whole time.."
And when final goodbyes are exchanged and the last car pulls out of your long driveway? The house is still and quiet, save for the soft snores of your seven year old Yorkshire terrier, Mickey.
Michael closes the front door, and leans against it with a deep, content sigh. He pushes off the door and walks over to you, his arms encircling both you and Pumpkin in a gentle hug.
He leans in, resting his forehead against yours. "Thank you, (Name). Today was amazing.."
You don't respond, relishing in the moment. And the three of you stand in the foyer like a picture-perfect family.
Carefully he takes Pumpkin from your arms, cradling her against his shoulder with practiced ease. "I'll get her to bed.."
Michael settles her in the colorful expanse of the bedroom, and gently lays her in her toddler bed, pulling the fluffy blanket to her chin. He stands there for a minute, watchig the moonlight glimmer off of his daughters radiant brown skin, her curls jumbled from her exciting day of meeting new family members and toddling around.
He exits Pumpkins room and turns to you, grabbing your hand and leading you back to the living room couch.
Instantly, you both melt into the cushions, the slight tension in your shoulders easing into the leather.
Michael's arm finds your waist, pulling you flush to his side. You rest your hand on his chest and gasp as his fingers begin playing with the strap of your thong, snapping the material on your hips over and over.
"Michael!" You slap his chest with one hand and swat his hand with the other , fighting the giggles threatening to erupt in your chest.
"What?" He asks innocently, black waves casting shadows over his forehead as he tilts his head. "Y'got your whale tale out today."
You simply kiss your teeth, leaning forward to grab a leftover blunt in an ashtray and sparking it with the Barbie pink lighter that lived on your belt.
( i am not encouraging smoking in the same household as children! but this is fictitious, read it for the plot! )
The sweet, earthy, charred scent of the blunt mixes with the lingering aroma of the cookout. Michael watches you— or rather adores you—a lovestricken smile on his face as you take the first pull.
"We should make this an annual thing, baby. We don't see family enough." You exhale the smoke, leaning furthur into Michael's side.
"I like that," he nods slowly, "A tradition for our family."
Once, twice, three times.
You notice Michael's eyes drop to your blunt three times before his tongue darts out, wetting his lips; obviously he wants to take a hit.
Now, it wasn't often that Michael smoked. But whenever you sparked up, he couldn't help but want to join in. He'd take no more than two hits, sometimes a few more. But you knew he needed to preserve his voice, so sometimes you denied him.
Thankfully, tonight was not one of those times.
"You know what the best part of today was? Watching you in your element. Hosting, laughing, making your famous pudding. You're a natural. You know how to really build people up."
You giggle, using your freehand to throw a braid over your shoulder. "You don't have to kiss my ass to get a hit.."
"No, no! I'm serious!" Michael rubbed the back of his neck, a flush crawling its way up his neck, his lips tilted in a downward bashful smile.
"Well, still, thank you baby. That's what Big Mama does." You shrug, taking the blunt from your own lips and holding it out for him.
You watch closely as he leans in — his eyes never dropping from yours —and inhales, cheeks hollowing slightly. The quiet intimacy of the gesture as tangible as the thick smoke curling between you that drifted upward, brushing the ceiling.
"Big Mama?" His voice takes an amused lilt, exhaling the smoke softly. "I like that, suits you."
"How so? Besides the fact that I'm a thick ass mother." You tease, watching Michael's eyes drop when you lightly tap your behind, the flesh recoiling despite the slight restriction of your bedazzled jeans .
"That's part of it. But the way you take care of everybody. The love you show to our daughter. The way you made our house a home."
You set the blunt down in its ashtray, eyes fluttering shut when you lean into his shoulder, inhaling his cologne. "Mhm? Tell me more, bubba."
His voice drops to a hypnotic murmur, almost enough to lull you to sleep, the sound vibrating through his broad chest. "You're the reason for it all, (Name). You built a world, with a backyard and a garden with your roses, and hibiscuses, and those stunning lilies.." He pauses, his voice taking a quieter emotional turn. "And a crib in the next room."
"That's what I like to hear.." You smile, fingers finding his chin and bringing him closer until your lips brushed against each other. "Gimme sum'.."
Michael closes the distance between you, and slowly you kiss, the peck deepening slowly, fueled by the gentle buzz from the blunt and the success of the days ventures. His hand comes up to cradle your face, thumbs stroking the apples of your cheeks.
The makeout session continues, lazy and deep on the plush couch. You shift closer to his side, Michael's hand sliding from your face to your waist, pulling you firmly to his side before dropping to your ass, giving it a firm squeeze.
"We got a sleepin' baby down the hall.. and you're kissin' me like you want another one.." His lip slips between his bottom teeth.
"It was just a little kiss.." You tease, trailing his jaw with your finger.
"A little kiss? That was more than a little kiss, mama." He leans in, nose brushing against yours. His gaze drops to your parted lips, his own parting in response, tongue brushing yours in a faster, sloppier kiss than before.
Instantly, you adjust over, thighs bracketing his hips. Michael's eyes flutter open, now dark with a fresh wave of desire.
If only walls could talk. This ole' couch has seen more things than it would've liked too, and tonight would be no different.
His large hands tighten on your waist, guiding the slow, deliberate rhythm of your hips against his growing erection.
Your lips find his neck, sucking and marking it up. His body naturally arches up to meet the slow grind of your hips.
"You're so hard beneath your jeans, baby.." You whisper, fingers tracing the fresh mark on his neck.
"Just.. being near you.." Michael strains out, his voice a low rasp, hips frantically searching for more friction.
Pumpkin shifts in her sleep, soft coos leaving her mouth and echoing down the corridor. Michael notices instantly, his ears perking up.
"We should...." He glances toward the hallway where Pumpkin sleeps, visibly torn between checking on your daughter and the sheer desire in his body.
You shake your head, manicured fingers grasping his chin and forcing his wide eyes back on yours. "We have a baby monitor for a reason.. focus on Big Mama. You said being near me gets you like this?"
His eyes lock on your own, captured by your gaze and the commanding tone in your voice. "Always.. from the first day we met. One look at me and I fall apart.."
The words land right between your thighs, and without another thought your hips are rocking faster, clit twitching. "Yeah? Don't drop my gaze."
His breathing grows ragged, matching your hips in perfect sync, a desperate rhythm. "Yes.. oh God, yes, (Name).."
You still your hips. "That's not my name, baby.."
You feel his hips stutter as he struggles to keep his focus, big hands dragging you down against him again. "Mama? Big Mama? Mommy? I don't know baby, just.. please.."
"That's it.." You rock again, feeling him buck up against you in a sharp involuntary movement that makes you gasp. "I haven't even got you out your clothes yet.."
A shudder runs through him as you nibble on his ear. The friction of your jeans against his is maddening, paired with the power in your voice, it's all pushing him dangerously close to the edge.
"You know I'm sensitive, Mama. You know what you do to me.."
"I'm so close.." Michael's eyes are glazed, still holding your stare as you commanded him earlier. He's trembling with the effort of holding back, knuckles white where he grips your hips. He's willingly submitting, and the thought alone is enough to send another wave of heat over your skin.
"Not yet.."
The sudden slow drag of your hips draws a frustrated groan from Michael's throat. His body arches up, searching for the friction you're denying him, but his attempt is futile and you hold your pace, a deliberate slow teasing.
"Please.." His forehead falls, landing right on your shoulder, placing your hand to his chest, allowing you to feel the rapid beat of his heart. "I'm listenin'.. I'm bein' good.."
"Beg f'me, papa."
And when you still? Michael whines again, his body taut as a bowstring.
"Please let me cum for you.." His hips raise in a tiny thrust, a helpless reflex. "I need it.. please, Ma.."
His expression is one of pure desperation, he's completely surrendered. Body laid bare(not physically but mentally) to your every command. And at that moment you take a second to stare at him. The waves of his hair— usually meticulously styled— ruffled and disorderly as if he'd spent a day with Pumpkin alone, pupils blown wide with desperation and desire, and the subtle twitch of his hips that's slowly becoming less subtle after every passing breath.
You pretend to ponder it, tapping your chin before resuming your fervored pace. "Let go for me.. you've been doing so good.."
Michael's eyes squeeze shut, his body convulsing beneath you. You slip your fingers in his mouth already knowing what to expect next. His lips wrap tight around your fingers just in time, tongue warm around the digits as a broken muffled moan escapes his throat, clawing it's way up from his gut.
His release is everything but subtle, body arching off the couch as he soaks the dark fabric of his deep-blue Levis. The warmth of release seeps onto your thighs and you're still rutting against him, riding out your orgasm with your own head thrown back.
Michael's chest is rising and falling quickly, one hand holding your waist and the other holding your braids away from your face, tugging your head back.
Slowly, you both collapse into the cushions, thighs drenched through the jeans with your arousal and your mixed release.
You both sit there for a long moment before turning your head, the soft pad of tiny quiet footsteps catching your attention.
"Ma-ma.." The toddler's soft voice rings out, rubbing her brown eyes with the back of her hand.
You and Michael share a quick knowing look and both stifle a laugh, tickled with your three-year-old's impeccable timing. Slowly, you pull a blanket from the side of the couch around your hips, shielding the innocent child's eyes from seeing the mess her 'mama' and 'papa' created.
a/n 2/2: i hope i lived up to everyone's expectations, i gained so many followers from the concept of big mama alone, and i don't wanna disappoint! i am so intentional with all of my stories & i hope it comes across that way! i also hope to make many mutuals real soon.
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲. four mouths after the hotel mishap, you and michael are flourishing in your new relationship— despite your stubbornly mean attitude.
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠(𝐬). bad! michael x rival! reader
𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭. 18+ smut, fluff, lots of cursing, readers a huge brat, michael’s a lover boy, p in v, missionary, light choking, very light dacryphilia, michael tames the brat once again.
You had been sitting on the plush velvet sofa of a high end talk show set in Los Angeles, your legs crossed, a glass of iced water resting between your manicured fingers. When the host inevitably brought up Michael—asking about whatever nonsense he’d been up to and whether the two of you had smoothed over your legendary, bitter rivalry—you had simply scoffed into the microphone. You gave the audience that signature, ice cold smirk that made headlines across every music rag in the country, lightly adjusting the heavy diamond bracelet on your wrist before delivering a razor sharp, dismissive line about his over choreographed antics.
Not even a full hour later, in a pre-recorded broadcast segment from his soundstage across town, Michael had adjusted his black fedora, tipped the brim down over one dark eye, and flashed a slow, deliberate smile straight at the camera lens.
To the people watching at home it meant nothing.
To you, it meant one thing. 3:00 AM.
Ever since that insane night at the penthouse hotel months ago—where an insanely desperate manager had slipped aphrodisiac honey into your tea just to keep his dumb little job—your public "hatred" had spiraled into something completely unhinged behind closed doors. You couldn't be seen together in daylight without crashing the stock market, so you had learned to navigate a shadowy world of underground garage stealth, tinted windows, and secret codes.
You did normal couple things, but always twisted through the surreal lens of multi-platinum stardom. You ate late night takeout off paper plates on the floor of empty recording studios at four in the morning. He would disguise himself in ridiculous oversized coats and surgical masks just to sit in the back row of a dark movie theater with you, whispering silly commentary in your ear while feeding you popcorn. Painting your toe nails while you watched television when you didn’t even ask him to. Things like that.
And then, of course, there was the famous trip to his sanctuary.
He had begged you for weeks to come see his sprawling new property, promising a quiet getaway. You had arrived wearing a custom ivory fur coat and vintage sunglasses, treating the entire estate like a low-tier zoo you were graciously inspecting.
You had actually really enjoyed most of it—strolling through the green grounds, letting him hold your hand while showing you the private theater, and feeding grapes to the exotic birds. But then came the big animals.
Like Bubbles. It was hatred at first sight.
The chimpanzee took one look at your pristine, high fashion clothing and your condescending, diva posture, and instantly decided you were an enemy. Bubbles had screeched, aggressively snatched at your designer outfit, and purposefully thrown a handful of fruit onto your handmade Italian leather heels. You had let out a blood curdling scream, scrambling onto the nearest couch, furiously pointing a manicured finger and demanding the "feral little monster" be removed from your sight immediately. Michael had nearly collapsed onto the floor laughing, wiping tears from his eyes while you threatened to sue him, his estate, and his entire record label.
To this day, you and Bubbles had a strict, mutual hatred.
Louie the llama, on the other hand, was your soulmate.
Louie was regal, completely silent, judged everyone from a distance, and refused to be bothered by cheap tricks—matching you perfectly. Michael had spent twenty minutes looking for you one afternoon, only to find you sitting on a wooden bench inside the barn, wrapped in your coat, delicately feeding Louie crunchy carrots out of a crystal bowl. You were speaking to the llama in a whisper, telling him all the dirty industry gossip about the people you knew while Louie chewed slowly, nodding as if he understood every word. Michael had stood in the doorway for five full minutes, his heart melting as he watched the terrifying, untouchable diva softly babying a llama.
Now, at 3:15 in the morning back at your Bel-Air compound, the quiet hum of the night air was broken by the faint, muffled thud of a heavy door clicking shut downstairs.
You were lounging in the center of your sprawling master bedroom, propped up against a sea of silk pillows. You wore a floor length, sheer black silk robe trimmed with exaggerated ostrich feathers around the cuffs, a glass of expensive champagne resting on the nightstand beside you.
You weren't sleeping. You hadn't even attempted to wash off your full face of camera ready makeup. But the second you heard those soft, familiar footsteps padding up the grand marble staircase, you immediately picked up a glossy copy of Vogue, casually flipping a page and pretending to be utterly absorbed.
The bedroom door pushed open without a knock.
Michael stood in the doorway, framed by the warm, dim light of the hallway. He looked effortlessly amazing, as usual. His curls were damp around his forehead from rehearsal, sticking to his temples, and his hat was held loosely in his right hand.
He didn't say a word at first. He just stood there, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe, his dark, heavy lidded eyes dragging over you—from the feathers on your robe down to the bare, manicured toes peeking out from beneath the silk. A slow, infuriatingly smug grin began to tug at the corner of his lips.
You didn't look up from your magazine.
"You're late," you snapped, your voice cutting through the quiet room like a serrated knife. "And I swear to God, if I see one speck of dirt on my custom rug from those dumb ass loafers, I'm throwing you out the window."
Michael let out a low, amused breath, slipping off his jacket and tossing it haphazardly over the back of an expensive antique armchair. "Good to see you too, baby," he murmured softly, his voice a smooth, quiet rasp.
"Don't 'baby' me, you asshole," you hissed, finally slamming the magazine face down onto the bed and glaring at him with pure venom. "Do you have any idea what time it is? I have a photo shoot at nine in the fucking morning. I'm sitting here wasting my precious beauty sleep cause of you."
Michael just smiled, nodding his head slowly as he walked toward the foot of the bed. He unbuttoned his cuffs, rolling the sleeves up his forearms with lazy, unhurried precision.
"Oh yeah?" he drawled softly, his voice dropping into that quiet, deep register he only ever used behind closed doors. "Is that right?"
"Yes, that is fucking right!" you barked, crossing your arms tightly over your chest, the feathers fluttering wildly. "And another thing—" Michael took another slow step forward, stepping right into the narrow space between the edge of the mattress and your knees. He didn't argue. He didn't defend his outfit, his music, or his timing. He just rested his hands on his hips, tilted his head, and watched your lips move as you hurled insults at him.
"Uh-huh," he chuckled softly, a tiny, breathless sound that made your chest tighten. "Tell me more about how much you hated it."
"Fuck you," you growled, leaning forward, your eyes flashing with sharp, bratty defiance. "I'm serious! You think you're so goddamn smooth, creeping in here like you own the place. You don't own shit here. This is my house. I run this estate. You're an intruder who happens to have a security code because I was too lazy to change it."
"Oh, you were lazy, huh?" Michael murmured, a wicked glint in his eyes as he reached out. His long, slender fingers gently caught the nape of your robe, tugging it an inch closer. "You just... forgot? For four months?"
"Don't touch me," you snapped, though you didn't pull away. In fact, you leaned into his space just enough to push your chest out, looking at him with pure entitlement. "You're so annoying."
Michael's smile broadened, showing a flash of white teeth. He noddded again, leaning down so his face was barely two inches from yours. You could smell him now—that intoxicating, heavy mix of his custom perfume, warm skin, and the crisp night air.
"Mmh," he hummed against your jaw line, his warm breath fanning across your flushed skin. "You really hate me tonight, don't you, mama?"
"I hate you every night," you whispered fiercely, reaching up to slap his chest—except your hand didn't push him away. Your manicured fingers instinctively locked into the soft cotton of his shirt, pulling him down harder against you. "You're a nuisance."
"Yeah, yeah," Michael murmured smoothly.
Before you could spew another insult, he leaned down and captured your mouth with his.
It wasn't a gentle kiss, but it wasn't rushed, either. It was deep, heavy, and possessive—the kind of kiss that immediately stole the air right out of your lungs and rendered your sharp tongue completely useless. He gripped the back of your neck with one broad hand, his long fingers tangling into your styled hair, tilting your head back to deepen the angle.
A muffled, involuntary whine bubbled up in the back of your throat. You hated how easily he did this. You hated that with one simple press of his lips, your brain melted into absolute mush, all your carefully constructed hostility dissolving into pure, needy friction.
When he finally pulled back, just an inch, his lips were slick from your gloss, his dark eyes wide and heavy with satisfaction. He looked down at you, watching your chest heave as you gasped for air, your eyes hazy and unfocused.
"There," he whispered, a smug little grin tugging at his lips. "Much better."
"You're a fucking bastard," you panted, trying desperately to pull your cold mask back over your face, though your fingers were still clutching his shirt for dear life. "I was mid-sentence."
"You were talking nonsense," he countered gently, stepping back just enough to reach into his back pocket. "Here. I brought you something."
He pulled out a small, heavy velvet box—dark emerald green—and tossed it carelessly onto the soft covers beside your thigh.
You looked down at the box, then up at his face, your eyebrows knitting together in disdain. "What is this? A bribe? Do you think you can just buy off my bad mood with shiny trinkets?"
"Open it, babydoll," he chuckled, sitting down on the edge of the mattress and kicking off his loafers.
You scoffed loudly, making a grand show of being entirely unbothered as you flipped open the velvet lid with one finger. Inside lay a breathtaking, vintage platinum necklace, studded with pink diamonds that caught the bedroom light in blinding flashes. It was easily worth more than a luxury mansion.
You stared at it with wide eyes for three full seconds, your heart doing a foolish little flip in your chest. It was utterly beautiful. But you couldn’t let him know that, you think as you looked up at Michael with a disgusted twist of your lips.
"Pink diamonds?" you scoffed, shaking your head in dramatic pity. "Michael, really? I told you last month that I was transitioning into yellow canaries for the season. Pink is so... last spring. What am I supposed to do with this?"
Michael didn't even blink. He just leaned back on his elbows, watching you with that same warm, knowing grin. "Oh, yeah? You don't want it?" He reached out lazily to take the box back. "Fine, I'll take it back—"
"Touch it and I'll kill you!" you snapped instantly, snatching the box out of his reach and holding it tightly against your chest.
Michael burst into a rich, melodic laugh, his head falling back against the pillows. "I knew it," he teased, his voice full of warm amusement. "You love it."
"I tolerate it," you corrected haughtily, already lifting the heavy platinum chain out of the velvet and clumsily trying to fasten the clasp around your neck with your acrylic nails. "It's acceptable. Barely. Put it on me, you idiot, stop sitting there laughing."
Michael shook his head, a soft, affectionate look washing over his features as he shifted closer. He took the necklace from your hands, his large, warm fingers brushing against the nape of your neck as he swept your heavy hair over one shoulder. His knuckles grazed your bare skin, sending a violent shiver straight down your spine.
"You're the most spoiled, meanest woman in the whole world," he murmured softly into your ear as he clicked the clasp into place. "I swear to God, nobody else would put up with your mouth."
"Nobody else could," you retorted sharply, turning your head so your noses almost brushed. "Because nobody else has my level of talent, beauty, or standard. You're lucky I even let you breathe my oxygen, Jackson. Honestly, after how your stupid ape treated me at your ranch, you owe me like twenty of these."
Michael wheezed with laughter, leaning his forehead against your shoulder. "Bubbles isn't an ape, he's a chimp. And he was just jealous because you were taking up all my attention."
"He threw an apple at my shoes, Michael! He belongs in a maximum security prison," you whined, suddenly dropping the queen act into pure, theatrical poutiness. You slumped your shoulders, crossing your arms and looking up at him with big, pathetic eyes. "My feet hurt. My head hurts. I've been working fourteen hour days, and now I have to sit here and be bullied by you and your violent circus animals."
Michael's eyes softened instantly. The playful smugness melted away, replaced by that overwhelming, fiercely protective sweetness he always had reserved just for you when your walls finally cracked. He loved when you got like this—whiny, helpless, and subtly begging to be babied.
"Aww, poor baby," he cooed softly, reaching out to wrap his arms around your waist and pulling your back flush against his chest. He began trailing soft, soothing kisses along your jawline and the side of your neck. "Did my girl have a hard day? Hmm?"
"Yes," you sniffled dramatic, leaning your head back against his shoulder, letting him hold your weight. "Everyone at the studio is so incompetent. My producer took three hours to mix one vocal track. I almost set the building on fire."
"I know, mama. People don't know how to work like we do," he whispered, rubbing comforting circles into your hips. He reached over to the nightstand, picking up a warm face towel he'd grabbed from your bathroom on his way in, gently wiping away the traces of makeup and gloss from your face with care. "Let me take care of you. Just relax."
You let out a soft, sweet sigh, leaning into his touch, completely dropping the mean act for a few fragile minutes. "You took too long to get here," you muttered softly, resting your hand over his on your lap. "I missed you. Even if you're an annoying asshole."
Michael—ignoring the sugar coated insult—smiled softly into your hair, pressing a deep kiss to your temple. "I missed you too, sweet girl. Every single second."
For a long while, the room was quiet. The loud, larger than life pop personas were completely stripped away, leaving just two exhausted, deeply lonely megastars holding onto the only person in the world who understood the crushing weight of their reality. He held you close, softly humming a slow, unreleased melody against your skin, lulling you into a state of absolute, vulnerable safety.
"Michael?" you murmured quietly into the dim room.
"Hmm?"
"When everyone finds out about us... they're gonna think we're completely insane."
Michael chuckled, his arm tightening around you. "We are insane, baby. That's why it works."
He turned you around in his arms so you were facing him, slowly turning and pushing you to your back. The atmosphere in the room shifted once again—the sweetness sharpening into an intense, crackling heat. His dark eyes dragged down your face, taking in your bare, clean skin and the pink diamond necklace glittering against your collarbone.
His long fingers hooked into the neck of your silk robe, slowly pushing it off your shoulders.
"You know," he murmured, his gaze dragging down your chest, "you were real mean on that TV show earlier. Calling my dancing 'antics.'"
"It is antics," you panted, your hands coming up to grip his wrists, though you weren't stopping him—you were pulling him down. "You move around like a hyperactive child. It's ridiculous."
"Is that right?" he whispered, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin right beneath your ear, making you gasp out loud. "And what about right now? Am I ridiculous right now?"
"Mmhm... absolutely," you breathed, your knees parting automatically as he shifted his weight between them.
Michael didn't ask for permission. He leaned down, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth gently nipping at the soft flesh right above your collarbone before sucking hard enough to leave a dark, purplish mark. You let out a high, sharp gasp, your nails digging directly into his back, poking through the thin cotton of his shirt.
"Michael—fuck, don't leave a mark there, I have a shoot—!"
"Shut up," he gritted out against your skin, his hands moving with sudden, desperate speed. He stripped his shirt off in one smooth motion, tossing it onto the floor, exposing his broad, lean chest and the sharp line of his collarbones.
He looked down at you, his eyes dilated, completely black in the dim bedroom light. The polite, gentle pop star the world knew was gone, and sitting on your bed was a man driven entirely by hunger, his chest heaving with heavy, shallow breaths.
He reached down, gripping the silk of your robe and ripping it off your shoulders entirely, leaving you stark naked beneath the glitter of your new diamond necklace. His gaze raked over you—every curve, every inch of flushed skin—and a low, guttural groan escaped his throat.
"God, you're so pretty," he rasped, his voice raw and unvarnished. "A mean, miserable slut... but so fucking pretty."
"Watch your fucking mouth," you whimpered, though your hips bucked upward on their own, searching for the heavy friction of his body. "Just get on with it, Jackson. Stop talking."
Michael smirked, but his eyes were blazing. He unbuckled his belt with impatient, trembling hands, shoving his dark pants and underwear down his legs until he was completely bare for you.
When he shifted back over you, the heavy, thick length of him brushed against your slick, burning cunt. You let out a sharp, breathy scream at the sheer temperature of him, your thighs clamping around his waist like a vice. You were already dripping, completely soaked for him despite all your sharp words, and he knew it. He felt it the second his tip pressed against your entrance.
"Look at you," he teased, his voice dropping to a low, husky growl as his hands clamped down on your waist, holding you still. "Talk all that shit... and you're already dripping all over my hands. You were waiting for me, weren't you?" He murmurs, tip pressing in, his hand shoves you till you're on your back and elbows, breath making your breasts rise and fall, his hands slipping down your thighs to shove them higher.
"I was not—ah!"
You couldn't even finish the lie. You’re watching as his dick sinks inside your needy hole, inch by inch slowly disappearing, you're so full with half inside you can’t contain yourself.
He hums, slamming the rest of his cock deep inside, roughly kissing your cervix, balls smacking you with a messy thwack, watching your face as it contorts in pleasure.
"Fuck," Michael cursed loudly, his eyes rolling back as he froze inside you, his hands digging into the soft flesh of your hips with bruising force. His chest was heavy against yours, the heat radiating off his bare skin like an oven. "You're so tight... Jesus Christ..."
"Move," you sobbed out, your hands clawing at his shoulders, your pride entirely shattered as your body took over. "Michael, fucking move, please—"
He let out a sharp, breathless laugh, his head dropping into your shoulder as he began to set a brutal, punishing rhythm.
Your head snapped back into the pillows, a loud, profane scream tearing from your throat as your body stretched to accommodate him. The sheer fullness was overwhelming, an intense, aching friction that sent waves of pure pleasure crashing through your entire nervous system.
He didn't hold back. He lifted his hips and drove into you, hard and fast. The loud, wet slap of his thighs colliding with yours filling the silent room. Every stroke was deep, precise, hitting that exact sweet spot inside you until your vision began to blur with static. You couldn't think. You couldn't maintain your cold persona. You were just a mess of breathless whimpers, loud, filthy curses, and desperate, arching hips; drooling and gripping the sheets as your eyes roll back with another filthy thrust in your gummy walls, quivering around him.
"Yeah? You like that, baby?" Michael grunted into your skin, his voice thick with exertion as he picked up the pace, his hips snapping forward with terrifying strength. "Who's derivative now, huh? Tell me. Whose music is trash?"
"Y-yours!" you gasped out, your voice cracking as he hit you so deep your toes curled. "It's trash—oh God, Michael!—it's fucking trash!" You're already fucked out with a few more strokes, the way his heavy tip drags on your inner walls has you spasming, whining out into his lips when he greedily kisses you.
Michael let out a dark, wicked chuckle against your throat, loving those pretty tears of pleasure that slip from your eyes. His hand comes up to wrap loosely around your neck, holding you pinned beneath him while his other hand reached down between your bodies. His long fingers found your slick, swollen center, his thumb beginning to rub tight, hard circles right over your clit while he continued to fuck you senseless.
The sensation was too much. It was absolute agony and utter heaven all at once.
"Say it again," he growled into your ear, his thumb working faster, matching the relentless, pounding rhythm of his hips. "Tell me how much you hate me while you cream all over my dick."
"I... I fucking hate you!" you sobbed out, your eyes rolling back into your head as the intense, burning coil in your lower stomach tightened to a point of no return. Your nails are digging deep into the muscles of his lower back, pulling him as deep inside you as he could physically go. "I hate you so fucking much—fuck, Michael, I'm going to—!"
"Cum for me, mama," he praised raspy, his voice dropping all its cockiness, softening into something desperate and needy. "Cum for me. Do it." He arches his hips and hits that spot just right, you shatter, cumming so hard you can't see, gasping out with a shattered, high pitched scream, your body gave out entirely, moaning loudly into his ear.
Your inner walls clenched around him in violent, rhythmic spasms, milky slick pouring out of you and coating his length as you exploded into a blinding, earth shattering orgasm. You couldn't breathe, couldn't talk, your limbs shaking uncontrollably beneath his weight as the high washed over you in wave after wave.
Hearing you break down was all it took for Michael.
He let out a low, guttural groan, his head throwing back, his throat working as he drove into you three more furious, blinding times before burying himself to the hilt and cumming hard. You could feel the hot, heavy pulses of his release filling you up, his entire body shuddering and vibrating against yours as he collapsed on top of you, his face buried deep into the crook of your neck, his chest heaving like a wounded animal.
The aftermath was a long, suffocating silence.
The room was deathly quiet, save for the synchronized, ragged gasps of your breathing filling the space between you. You lay there, completely tangled in the disheveled sheets, your body feeling like lead, sticky with sweat, slick, and spent emotion. The heavy diamonds resting lopsided against your collarbone, cold against your burning skin.
Michael slowly lifted his weight off you, slipping out with a quiet, wet sound that made your skin burn. He rolled onto his side, propping his head up on one arm, his messy curls wild and falling into his eyes.
He looked down at you, watching the way your chest heaved, his gaze tracing the mascara smudged tears dried on your cheeks and the complete wreck of your untouchable persona. A soft, incredibly tender smile spread across his lips—not smug, not arrogant, just deeply, quietly happy.
You slowly dragged a hand over your face, letting out a long, dramatic groan.
"You're an animal," you rasped out, your voice entirely shot, sounding like you'd been yelling for six hours. "Look at my hair. Look at my face. You've completely ruined my day and it’s barely started."
Michael chuckled softly, reaching out to gently tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. His fingers lingered against your cheek, warm and steady. "Sure, baby. Whatever you say."
"I'm serious!" you snapped weakly, though you didn't move away from his touch. In fact, as he shifted closer, pulling the heavy duvet up over both of your bare bodies, you automatically leaned your head into his chest, resting your cheek over his rapidly beating heart. "If my stylist asks why I have a bruise on my collarbone tomorrow, I'm telling them I got attacked by a stray dog."
"A stray dog, huh?" Michael murmured, his arm wrapping tightly around your waist, pulling your hips flush against his. He kissed the top of your head once more, his breath warm against your scalp. "A real vicious one?"
"The worst," you mumbled, your eyelids growing impossibly heavy as the sheer exhaustion of the night finally caught up to you. You reached out under the covers, your fingers lightly tracing the soft skin of his ribs, resting there. "He needs to be put down, honestly."
Michael let out a quiet, rumbling laugh that vibrated against your cheek. He didn't say anything else. He just held you tightly against his body, resting his chin on your head, his hand lightly stroking your back in long, soothing strokes until your breathing evened out.
…..
"Michael?" you murmured sleepily, your eyes barely open.
"Yeah, baby?"
"…I love you."
Michael softly laughed again. He kissed the top of your head, pulling the heavy duvet up over your shoulders to keep you warm.
Summary: The start of mismanagement. Can Michael stand his ground?
Era/Pair: History/Mature Era!Michael x SuccessfulCEOBlackfem!Reader
Tags/Warning: Eating disorders; Fluff and Smut; Masterbation; hurt/comfort; Chubby Michael; improper weight loss; TLC; pet names-mama, Bambi, mommy- is used; angst with a happy ending; fighting with Michael
Part 1:
Michael's happy atmosphere quieted as soon as he sat in the backseat of the car. No one spoke to him unless there was something musical that they needed to know. His only noise was the quiet murmurs from his sides and the quiet rumble of the TV playing a random VHS tape. The feeling was maddening as he was pushed to move into his little corner with his sunglasses on, fighting tears, and ignoring the stare from Bill, his pseudo-father and longest-standing head bodyguard. The day did not get better as they walked onto the plane. Michael was immediately overwhelmed with tour outfit sketches, stage designs, setlist ideas, and a whole bunch of other stuff that he really didn't want to care about at this moment.
In the end, he knew that people were counting on this experience. Those who spent their lives wanting to work with him and fans who haven't seen him in years. For some of those fans, this may be the only time they ever see them. Sometimes situations like these made him feel as though his name was almost a curse; of course, he couldn't lie and say that he hated what he did. He lived for the magic, for the stage. Michael was grateful and prays every morning, thanking God for his gift and the ability to share it with the world. Michael is a channel for the sounds of the earth, and these sounds needed to be heard in order for him to give back. He was always excited for others to hear what he had been given and always ready to make a difference in one way or another. This was the only reason that he continued with this career instead of retiring and staying home to play with you.
A sigh was let out as he leaned back into his seat. The ride was smooth enough that he could relax, but he loathed flying so much that he definitely couldn't sleep. Fidgeting in his seat, Michael looked through papers upon papers and answered questions that had already been asked at least three times. It wasn’t until they were almost to Florida that everything seemed to have quieted down.
He finally had the chance to look at the time and was shocked that no one said anything about food, and now, he realized that he was actually pretty hungry. Michael made sure that it was okay to leave before he unbuckled his seat belt and made his way to the makeshift kitchen in the rear of the plane. His hand was reaching for a bag of Lays chips when someone grabbed his wrist. Michael looked up to see his manager, who gave him a weary smile and placed an apple in his hand.
"Here, Mike, eat this." He said, smiling as if he had saved the world.
Michael looked down at the apple before looking up at the manager with a confused face.
"Uh...no? If I wanted an apple, I would have grabbed one." He quipped, putting the apple back and grabbing the chips. He made his way back to his seat, finding it odd that his manager and assistant were sharing looks he couldn't read. Or that he didn't want to read.
The plane landed at 3 pm, giving Michael and the team enough time to go to the place that was booked just for him, so that he could rest for two hours before making their way over to the stadium, where the first day of practice is being held.
The rest was needed as Michael didn't notice how much the plane had his nerves on fire. His manager picked him up at 5, and they rode a tour bus over to the stadium. Michael snacked on a brown sugar Pop-Tarts and water on the way there. He sat in the very back of the bus, the main bedroom, so that no one could tell that he was eating. By now, Michael figured out what was happening, and he wanted to avoid that talk as much as possible.
To be honest, he needed you here. Michael could admit that he didn't have the courage to do this alone. He felt so isolated and looked down upon already, and it was only the very beginning. It's only been a few hours, and he just wanted to cry. To make matters worse, this was the first time he's ever been away from you this long, and he's only now realizing how attached he is to you.
Pulling out his phone, he dialed your number without thinking. Tapping his feet while waiting, he practiced in his head, over and over, about what he wanted to tell you. Michael was determined to stay focused so that he wouldn’t plead for you to come to him. It wasn’t always like this, but after the traveling and doing so much mental work, he was ready to crawl back into your arms and lay his head on your chest.
As if his needs radiated to you, the phone was picked up at the second ring. Your mood elevated and your voice soothing the crowded noises in his head, "Chubby bunny! How was your flight?"
Your voice was truly everything he needed.
"Stop calling me that," he giggled. "It was fine. I still very much hate flying and...” He trailed off before leaning into the phone to whisper, “I miss you."
"Aww, my baby loves me,” You tease, though your heart is fluttering. “I miss you too, Michael. I truly do. I waited so patiently for your call. So tell me, how was the flight? Did you eat?"
He looked down at the Pop-Tarts wrapper and sighed, "I just had a snack. I'll eat later, mama. We're headed to the stadium now. In fact," he looked out the window, craning his neck to see down the road where the stadium was peaking over the tops of trees, "we're here now."
“I just need you to be okay. ” You're a little disappointed at how tired he sounds and that the phone call is coming to an end. "Make sure you eat a full meal. I don't need my baby getting sick."
Michael smiles, biting his lip at how concerned you were for his well-being. Something he has always been weak to when it comes to you. "Okay, Mommy, whatever you say."
You shake your head even though he can't see you, "Boy, don't play with me like that."
His angelic laugh fills your ears before you hear some shuffling, then he's back, "I gotta go, mama, but I'll call you tonight. I love you."
Your heart a couple of more beats, "I love you too, Michael." You respond before hearing the phone click and then silence.
Michael places a hand over his heart because, damn, maybe he's a little whipped. He starts to think more about this, though he doesn’t get far, as he’s interrupted when his name is called for him to check out backstage.
Michael enters the backstage area to the sounds of screams and wolf howls. His name is chanted by the new and the old on his team. They respectfully stand back as he bows to them, smoothing the curls on the back of his head gently while trying, and losing, the fight on the growing blush that reddens his cheeks. This only makes the crew grow more wild as the weight of his cheeks gives way to deep dimples that, in the past, were hidden by his jawline and defined cheeks. Michael giggles his way to the front, where he would be able to see them all clearly.
Michael’s managers made quick work of gathering everyone into a circle before nodding at him to start a beginning ritual that Michael required to be present before every tour.
“I just want to say that I am grateful for everyone here. Rehearsals will be tough, they will be long, and they will be frustrating. At the same time, I believe in us, and I believe in our skills. We are professionals, and we have the passion and the drive to be great. We will be magical!” He rasped, hyping himself up. “Let’s all make this time a learning experience, and let’s all grow as a crew and as a family. Thank you, and I love you!”
A prayer was then led before the crew, and Michael let out a shout in unison to break the cloud of anxiety and begin to work.
He is blessed that the musicians who had played with him before are back, so it wasn't something brand new for them. They knew what he liked, how to hit, how to take notes, and how to bring the right amount of energy he needed to become the entertainer he was known to be. So the sound check was only a matter of tuning them up on old songs and quickly teaching them the couple of new songs that were added, so that what he hears in his head is what is played out. Though it was not the perfection he was seeking, it was enough for the very first day of rehearsals.
The choreography was a different matter altogether. There were some old dancers, but there were also faces he's never seen before. His lead dancer had greeted him with warmth and love. Even making light fun of his weight, telling him he looked good, almost glowing with the clear love that you were giving him. Michael teased him back, saying that he was just jealous that he now had someone waiting for him to come home. He and Michael talked for a while over different ideas before gathering the dancers for some stretches.
Michael still wasn't completely comfortable with how it moved. He did spend hours practicing moves at home- or at least he tried to make it hours. Even when he was in his zone, not thinking and just feeling, he couldn’t help but wonder where you were and what you were doing. Practices at home usually only lasted an hour before he was back at your side, begging you to come dance with him.
Now he felt the consequences of that. He noticed that the extra weight slowed his movements down. Not to say that it was bad, but he was the King of Pop, Rock, and Soul for a reason. His movements will always be twice as fluid as a hundred dancers put together. The issue was that Michael could see that he was awkward. It reminded him of when he was still trying to figure out what moves worked and what didn’t when he was in his twenties. Like back then, he knew it was only a matter of practice, so he wasn't too concerned with it. Believe it or not, although he wasn't comfortable showing it, he loved his look. He liked how healthy he was now and absolutely loved how you loved it too and made this love loud and known.
So Michael was crushed when, back at the hotel, his manager, assistant, and the executives over FaceTime teamed up on him.
"I-I don't understand." He said, panicked. “I look good! Healthier than I have been before. I like this look on me; everyone else seems like it as well.”
"To put it nicely, Michael, you're fat.” An executive sighed.
Another chimed in, “We have been discussing this since we saw you at the meeting. At first, it was okay because you were only doing studio sessions. However, this is going to affect the way fans view you. You have an image you need to keep, Michael. So we're putting you on a training plan and diet."
Michael looked at his manager with a look of betrayal, his mind immediately recalling the last words of Julius Caesar in the Shakespearean play.
‘Et Tu Brutus’
He couldn't believe that they were doing this to him. He knew that wasn't exactly fond of him, but he had hoped his manager and assistant would at least be on his side. Michael clenched his fist as hot tears of anger streamed down his face, "What the fuck." He whispered to himself.
"Now, Michael," one manager spoke, "this is for your own good. You don't want anyone to see you as this, do you?"
"Like this?" Michael repeated with disgust.
"You know... like that." The man motioned toward his stomach.
It was 3 a.m., and he was exhausted, angry, and hungry. He knew that he couldn't win this, at least not right now, when he was so emotionally compromised. But a tiny part of him felt like they were right. No one wanted to see an overweight Michael Jackson. That wasn't attractive. He already knew he wasn't the best looking, so why add to that by gaining all this weight? A part of him was angry at himself for letting you do this to him..... for Michael doing this to Michael.
So he gave in.
He told them that he would do the training and diet. They rejoiced in front of his face, telling him that he was a 'legend' for letting them do this. They pretended as if he were invisible once more as the executives ended the FaceTime call, and his manager and assistant went over the details of the plan that had already been curated by a nutritionist. He was to eat only 800 calories a day.
He scoffed at that. He was 5'9, there was no way he could survive like that. In the mornings, they added a time slot for a personal trainer to come to the rented mansion's gym and train him.
That next morning, Michael lay in his bed, the covers uncomfortable against his skin as he remembered the phone call he had had with you before he got in the shower. He tried his best to pretend that everything was fine, but you were too smart.
You knew there was something up with your man, but seeing as he had been running around all day, you chalked it up to him just being tired. When you asked him if he enjoyed his meal, Michael actually froze for a second, in an uncharacteristic moment of silence; he had lied. Stuttering through his words, he told you that it was delicious and that he wanted you to try it too. He then rambled and stuttered over fake menus and tastes for a while before rushing you off the phone.
It was the first time he'd ever lied to you. A fact that hurt him more than he thought it would.
He didn’t last a minute, breathing heavily at his reflection before he began picking up anything and everything he could to smash them into the mirror. The broken glass crashed on the floor, the sound covered by the screeching he was doing as he continued to trash the bathroom for the rest of the hour. Michael pulled all the courage he had to open the door to find another bathroom, where he forced himself to shower and go through his skincare routine. Another moment that caused him to burst into hiccuping tears as he remembered just how you did this for him the night before we left you. He did the very thing he hated the most, and he had done it to the most important person in his life
Sleep avoided him, only coming as he cried himself to sleep that night. Only to wake up four hours later to the knocking of his assistant. It was time to start his new regime.
warnings › Bottom male reader. Reader last name is Chen. This an OC.
plot › Your best friend confesses that he’s loved you for years but you turn him down. In an effort to keep the friendship, you tell him he can ask for something from you. What he wants is to take your virginity.
You and Huang Xinghui have been friends since middle school. Basically growing up with each other. He was your first real friend and you both shared a sort of secret relationship that others couldn’t understand.
Though everyone around you kept telling you that Xinghui was in love with you.
The idea seemed ludicrous. Even when it was said to you at your all boys high school. Xinghui not having a girlfriend made perfect sense to you then because what girls would he talk to? You both spent time together so you knew his schedule perfectly.
Class, dorm room, lunch or dinner, and then his piano lessons. That’s about it. So you were a bit confused why the boys at your school kept teasing that he was your boyfriend. Not that there was anything wrong for boys to date… but you and Xinghui?
They were making things up.
Even when you finally graduated and were heading to university, you and Xinghui somehow managed to be dormmates. You were excited at the idea of being with someone you were already so comfortable with. Your mom had something else to say though.
“Just don’t cause too many issues for your next door neighbors. The walls aren’t thick y’know.”
“What do you mean? I make sure to keep my voice down while gaming.” You said as you packed up your gaming console to take to the university. Your back was turned to your mom so you couldn’t see the face she made.
She sighed. “(Name), I mean don’t have sex without taking into consideration your neighbors. I trust you and Xinghui are smarter than that.”
“What–?” You turned to face her, feeling your face warm up. “Who–? Why–? Who would I even be having sex with? I’m a proud virgin!” Your words tumbled out fast as you clutched your gaming console to your chest. “I’m saving it, yknow?”
“Right.” She muttered, raising an eyebrow. “Well my point still stands even if you don’t go all the way.”
“Ma, me and Xinghui are just friends.”
“Sure.” She patted your shoulder before continuing on with helping you pack.
“Isn’t it weird? My mom thought we were dating!” You sat down on the small couch in the center of the room. It was a semi large one. Xinghui’s bed was pressed against the back wall, his desk right beside it in front of the large window. While your bed was on the left wall—a high rise bed with your desk underneath it.
All things considered the room was a great size for the both of you.
Xinghui broke down one of the boxes he used to hold some of his things. The couch was facing the wall across from his bed so you couldn’t see his face. He didn’t respond at first. You were about to repeat yourself thinking he didn’t hear you when he finally did.
“My parents think so too.”
“What? Well what did you tell them?” You turned back to face him, watching as he placed the deconstructed box underneath his bed. His back still facing you.
“Mhm.” Was he said. You frowned and watched as he continued unpacking. Xinghui was a man of few words anyway so you weren’t too shocked whenever he didn’t answer a question of yours. You usually figured out what he meant by yourself anyway.
Huang Xinghui was a handsome guy but his personality of keeping silent when spoken to made him a bit hard to build relationships with. He had ‘cold’ eyes according to everyone else but you thought his eyes were quite lively. They spoke for him most of the time. Through his eyes you’d understand exactly what he was feeling or thinking.
So he had gotten into the habit of looking away.
You watched Xinghui continue unpacking–taking in his newish style. Now that you both didn’t need to wear uniforms anymore, you’d get to see him in regular clothing at school. He had a darker aesthetic. The only bright part about him was the small section of dyed blond hair from his bangs.
“What do you want for dinner?” Xinghui plugged in his phone to charge before finally turning over to face you. His face was neutral. When you looked him in the eye, you knew you missed your chance to read what he was feeling earlier.
A huff left you. Cheeky bastard.
“There’s a popular chicken place nearby. I heard they make great fried chicken.” You grinned. “It’s Saturday tomorrow so…” you wiggled your eyebrows, letting your words trail off.
Xinghui only shook his head.
After about two beers and an entire box of chicken fully devoured, you were stuffed. The laptop in front of you on the coffee table was playing some random movie you don’t remember choosing. It looked to be a horror movie though. You yawned and stretched out on the couch, almost slipping off.
Others would find eating chicken and drinking beer without talking, only the movie being the source of sound, to be uncomfortable. But you were used to sitting with your thoughts when it came to Xinghui. It was usually without any type of noise half the time.
So movies were welcomed.
You glanced over at Xinghui, wanting to ask if he remembered what movie this was when you noticed he was already staring at you. “Xinghui?” You blink and give him a slight smile. He was holding another beer in his hand but it was beginning to slip from his grasp. How many did he drink?
“Xinghui?” You reached over and grabbed the near empty bottle. When placing it with the other finished beer bottles, you realized there were over four other bottles next to your two. Your eyes widened slightly but you shook your head. It wasn’t the strangest thing–sometimes Xinghui drinks more than you.
A lot more.
Five in one night seemed excessive. You looked back at him only to flinch. He was closer, much closer. His nose brushed against yours and you couldn’t help but giggle at first. You blinked excessively at his long overgrown bangs teasing your cheeks. His breath smelled exactly like the cheap beer he bought.
“You ok?” You asked, raising an eyebrow.
Xinghui hummed. “After two beers, you fell asleep for a few minutes.” He said.
“I did?” You tried thinking back but couldn’t really remember that. You were a lightweight but you didn’t think you were that much of a lightweight. “Sorry, I think the whole moving in tired me out.” You yawned.
“Mhm.”
“Let’s just head to bed, we can clean up in the morning.” You said, glancing at the mess on the coffee table. It wasn’t much but with you being so sleepy it felt like a whole mountain of work.
“(Name).”
“Hm?”
“I wanna kiss you.”
“What–?”
Suddenly you felt lips pressed against yours.
Huang Xinghui liked you.
For a while now apparently. Everyone was right. Perhaps you were the only one who was dumb enough to not realize it. But was it that strange to believe that your friend since forever was just that? A friend?
He had kissed you.
Three weeks ago.
And everything has been awkward ever since. For the first time in your life, Xinghui was avoiding you. That kiss changed everything. You remember not even kissing him back. Just staring straight at him—trying to understand what was happening.
When he pulled away and walked to his bedroom. Slamming the door shut.
The next day you tried to talk to him like normal but he ignored you. Pointedly so. Then he started making sure he practically never came across you. It was a feat. You wondered how he managed to never be home when you were home. Making sure you never crossed paths on campus.
You were miserable.
University wasn’t supposed to push you and Xinghui apart. It wasn’t like you even refused him. Even if you didn’t see him that way. He was a part of your life and you could never imagine one without him. You didn’t even have any other friends beside him.
Something your mom had constantly criticized. You always pushed those critiques away. Now you realized why she had them. You were essentially all alone without Xinghui. It was lonely.
Almost four weeks passed when you decided you couldn’t take it anymore.
Luckily you knew Xinghui’s schedule. He had told you before classes started. So in an effort to save your (only) friendship—you skipped class and waited outside his first class of the day. Ancient Chinese medicine.
A few minutes passed before Xinghui left the classroom, head down as he scrolled on his phone. You quickly jumped up from your waiting spot against the wall and sprinted over to him. Xinghui didn’t look up at first. His eyes narrowing at his phone before he seemed to finally feel your presence.
His eyes flickered over to you.
He quickly sprinted away without a word.
“Bastard.” You cursed to yourself as you followed after him. Xinghui was heading to his next class. Chemistry if you remember correctly. He was already sitting at a spot in the back of the room, right near the window. You entered the classroom without any hesitation and plopped down beside him.
“You can’t sit here.” Xinghui simply said.
“Why not?”
“It’s his seat.”
You glanced over to see a student walking over with a confused expression.
“Uh, are you a new student?” The guy asked. “This is my seat.”
“No,” you reached over and grabbed Xinghui’s arm, tugging him close to you. Xinghui stared at you with a shocked expression. “I’m trying to make things right with my friend but he’s been ignoring me. So I’m following him everywhere until he notices me.”
“Oh…”
“Can you cheer me on, Ge?” You pouted. Xinghui tried pulling his hand free but you only tightened your grip, resting your head on his shoulder.
The guy only shook his head. “It’s too early for this… good luck,” he sat down in the empty chair beside you.
You gave him a grateful smile before turning your attention to Xinghui. He was looking straight ahead. Jaw tightened. He tried once more to tug his hand free but you tightened your octopus-like grip on him.
“What do you want for dinner? We haven’t had dinner together in a while.” You asked.
He didn’t respond. Even as class went on, the professor seemingly paid you no mind—Xinghui’s jaw was tense the entire time. His gaze straight ahead. Fingers gripping tightly on his pen as he took notes.
Class ended. Xinghui made another attempt to pull his arm free that was met with resistance once again.
People began to file out of the classroom. You knew Xinghui didn’t have any more classes after this so he wasn’t in a rush to get anywhere. Xinghui didn’t move a second until the classroom was completely empty. He turned to face you.
His expression almost made you flinch. Never in your entire life had he ever looked at you like this. With such… anger. Contempt even. Why was he so angry? It wasn’t like you did anything.
“Are you finding this funny?” He whispered. His free hand reached over and grabbed your hand, squeezing it tightly. The pain caused you to wince and unintentionally release his arm. He pulled himself free and quickly stood up.
You stood up as well. “Funny? Nothing is funny right now, Xinghui. I’m confused about what happened to us.”
“Why are you confused? I confessed. You rejected me. There’s nothing else left to say.”
“So that means you’re going to throw away our friendship?”
“(Name), how dumb are you?”
You bristled at his tone.
“I never viewed you as a friend.” Xinghui’s words shook you to your core. But he continued on. “I loved you. And if you don’t want to date me, then why should I hurt myself and force a friendship I don’t care about?”
“Don’t… care about?”
Xinghui simply scoffed. “Once the lease is over, I’ll move out. You should make sure you find a roommate before then.”
Move out?
He’s going to leave you.
Permanently?
Xinghui grabbed his bag and moved to walk away but you quickly grabbed his arm. He tried tugging himself free. “What—?”
“No way! I don’t want you to ever leave my life.”
“Are you insane? Just how selfish are you to force me to still be your friend when I said I don’t want to be.”
Your lips pulled into a thin line. “If that’s selfish, then I don’t care. You can be selfish too in return.”
“How—?”
“You can ask for anything from me. Anything you want, I can’t refuse. Just…” your throat felt tight. Eyes beginning to burn. “Just continue being my friend. Please.”
It was quiet for a moment.
“Anything?” He whispered.
“Mhm.”
Xinghui stared at you. His eyes unreadable. It wasn’t an expression that you had seen before. He didn’t feel like your friend anymore.
“I wanna fuck you.”
There was no reason for why you were still a virgin. You never really dated. Never seeing the point. Xinghui was all you really needed. He was always there so you never saw the purpose in pursuing any connection outside of him.
Maybe that’s why you allowed for this to happen.
The reason why you would do anything to keep Xinghui in your life.
Why you were currently bent over the couch, getting fucked by Xinghui. There was no build up. No easing you into anything. You both walked home without saying a thing. The only sound being the door closing shut behind you. Xinghui had pushed you into the couch, pulling your pants down, and spitting into his hand.
He was nice enough to finger you open. It burned. Not a pleasant feeling really. He didn’t waste a moment before pushing inside of you. Officially taking your virginity. You squeezed your eyes shut, gripping tightly at the couch cushion as his hips slammed forward against your ass.
His cock stretched you full. Nothing in common with his fingers. It hardly prepared you for how big he was. You could feel his cock against your warm walls. The drag of his cock as he kept a fast consistent pace. He didn’t say a word.
It almost felt clinical.
But even then, you were a little glad he was your first. At least it went to someone you cared for. Just as fast as it started—it was over. Xinghui pulled out. Warm sticky cum dripped onto your lower back.
The sound of a zipper and rustling of jeans. That’s all you heard before footsteps pattering down the hallway.
You were all alone.
Everything went back to normal.
Or at least, you pretend it did. The next day Xinghui was in the kitchen. He almost looked shocked to see you. His eyes watching your every move. It felt like he was expecting you to be angry or something.
But why would you be?
You smiled at him, “did you eat breakfast yet? I’m gonna scramble some eggs.” He only stared at you as if you had grown two heads.
Things continued on like nothing even happened. Only for you though. You spoke to Xinghui as if the whole situation never happened. Not even that you had moved passed it. Xinghui, however, was struggling to do the same. You could tell.
He wasn’t normal like usual. His posture tense whenever you touched him. As if you were going to hit him. Which confused you. Why would you ever hurt him? Almost a month passed like this. You interacting with him like normal. While Xinghui grew confused by the day.
But it seemed he had a breaking point.
Your mom had stopped by to drop off some food. She could tell something was wrong.
“Are you… two okay?” She asked, just as she was ready to leave. Her eyes flickering between the both of you. “I know living together can raise problems but I hope you talk things out.” Her gaze pointedly turned to Xinghui.
“Mhm? We’re good! Great even.” You laughed, waving your mom’s worries off like it was unfounded. She hesitated but soon nodded her head. Deciding there was no purpose in prying. You waved her goodbye and closed the door behind her.
“We’re good?” Xinghui suddenly spoke.
You looked back at him. “Hm?”
“We’re ‘good?’ What are you talking about? We haven’t been good in almost three months.”
“What do you mean?”
“What—? (Name), haven’t you noticed the tension between us?” His eyes were wide. Perhaps the first time in awhile that you could see emotions in them that weren’t confusion. It was filled with hurt. “I… I took something from you in anger. I hurt you on purpose because I wanted to get back at you for rejecting me. Why haven’t you noticed that?”
You blinked.
A small smile formed on your lips. “Why are you acting like I didn’t know that?”
“Huh?”
You stepped forward. Hands reaching out as you grabbed Xinghui’s. His hands were bigger than yours. It had been forever since you touched him. A giddy laugh left you. “I know you did that to hurt me.” You looked up at him. “I don’t care. I asked for it. I wanted it. Anything to keep you with me.”
Xinghui stared at you. Really stared at you. He looked as if he was trying to comprehend what you were saying. Realizing just… how devoted you were to this ‘friendship’ with him. “They were right.” He whispered to himself.
“Who?”
He shook his head, “you want me in your life?”
“Yes.”
“Only me?”
“….yes.” You squeezed his hands. “No one else matters. No one can ever compare to you.”
Xinghui freed his hands. He reached over and gripped the back of your neck, fingers digging into your skin as he tugged you forward. “Then I can do whatever I want?”
“Mhm,” you let out a breathy laugh, lips parting into a smile. “Please. Anything to keep you in my life.”
A pained expression flickered on Xinghui’s face but it was gone before you could question it. He pulled you forward and captured your lips into a sneering kiss. It was the first time he’s kissed since that night.
This one was different. While the one that night was soft, almost nervous—this one was hungry. Xinghui knew what he wanted. And what he wanted was you.
You being his.
His free hand gripped pants, popping the button open. He pushed you back against the door. Your body banging against it from the force. Pain briefly shot through your back but his kiss distracted you from verbally out any pain. You struggled on what to do with your hands. They pressed against the door before you hesitantly reached out and placed them on Xinghui’s shoulders.
He swallowed every moan and whimper you let out into the kiss. His hand slipped into your boxers, grabbing a handful of your ass. Everything felt… different this time. It didn’t feel mechanical. This time you could really feel the hungry Xinghui felt for you.
He kissed you like he wanted to eat you. Your back arched off the door, eyes squeezing shut as you felt fingers tease your asshole. They were dry and unable to push in due to resistance. You finally pulled away from the kiss—needing to breathe.
You buried your face into Xinghui’s shoulders. Legs twitching. Xinghui didn’t say much. But that didn’t shock you. He was never much of a talker. The sound of him spitting caused you to flinch. Newly wet fingers pressed against your hole once more.
Like before he didn’t waste a second before slipping in two fingers. The stretch earned a pained gasp from you. However he was more gentle this time. His fingers slowly stretching you. Properly preparing you. A graze against a certain area caused you to moan. Pleasure shooting through your veins.
“What was that…?” You muttered into his shoulder. Xinghui didn’t answer. His free hand tightened its grip on your waist, stabilizing you.
He continued to stretch you. Occasionally brushing against the little spot that made you whimper. Your toes curled. Hands gripping tightly at his shoulders. Your cock dripped pre-cum onto the ground.
That was different as well.
Your body was actually reacting this time around.
Xinghui suddenly flipped you around, pressing your face right into the door. One hand held the back of your head while the other gripped your waist. You shuddered at his forcefulness. Hands uselessly gripping at the door.
“Are you going to wear a condom this time?” You whispered.
“Why should I? I’ll be the only man who gets to fuck you anyway.”
You didn’t know why your cock twitched at his words.
Xinghui wasn’t slow. Perhaps deciding he was kind enough to properly stretch you out. He thrust his cock inside of you without warning. A loud cry leaving you at the sudden action. His hand tightened its grip on your waist to keep you still.
His hips slammed into your ass. The sound of skin slapping together filled the hallway. Short quick moans left you in tandem with his thrusts. Your eyes were threatening to roll back. It was hard for you to even keep your body up.
If Xinghui wasn’t holding you up, you were sure you would’ve fallen down by now.
Only a second later and you felt your stomach tighten. A pain whimper leaving you as you came. Cum dripped onto the floor but Xinghui didn’t let up. In fact you felt as if his thrusts had gotten faster. More brutal.
“Xinghui, s…slow down.” You reached back to grab his hand on your waist. But he only picked up the pace. The silence you got in return made you whimper in response. He was chasing his own release. Uncaring of the overstimulation he was causing you.
It felt like forever. His thrusts pushing you further into the door. Neighbors would certainly complain about the noise in the morning. Your moans were louder as well. Cock hard once more, ready to cum again.
Another particularly hard thrust, he pulled your hips back, ass flushed against his hips—cum releasing inside you. Your legs twitched. Fingers pressed against the door as your cock came again as well. More watery than the first orgasm. Hot cum filled you inside. It felt gross but also oddly comforting.
Xinghui was really a part of you. Deep inside.
You sighed. At least now you could go relax and take a shower. You tried pushing yourself off the door when Xinghui forced you back against it. His body pressed against your own. Lips brushing against the tip of your ear.
“You want me to stay with you forever, yea?” He whispered.
“Yes…”
Hands slowly reached underneath your shirt. His hands felt hot against your skin. Gripping possessively at your body.
“Then I’ll need to have access to you.”
“Access?”
“Yes.” He shifted his hips. The drag of his cock against your sensitive walls earned a small gasp from you. “I’ll continue being your friend…. And you’ll let me fuck you whenever I want. Can you handle that?”
You glanced back at him. Eyes wide.
A smile formed on your lips.
“Yea, I can handle it.”
Xinghui was always told by others that you had a weird obsession over him. He didn’t see it. At least it didn’t really bother him back then. It didn’t seem serious. You just didn’t have any other friends and well neither did he really. None of them compared to you.
He had fallen for you but he knew deep down you didn’t feel the same.
But he was over it that night. He couldn’t take it anymore and just kissed you. When he pulled away he didn’t expect the look you had given him. One completely devoid of any emotion.
Just… blank.
Like you couldn’t even comprehend what he had just done. Like he genuinely ruined you. He hadn’t realized just how attached you were to him as a friend.
It angered him.
When it really should’ve worried him that you were this devoted to him. In a messed up way he wished your devotion was out of love. Not friendship.
He tried pushing you away. Even went as far as to take your virginity, believing you’d snap and kick him out. But you didn’t. You just… pretended everything was fine.
And in a way he tried to do the same but when you had lied to your mother he snapped. When presented with the reality that you were genuinely not okay. That your friendship with him had seemed to mess with your psyche—he should’ve nipped it in the bud. Should’ve called your mom and insist she take you to therapy… something.
He was happy to keep you as his.
With time he could always get you to fall in love with him.
You both only wanted the other even if the way you wanted each other wasn’t equal.
𝓐fter the tragic Pepsi incident, Michael was against returning to Hayvenhurst or isolating himself in a hotel room. Fortunately for him, he was more than welcome to stay at your place.
Your son was a child prodigy in the making. His career began in commercials— such as Campbell’s soup and Burger King. Emmanuel L/n became an household name after staring was Webster in sitcom Webster. You were familiar with stardom— doing some background work or starring in a few commercials when you were a girl.
In the flatlands of LA you and your son, Manny you called him, resided in your one story, Tudor revival style home. It was a cozy place with family portraits strewn wood paneled walls, a sunken living room, carpet floors, plants, colorful tiles and warm lighting. You kept your lawn freshly mowed while you rid your garden of any weeds and pests.
You and Manny prepared the spare bedroom for Michael with attentive care— Manny on his tippy toes dusting the shelves, you spraying down the bathroom, washing the bedsheets with that new fabric softener you purchased, and vacuuming the floor. You cracked open the window for fresh air and he even lit a candle. You were pulsing with nerves— you wanted Michael to feel comfortable.
And maybe because Michael freaking Jackson is staying in your house! You’ve been following his career ever since his J5 days and have been a fan since. Your twelve year old self is currently giggling and kicking her feet. But of course, you promised not to fan out.
In the first weeks of Michael’s arrival, he was mostly quiet, but appreciative.
“You have such a beautiful home,” he said with his soft cadence, big eyes taking in the new environment.
“Thank you so much,” you clasped your hands together to calm your nerves, “I’ll show you to your room then give you a tour, yeah?”
He smiled and bit the inside of his cheek, “that sounds perfect.”
Even during dinner, he’d nod and mumble a quiet: “dinner was delicious, thank you. Do you need help with dishes?”
You’d shake your head as you gathered everyones’ plates, “there’s no need— I’d rather have you get some rest.”
He was radiating with shy energy, but it didn’t stop him from giving thanks or softening whenever your son was around. Manny was star struck that Michael Jackson was staying at his house, buzzing around him and never leaving his side. You’d apologize and had to peel your son away so Michael could “get some rest” but he made it clear that he enjoyed Manny’s presence (anyone’s really) and was more than happy to have him around.
You spent the first couple of weeks bringing him trays of food when he was bedridden, making sure he took his medication, checking his bandages and adjusting the temperature in the room. Michael felt so spoiled— having this pretty lady trip over her own feet for the sake of his comfort.
Michael loved sitting in your backyard. Not only because of the butterflies that seemed to flutter whenever you stepped outside, or how the air seemed sweeter because of those pretty flowers you planted. But sitting next to you on that swing sofa, watching Manny catching a butterfly with that toolkit Michael got him at the zoo. At first, you always kept a respectful distance, but the afternoons were chilly, and Michael’s warmth drew you in. And if Michael was feeling extra brave, his arm would rest on the back of the sofa, brushing against your upper back. He was so greedy.
He knew he was falling for you in the way his heart skipped a beat whenever he walked into the kitchen to see you cooking breakfast, or the way you laughed as Manny put gem stickers on your face and calling you a disco ball, or the way Michael’s touch lingered when he squeezed past you or placing a hand on your shoulder “for comfort” when you’d come into his room to talk about your day.
And you felt dammed for feeling the same. It was undeniable the way warmth spread through your body when Michael’s skin would brush yours as you washed dishes, or the way the three of you bundled on the couch— Manny in the middle— for a movie night. As much as you loved your son, it was nice breather to have him away for the weekend.
And it was a perfect opportunity to spend more time with Michael. You felt too grown to call it a crush, but liking Michael felt like you were a teenager again. You loved catching those sparkly auburn eyes across the room, leaving you two giggling and looking away, and spending the afternoons with wine and orange juice in a champagne flute on the swing sofa.
He felt so human being with you. He felt heard and comfortable. He felt like a father, like a husband.
You can recall a random Tuesday when you came home to the sound of Billie Jean pulsing through the walls. When you emerged into the living the sight truly warmed your heart.
“It takes some practice,” Michael said, glancing down to Manny, “shift that weight like I told you. And slide on that heel— like this.”
Manny looked at Michael like he hung the stars as he performed a flawless moonwalk against your hardwood floor. The night ended with a cam recorder over your shoulder, laughing as Manny and Michael spun across the floor to the music.
Your son was undoubtedly bright, but he burned brighter when he was around Michael. Ever since Michael came about, Manny has been smiling harder and laughing louder. You loved the way he felt so comfortable around Michael, sharing his comics, babbling about his favorite films and shared experiences even in the entertainment industry.
You and were son weren’t lonely at home, you had each other, but having that extra presence at the dinner table, engaging in conversation and giving his compliments to the chef, felt like you had a whole family. You can tell Manny felt it too.
Michael treated Manny as his own. You remember when the boys came back from a trip to the Los Angeles Zoo. The trunk was loaded with a bunch of stuff neither of them truly needed, like stuffed animals, books, candy, and souvenirs like animal themed pencils, notebooks, toys, and all that jazz.
One night when Michael was about to depart to his room, Manny ran up to him and hugged his legs. “Good night, Michael,” he gave the man a toothy grin. Michael returned a gentle smile and he picked him out, giving him a light squeeze before setting him down. “Night Manny,” his eyes flickered to yours, “get a good’s night rest.”
“Sleep well Michael,” you cupped a hand over your son’s head, “if you need anything, just speak into the intercom. I’ll be up.”
His eyes never left yours as he nodded, “Goodnight.”
Another sight made your head ache is when you went to check on Michael one afternoon. Cartoons and gleeful giggles bubbled from his room all day, and from your spot on the couch you saw Manny across the hall bring more and more comic books and toys from his room. When the laughter subsided, you decided to pop your head in, and you nearly cooed. The two were bundled up on the woven egg chair, a fluffy blanket draped over them as open Peter Pan was splayed across Michael’s lap. Manny, who had his stuffed lion tucked beneath his arm, was fast asleep on Michaels shoulder.
“Hello,” Michel greeted softly, looking up at you with those pretty eyes.
“Hey,” your tone mirrored his own, sitting on the edge of the bed, “you read Peter Pan for him? That’s— that’s so sweet of you.”
“He was stuck to my side like glue. I could tell he was getting a little sleepy,” Michael said fondly as he looked to the sleeping boy beside him, “I promised him I’d teach him a few dance moves tomorrow.”
Was this man a godsend? Why is he so beautiful? Why does he have to be so perfect? Can I marry him?— You cleared your throat before your mind could cross any sort of dangerous territory. “Well, I’ll get him off your hands and put him to bed,” you slid off the bed, standing in front of them. Michael enjoyed the view.
“Sleep well, little prince,” Michael whispered sweetly before you scooped your baby boy in your arms, his smaller ones immediately wrapping around your neck.
The lights in the room dimmed when his favorite pair left. A sorrowful sigh escaped his lungs and what replaced it was loneliness.
Across the hall you tucked your son into bed, thumb stroking his cheek. You leaned down to press a kiss to his forehead before pausing when Manny asked: “Can Michael be my dad?”
You pulled back and blinked. “What?
“Micahel. Can you marry him so you can my dad?”
Marry? Marry Michael? Marry Michael Jackson? You would’ve brushed it off if he was maybe five years younger, but even age can’t shake the fact that your son yearned for that extra parental figure in his life. Especially that “figure” being Michael, who has been nothing but good to him for the past couple of weeks.
“Uhm—“ a huff of nervous laughter escaped from you, “You’re tired, okay? Goodnight. I love you,” you kissed his forehead one last night, silencing him from any other ridiculous ramble.
Pft, marry Michael Jackson…..
Michael nearly slipped down the hallway as he scurried back to his room. He only stepped out for a glass of orange juice, but gravitated to the sound of your voice and the words “Michael” and “dad” and even “marry” being in the same sentence.
Michael never stopped dreaming of being a father one day. Living in a big house with his pretty wife and his eighteen kids.
He closed the door behind him with a soft click! before biting down onto his fist and silently screaming. What he wouldn’t give to be your husband and a father to Manny.
To say it stroked his ego was an understatement.
“Hmph, I’d be a great father…” he whispered to his reflection, striking a pose.
He struck another that was supposed to make him appear “manlier.”
“Son,” he deepened his voice, tilting his chin upwards and clamping a hand on his hip and pointing a finger, “go to your room this instant— no I wouldn’t say that…”
He tapped his chin before tuning to his right, kneeling down and speaking in his own voice this time, “I’m so proud of you son, good job. Let’s go get some ice cream,” his hand wafted the air, like he was patting his imaginary future child’s or Mannys’ head. He rose to his feet with a shit eating grin, “yeah, that’s more like it.”
And because he was feeling extra special, he turned again, going one knee and opening his imaginary, velvet lined box with the most prettiest rock inside. “Will you marry me, (Name) ?”
After that? Michael slept like a damn baby.
The three of you were exhausted after spending the entire day at Disney.
The car ride home was peaceful. Bill drove smoothly across the freeway. A quiet, instrumental jazz filled the space, bleeding towards the back seat where Manny was tucked between you and Michael. Manny was wrapped in his new Mickey Mouse jacket Michael bought him, the hood having those two signature, black circular ears stitched on the top. Michael wore his own red Mickey sweatshirt with his collared polo beneath. You sported a Minnie one yourself— which Michael was more than happy to purchase for you.
The way Michael’s arm snaked around your shoulders was a complete mystery, but shared the warmth between you and Manny.
The past couple of weeks caught up to you, and your appreciation and adoration for Michael grew fonder. Your words escaped you before you could second guess yourself, “Michael.”
He turned to you, like he was waiting for you to call his name.
The way the city lights sparkled in those big eyes and accentuated the curves on his face, nearly made your heart stop. You could tell Michael felt the same, like he was more focused on your features rather than what you were actually going to say. “Hi,” he whispered.
For a second you ogled at the stars swimming in his eyes, before blinking the thought away. “Thank you again. You have been incredible to Manny and I’d be an idiot not to notice how much Manny loves you and how you love him— I mean you’re so patient and kind and compassionate, and it’s just so refreshing to have that extra hand, that extra presence in the house—“
His cheeks felt so warm, “You’re flatterin’ me—“
You reached out instinctively grabbed his hand on your shoulder, “I’m being so serious Michael. You’ll make a great father, someday.”
To our children, he wanted to say. Instead, his fingers intertwined with yours, “Thank you, I’m really striving towards that. Manny is so smart, so bright and full of wonder. He’s such a sweet boy and knows how to light up a room.” He looked down to your fingers, suspended in the air like time itself slowed to prolong this moment, “and you’re an incredible mother. I see where he gets it from.”
With a flushed thank you and turn of your head, Michael teasingly tilt his head to catch your wandering eyes. Manny shifted between you both, letting out a contented sigh.
Michael loved his little family.
The three of you were headed to some high profile, industry event. Despite Michael wanting to protect you from such a public eye though simultaneously he felt silly since he’s not your man, Manny insisted that you came. But of course, you planned to split up, Manny and Michael embracing their friendship while you stood in the limelight. Plus, you had a few friends in the attending, so you had company.
Your heels clicked on the hardwood floor as you emerged from the hallway like it was your runway. God, you looked like a dream. Michael immediately straightened up before standing entirely. He gulped as he eyed your dress, fitting you like a second skin with that color that he loved on you. You didn’t notice (or did you) and only checked yourself in the frames mirror, touching up your updo and fixing your lashes with your finger.
Manny tugged on his sleeve leaned in to whisper to Michael who leaned down to his level, “isn’t my momma so pretty?”
“Yeah…” Michael licked his lips, eyes scaling your figure through the tint of his shades, “pretty mama…”
a/n i haven’t posted fics lately so i wanted to get something out😅😅 i prolly wont b publishing for a while cus im so busy
+++ not proofread so if sum don’t make sense tell me 🙏🏽🙏🏽
“You and Michael had just started being intimate and it was mostly in missionary where Michael stayed pressed chest to chest with you and couldn’t stop kissing you.
He loved being able to see your pretty face and he wouldn’t have it any other way.
That is— until now.”
SYNOPSIS: Michael overhears his brothers having locker room talk about hitting it from the back and he just happens to have a very curvy, pretty girlfriend.
CONTENT: fluff, smut, 18+, unprotected sex, descriptions of female anatomy, overstimulation, oral, pre thriller!Michael but post OTW, era 1980
Late Sunday evening had settled over the Hayvenhurst estate and the scent of fried chicken, collard greens, mac & cheese, and cornbread was still wafting through the home.
Some new variety show played quietly on the television in the background, but it was drowned out by the Jackson brothers’ loud voices overlapping. They were lounging around after dinner and someone had brought out the good whiskey.
At the edge of the couch sat Michael, halfway listening and picking at a loose string on his sleeve. He was mostly quiet like he always was when this kind of talk came up.
Whenever his brothers started having locker room conversations he stayed out of it.
His private life— especially anything in relativity to you— stayed close to the vest.
Tito leaned back in the leather armchair nursing his second glass of the night. He was grinning wide, saying “I’m tellin’ you man, hittin’ it from the back changed the game for me. You get that angle right, put her face down, ass up… she gon’ lose her mind. A whole different kind of cryin’.”
At this, Michael’s head snapped up.
The word cryin’ had piqued his interest.
Heat began spreading across the back of his neck as he listened closer. Jermaine jumped in and nudged Tito with his elbow. He looked over his shoulder before speaking to make sure none of the ladies were about to wander into the room.
The guys’ wives were currently having their own chat, still sat around the dining table drinking wine.
Once the coast was clear, he added “Especially if you know how to find that lil’ spot deep inside that makes her legs shake and her voice get all high and whiny like she can’t talk straight.” He pointed at Tito smirking, “And if you add a pillow under her hips and hit it just right, she gon’ love you forever.”
Michael gulped audibly. His fingers were now frozen in place. Tito heard it and grinned even bigger.
“What Mike? You and your girl ain’t never tried it?”
Michael shook his head and rolled his eyes, “You guys can be such pigs”. He mumbled while avoiding eye contact.
Truthfully, no, you guys hadn’t.
You and Michael had just started being intimate and it was mostly in missionary where Michael stayed pressed chest to chest with you and couldn’t stop kissing you.
He loved being able to see your pretty face and he wouldn’t have it any other way.
That is— until now.
Tito didn’t let up. “Mike, with the body that girl got, man? You playin’, right? The way her ass sits? You still doin' it missionary like a church boy?”
The brothers chuckled together in that loud and playful way they always did.
Michael cut his eyes as Tito. He felt defensiveness bubble to the surface quickly, sharp and protective.
This wasn’t new. His brothers had been on him for months now ever since you started coming around. You were real thick, and fine as hell. A real brown skin beauty. This was a synonymous agreement amongst them all.
Every time you came over, he caught them doing low whistles or elbowing each other when they thought he wasn’t looking.
“Damn Mike… you got all that and you still playin’ it safe? Couldn’t be me.” They’d say once you were out of earshot, shaking their heads.
They weren’t wrong, you were fine as hell, and he had definitely been playing it safe. But you were his girl, and therefore his business.
“Don’t talk about her like that.” He said, voice low and firm. “That’s my girl and y’all need to mind your own business, quit sayin’ all that stuff about her body. Keep it to yourself.”
Jermaine and Jackie oooh’d in high pitched voices before sipping their drinks, staying out of it.
Everyone knew how Michael got when it came to you.
Out of all the brothers he was the most sensitive, romantic, and emotionally attached when it came to women. And to make things more intense, you were his first.
First real girlfriend, first girl he’d ever invited over— and more recently, to spend the night. You were the first person he’d ever been intimate with.
To Michael that was sacred. He was a bit of a late bloomer, and you thought it was adorable.
You loved being able to experience new things with him. Honestly, you had him wrapped right around your finger. If you asked him to pluck the stars out the sky one by one, he would.
Tito held his hands up in surrender, still laughing. “Aight, aight. We ain’t mean no harm, but for real Mike. You still got a lot to learn, and that’s a good thing. Means you get to figure it out with her, make her feel brand new every time.” Then he winked and took another drink from his glass.
“Whatever, Tito” he rolled his eyes.
Michael was mostly quiet for the rest of the night, but the words stuck with him, sparking a lightbulb in his head.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
Later that same week you stopped by the house to drop off something for Michael. He was upstairs changing and had asked Tito and Jermaine to keep an ear out for the door because he was expecting you.
You were rounding the corner when you overheard Tito’s voice, real low.
“Damn, she fine as hell. Hips that’ll make a grown man drool like a baby. Her body is crazy man. And Mike still playin', doin’ it like its 1965.”
He and Jermaine chuckled together and then Jermaine replied, “Mike don’t know what to do with all that. She probably makin’ that boy forget his own name.”
You stepped into the doorway as if you hadn’t heard anything, smile sweet and eyes soft. “What y’all doin’?” Immediately, the energy changed. Tito sat up straighter and his grin turned warm and respectful.
“Hey sweetheart. You lookin’ pretty today.” Jermaine nodded in agreement with a sweet voice.
“How you doin’ baby girl? Go on up, Mike’s waitin’ on you”
Thanking them you turned and headed up the long winding staircase, smirking to yourself.
You weren’t visually impaired; you knew exactly what kind of body you had and the effect it had on men.
But as for Michael’s brothers? Out of respect, they would never dare say anything of the sort to your face.
You had skin-tight bell bottom jeans on that accentuated your curvy figure, and the top you had on revealed a peek-a-boo of cocoa skin at the small of your back. You made sure to roll your hips extra hard as you trailed up the stairs to your man.
Both brothers’ eyes followed the sway of your hips and the full, heart-shaped curve of your ass as you walked away.
Once you were out of earshot, Jermaine and Tito gave each other a knowing look. Tito let out a low appreciate whistle under his breath.
Jermaine shook his head and walked away, “I’m tellin’ you man, Mike don’t know what to do with all that.”.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
That same day Michael found himself at the library. He asked Bill to drop him off for a while so he could do some research on a new dance style he was trying.
But truthfully? He was trying to figure out what to do with all that.
He walked into the library with his hoodie pulled low over his curls and large sunglasses covering most of his face. When he got to the help desk he asked the librarian for books on female anatomy. Specifically medical ones— the kind with diagrams.
Once the package was secure Michael made his way to the back of the library to a corner that seemed quiet enough and settled down at a table. His heart was thumping so hard he thought he could feel it in his throat.
Michael took one more look around before he cracked the book and began scrolling through its pages. His face felt hot when his eyes finally landed on the diagram he’d been looking for.
The description of the sensitive bundle of nerves made everything his brothers were saying click. He scanned the page slowly to make sure he understood.
How pressure there could make everything clench and flutter and cry. The idea that touching you a certain way and a certain angle could pull that kind of reaction from you felt like a new language to Michael.
One that he was desperate to speak.
He flipped the page and when he saw the illustration on it of the anterior vaginal wall he gasped softly and nearly dropped the book.
His fingers fumbled as he quickly shut it, suddenly embarrassed at the idea that someone might come near. Quickly Michael decided that he needed a private place to study.
The only thing was, when he went to stand to leave, he finally noticed the not-so subtle tent that had formed in his pants as he was reading.
So, he sat there for a long minute, fumbling with the book and breathing through it while his ears burned hot with embarrassment.
Once he had contained himself enough he tucked the book under his arm and checked it out at the front desk with his head down like he was hiding something sacred.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
The next afternoon Michael thought he was alone.
He had his book open— and fairly close to his face due to how intrigued he was.
The house was quiet which was a rarity. He was just getting to the good part about applying rhythmic pressure and circling the spot when he heard footsteps coming toward him.
Immediately he looked up. Tito walked in and locked eyes with Michael. But before he could speak or greet him, he saw the look that flickered across his face.
It was the same look Michael would get as a little boy whenever he got caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to be doing. The same look he had seen on his face when Michael was 10 and snatched one of his older brother’s magazines, being nosey of course.
Unfortunately for him, he didn’t realize he was looking down at a Playboy until Tito called out, “Mike, they filmin’ you”. Instantly he had dropped the magazine like it was on fire. Just like he did the book in his hands now.
Michael felt like he was in one of those old ninja movies. The ones where the screen splits in half and the camera closes in on both their eyes. He knew he was caught. Michael’s fingers tightened around the book on instinct, but it was already too late. He had maybe 5 seconds to react and he knew it.
Tito’s lips curved into a knowing smirk, and before Michael could even move Tito quickly crossed the room in 3 strides and snatched the book from him. “What you got here, Mike?” Michael’s eyes went huge.
“Give it back, man—” But Tito was already teasing and holding the book out of his reach. He started flipping pages and reading aloud in a sultry voice, teasing Michael.
“To stimulate the G-spot, apply firm, rhythmic pressure to the anterior vaginal wall approximately two inches inside… combine with clitoral stimulation for maximum effect…” Tito hooted in amusement. “Aw man, we got Mikey studyin’! Look at this — diagrams and everything. Lil’ man out here doing homework for his girl!”
Jackie and Jermaine heard the commotion from the other room and came in to be nosey. Tito kept going, his voice getting higher as his amusement grew.
“The tissue may swell and become more sensitive with continued stimulation…” He looked away from the book to his little brother “You really got sticky notes in the margins with notes Mike? I’m proud of you man, finally learnin’ how to handle all that fine ass your girl got”.
Michael’s face was on fire. He reached for the book, voice sharp with embarrassment and a little bit of attitude even though he knew it was just teasing. “Give it back Tito, don’t! I’m serious, that ain’t funny.”
Tito held the book out of reach still chuckling then acted like he was gonna hand it over. He extended the book to Michael, but when he reached for it— he yanked it back at the last second still giggling to himself at Michael’s diligence.
“You sure you ready for all this knowledge?” He laughed harder when Michael glared at him hard. “Aight, happy studying then.”
Michael snatched the book back, grumbling “You guys are so dumb” under his breath as he stormed off to his room. A chorus of his older brothers’ warm teasing followed him all the way there.
Yeah they were clowning him, but they were happy he was stepping up.
Later that night when things were actually quiet and it was safe, Michael stayed up late with the book open on his bed.
He kept re-reading the section on angle and pressure. He felt flustered from how explicit the instructions were, but he was determined to do right by his woman.
At one point, he even grabbed a pillow and slipped it under his hips to practice the slow rolling motion the book described. Of course, with his face buried in his arm because he felt ridiculous—and horny— at the same time.
He kept thinking about you. How pretty you sounded when you came for him, and about how he wanted to make you cry the good kind of tears.
When you came over the next day Michael caught himself watching the way your hips swayed when you walked and how full your ass looked in the jeans you wore.
His eyes lingered for longer than they usually did, but he quickly looked away when you turned over your shoulder to ask him something. He wasn’t usually like that…vulgar.
He appreciated your body and loved every inch of it but researching this new information had him feeling bashful, anxious, and eager all at once.
Still, he simply tucked his hands in his pockets and tried to act normal. The image stayed with him all day though.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
That weekend the Jackson family left for New York City to celebrate Janet. She had just landed a guest star role on the show Diff’rent Strokes and was over the moon about it. It was one of the most popular shows on television.
Katherine had suggested that the family fly out to watch her first few days on set because Jan's nerves were high. If there was one thing the Jacksons were gonna do, it was pull together for one of their own.
Everyone was going, except Michael. He declined claiming that he had some new music he had to get out, so he needed to be near his studio.
And everyone knew how Michael was when it came to getting his ideas out in a timely manner. “We know, we know Mike” Marlon had said on his way out. “You gotta get it out now or God’s gonna give the idea to Prince.” He rolled his eyes dramatically before closing the door behind him.
Michael sighed contently, a large smile taking over his features.
Finally.
He did have music he wanted to work on, butttt that’s not why he declined to go.
This was the best time for him to put his knowledge to the test without fear of anyone overhearing or interrupting. Michael headed down to the kitchen immediately.
He knew exactly whose help he needed. “Hey Ms. Nancy” Michael leaned up against the kitchen counter unsuspectingly, peering over the older women’s shoulder as she stirred something that smelled delicious in a large pot.
Nancy hadn’t heard Michael enter the room but she turned around smiling a smile that reached her eyes. “Hey baby, what you still doin’ here? Not goin’ to celebrate Jan?” Michael shook his head and his curls fell across his forehead as he did so.
“No ma’am. I had some things I needed to get done back here… Can I ask you a favor?”
She looked over at Michael again and raised an eyebrow. “I’m not making vegan lasagna again, Michael. That cheese is just nasty.” she screwed up her nose at the thought. Michael laughed hard at the memory of the watery lasagana.
“No, no. I promise I’ll never ask you to do that again. I was just wonderin’… I wanna have my girl come over tonight for a little date. Before you leave for the day, do you think you could whip us up somethin’?”
She smiled knowingly to herself as she focused on attending to the pot. “Oh you had some extra work to do, huh? You ain’t got to lie to Ms. Nancy, baby. I was young once.” Michael’s face felt hot and his eyes widened. He covered his face and nervous giggles escaped him.
“It’s not like that Ms. Nancy! Just gonna spend some time now that it’s quiet, that’s all.”
“Mhm, alright now.” She gave him a look that clearly said “you can’t fool me honey, you ain’t slick. I’ve known the game longer than you’ve been alive.”
“Whatcha want me to make baby? She loved that honey butter cornbread last time, I ended up sending some home with her.”
Michael’s stomach rumbled and he nodded in agreement. “That would be perfect. And can you make that one dish with the smothered chicken and rice that she likes?”
“I got you. Want me to leave the stove on low so it can stay warm?”
“Yes please, you’re the best” Michael pressed a sweet kiss to Ms. Nancy’s cheek and thanked her before turning and heading out of the kitchen. “Tell Mr. Greg I said hello” He yelled over his shoulder as he headed off to his next destination.
“I will baby.” She called back.
Everything was coming together.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
Later that evening, Michael had asked Bill to pick you up to bring you over. You told him you could drive but he insisted on waiting on you hand and foot.
You were so confused when you got to the estate and there was no one playing basketball outside. No music drifting through the windows. It looked empty.
You almost asked Bill if he was sure Michael was home before he stepped out of the front door.
He stood waiting patiently, a shy sweet smile on his face as he waited for Bill to park. He was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet with excitement.
“Mikey?” You looked around suspiciously as he opened your door for you. Instantly, he wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you into his chest.
“Hi baby. It’s so good to see you, how was the ride over?” He looked you over as if he hadn’t seen you in days before pressing a soft lingering kiss to your lips.
“It was fine Mikey, where is everybody? Why is it so quiet, is everything okay?”
You were getting concerned now. Hayvenhurst was never this empty. Michael let out a breathy laugh and nodded.
“They all went to New York. Went to see Jan. She had some stuff she was working on and mother wanted the whole family there.” He paused but his doe eyes stayed on you. “I stayed behind 'cause I wanna be with you.”
You were flattered but didn’t ask him to elaborate further. No way were you gonna complain about finally getting alone time with your man in his mansion.
He took your hand in his large one and led you toward the house, thanking Bill and saying goodbye. “I asked Ms. Nancy to make dinner” He said looking over at you shyly. “Wanna wash up first? It’s ready whenever you are.”
Now you raised your eyebrows. Not because Michael wasn’t usually thoughtful, he always was. Sometimes too much and to his own detriment. But, this evening suddenly started to feel special in a way you couldn’t pinpoint.
“For meee?” Playfully you raised a hand to your chest in a flattered way.
“You’re so cute. Yes, silly. Of course, for you. Always for you.” His gaze held yours a little longer now, lips curved in an adorable boyish smile.
“What she make?” You asked. He scratched the back of his neck bashfully.
“Smothered chicken, yellow rice, cheesy broccoli, and cornbread.” Your whole face lit up before you could hide it.
“Mike, you know that’s my favorite!” You were already smiling big. Michael’s expression softened and admiration glazed over his features.
He was always enamored by how small things made you so happy. He thought it was the cutest thing he’d ever seen. Especially when your eyes got big and you bit your lip trying not to smile too hard.
“I know” He said quietly, thumb massaging your hand that it was holding gently. “That’s why I asked for it.”
Stepping in close, you wrapped your arms around his middle. “You’re so sweet. How’d I get so lucky?”
Michael couldn’t stop the grin he had from getting bigger. He loved feeling chosen by you. He hugged you back and laughed under his breath. Chin resting on your head.
“Go wash up mama, I’ll fix your plate.”
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
Dinner was quiet in the best way. You guys sat at the kitchen table instead of the big formal one since it was just the two of you. Between bites you chatted and caught up, although there wasn’t much to catch up on because Michael made sure he saw you nearly every day. If he didn’t see you, he’d speak to you at least twice on the phone. It was clingy but you loved it.
He asked you what you had been up to for the day. You told him a funny story about your little cousin.
You guys were at the mall and she was talking loudly about how her mama was trippin’ on her about not wanting her to hang out with some guy.
And then, her mom appeared right behind her as she was in the middle of rolling her neck and saying, “I don’t care what she say, I’m still goin’ with him to that party. If I gotta climb out my window, I’m goin.”
Long story short, when she looked and saw your aunt standing behind her, arms crossed and lips pursed, she changed her whole tune. Michael laughed hard and shook his head he loved hearing stories about your life. It was nice. Normal.
Every time you made a happy little sound as you took a bite his eyes flicked up to you like he couldn’t help watching. When you tore a piece of cornbread and dipped it in the gravy, he smiled to himself and looked down at his plate. Things felt easy with you. Comfortable, like home.
By the time the plates were empty you both were full and lazy.
“C’mon” Michael stretched his hand out to you. “Movie?” You accepted it without thinking.
In the den the lighting was warm and low. Michael put on something but you weren't really paying close attention to it. You were stretched out on the big couch on your back and he was settled between your legs, cheek resting against your tummy and arm draped loosely over your thigh. His weight was warm and familiar and every now and then he’d turn his head and press a soft, slow kiss to the skin right above your navel.
Absentmindedly, you played with his curls. His breathing matched yours and every so often his fingers would stroke lazily along the side of your thigh. After a while, he turned to look up at you with big doe eyes.
“There’s somethin’ I wanna show you” He said quietly, “In my room… come with me?” You shrugged and said sure, allowing him to pull you up off of the couch.
You followed him down the hall expecting a new demo he’d been working on or one of his quiet little hobbies. But when he opened the bedroom door, the air was warm and sweet with candlelight.
A new Stevie Wonder record was spinning on his turntable. And the bed— the bed was made neatly, pillows fluffed, rose petals scattered over the comforter and everything glowing gold.
Your eyebrows knit in confusion as you stopped in the doorway. “Michael… what is all this?”
He turned to you with a shy smile tugging at his lips, shoulders a little hunched. “Just… just tryin’ somethin’. For you. For us.”
He stepped close and placed gentle hands on your waist to lean in and kiss you. It started slow and soft, the kind that made your stomach flutter. His lips moved against yours like he couldn’t help himself, tongue gently trailing along your bottom lip to request access. His tongue slid warm and careful against yours.
One hand came up to cup your jaw and his thumb stroked your cheek as he kissed you deeper. He pulled back just enough to mumble against your lips, a little out of breath.
“I love kissin’ you so much,” he whispered. “Could do this all night and still not get enough.”
He kissed you slower this time like he was trying to prove it. You melted into it. Your hands slid up his chest, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his t-shirt. He made a quiet appreciative sound in his throat and kept kissing you, nipping softly at your bottom lip.
Only when both of you were a little dazed did he start walking you backward toward the bed. He eased you down and followed you. Then he started all over again. Kissing your throat and your collarbones, pushing your shirt up inch by inch so he could mouth at the soft skin at your stomach.
He took his time kissing down your tummy before going lower and settling on your thighs. His hands rubbed slow circles on them as he pressed his lips to the inside of your thigh where the skin was softest.
When your muscles twitched against his lips he smiled to himself and did again. Slower and higher this time. He let the anticipation build until your hips were shifting restlessly against the sheets under you.
A hot, open mouthed kiss was pressed over your panties and your breath caught. He looked up at you with dark, soft eyes.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered. “Every part of you.”
He took his time taking off your panties, hooking his fingers in the waistband and easing them down.
For a second he just gazed and admired how puffy and pretty your pussy looked. He still couldn’t believe he got to see you like this. Then, he leaned in and pressed a soft kiss right over your clit. You made a quiet sound.
He settled in farther between your legs like he belonged there, shoulders gently spreading your legs wider. His tongue was gentle and he licked you with long careful strokes that made your hips roll against him without you intending to. He watched every little reaction closely and used them as a guide. If your breath caught in your throat, he stayed there. If your thighs shook in his hands, he did it again softer. He moaned quietly into you when you got wetter like the taste of you was something he wanted to savor.
“Mikey…” you gasped, hands gently threading through his curls.
He hummed against you teasingly to answer you which made your hips jolt. His tongue licked you flat and broad then he used the tip of it to gently circle your clit. One of his hands stayed on your thigh rubbing soothing circles while the other slid up to lace his fingers with yours.
When his lips sealed over your clit and sucked your back arched and soft moans fell past your lips. Michael loved it, and he kept that same patient rhythm as he kept you from pulling your hips away from him. He listened closely to the way your breathing changed. Then, he slid two fingers inside you and curled them slow, searching until he found a spot that made your hips jerk.
The way he stayed right there and used his tongue and fingers to stroke you had you seeing stars and tears prickling at the corners of your eyes from how good it felt. Michael moaned in appreciation when your thighs started quaking around his shoulders.
“That’s it, good girl baby” he murmured against you. “Let me make you feel good.”
The orgasm rolled through you in long, slow waves. Your fingers tightened in his hair and your hips pushed up against his mouth but he didn’t stop. He kept licking and sucking you through every throb, drawing it out until you were shaking and oversensitive to his touch. Only when you started gently pushing at his shoulders with a breathless little sound did he back away.
His gaze lingered on the pleasure-struck look on your pretty face as he pressed soft kisses to your thighs and made his way back up to your lips. His lips were shiny, eyes bright and soft.
He brushed his lips against yours and his eyes drifted across your features adoringly. He loved the way you got so dazed after he made you cum like that.
“I been thinkin’ bout somethin’,” he said softly. “I wanna try somethin’ new with you. If you trust me.”
“What, Mikey?” you asked, still breathless. He bit his lip nervously but held your gaze steadily.
“I…I want you to turn around for me, baby. On your knees… face down so I can love on you the way I been wantin’ to.”
The way he said it made your tummy flip. He never talked like that. Your eyes fluttered in surprise but you obeyed him immediately without question. Turning away from him, you pressed your chest and cheek to the mattress and arched your back to raise your ass high in the air.
Michael went completely still at your submission. The candle light was flickering against your soft brown skin, highlighting your pretty heart-shaped ass. His eyes trailed over your frame in the provocative position and admired how your waist dipped in at your wide hips that looked way more dramatic in this position.
He couldn’t help but notice the way your cheeks spread just enough to show the glistening lips of your pussy peeking out between them, a single strand of arousal dripping from you. Michael nearly drooled.
“Lord have mercy…” He exhaled. His hands explored you gently as if this was all new, palms sliding over the backs of your thighs to cup the fullness of your ass.
He squeezed gently then trailed his hands to your hips, gently running his thumbs over the dimples at the small of your back. “You look so pretty like this… I don’t even know what to do with myself, mama.”
He kissed your back where his thumbs has just been and then pressed another one to your right cheek.
He stood up straight and raised his t shirt up exposing his belly. Then he pushed his sweats down just enough. He was already hard, tip leaking with pre-cum from him rutting the mattress while he drooled from how good you tasted.
He dragged the head gently through your folds in a teasing way before letting it catch on your entrance. “You trust me, baby?” he whispered as he slid up to bump your clit. You made a soft surprised sound and he giggled.
“Yes baby, of course I trust you.”
That was all the permission Michael needed to show you everything he had learned for you.
He placed a hand on your hip and pushed in carefully and slowly. You let out a low satisfied sound as he slowly stretched you inch by inch, biting his lip to contain himself.
“Takin’ me so good, princess.” His voice was shaking a little. “So warm and tight… I can feel every little flutter.” He bottomed out, hips flush against you and stayed there for a moment. Once he was sure you were okay, he began moving in slow, deep, searching rolls like he was looking for something. Until oh— he found it.
The second the head of his dick nudged that spot your eyes rolled back and a broken gasp punched out of your chest. Your hips pushed back against him to take him deeper on instinct.
After a few strokes he felt your walls clench around him and suddenly, you got a lot wetter. When he looked down to watch himself stroking you, you were creaming thick and white around the base of his dick.
Michael’s eyes went wide. He had never made you do that before. “Oh… there it is. That’s it, ain’t it?”
He repeated the motion from the same angle with another deep nudge. You pushed back against him harder with a high, whiny moan spilling past your lips. Exactly how his brothers had described it. Your thighs shook slightly and he could feel you creaming more as the obscene sounds filled the room.
He pulled his t-shirt the rest of the way up and brought to his lips so he could hold it with his teeth. He wanted an unfiltered look at the pretty picture he was painting between your legs.
Once free, his hands found their way to your hips and his thumbs pressed into the dimples there. He started fucking you deep and focused on angling every stroke to hit that spot over and over again.
He was still a little unsure, so he asked “Right there? Does that feel good, baby? I… I been readin’ ‘bout this. Wanted to make you feel good. Wanna make you cry for me the way Tito said.”
You nodded hard, pushing back against him for more and biting your lip when the movement made him nudge against your cervix. “Yes— yes, Mikey doin’ so good, don’t stop—”
He let out a shaky breath and kept rolling his hips. “Thank you baby, I learned it all for you. Been studyin’ so hard for you. So I could be perfect, just for you”
Your moans grew higher, completely wrapped in ecstasy and love. You kept pushing back, chasing it, thighs already starting to shake. His praise came in soft pieces between his breaths.
“Your skin looks so pretty in this light mama…”
“Love how soft you feel… smell so good too, like cocoa butter”
“These hips, baby…”
You were still pushing back for more, hips rolling to meet every deep stroke until— the intensity started tipping over into something sharper.
The pleasure got so concentrated it almost scared you. Your arms trembled and you tried to stay with it, but the pressure on that spot was becoming so intense that your body started easing forward on the bed without you consciously realizing it.
“Mikey—” you gasped, voice high and shaky. “Wait— it’s… it’s t-too much—”
His hips chased you as he trailed a hand slowly up the length of your back.
“Hand me a pillow, baby” You didn’t compute his request immediately due to being lost in the rhythm of his strokes.
One hand came down in a playful spank against the side of your ass. Not hard, just enough to make you jump a little and moan.
Instantly you obliged. He took the pillow from you and gently tucked it under your tummy under your hips. Instantly your back felt supported— and the pressure in your core increased.
His palm settled between your shoulder blades, gentle but firm, to keep you right where he wanted you. The other hand gripped your hip and pulled you back onto him in one smooth motion so he could keep the angle.
“I know, mama, I know,” he murmured, voice low and coaxing around the shirt in his mouth. “Feels so good, don’t it? Don’t run from me. Be a good girl and let me keep massagin’ that spot just right.”
You could hear how much wetter you were getting, and you could feel it too. Messy, creamy strings of your essence and his pre-cum every time he pulled back and thrust in again. Your arousal was coating his dick thicker, dripping down his balls now onto the sheets.
He watched it happen and his lips parted as the muscles in his stomach clenched and fluttered every time you creamed more around him. Your ass rippled and jiggled slightly with every thrust, back arching deeper because of your curves. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from your heart-shaped ass bouncing soft and pretty against him in the candlelight.
“That’s my good girl…” he cooed, voice hoarse around the fabric in his mouth. “Look at you creamin’ all over me, baby. Your body was made for this, I swear. I love every inch of you. These thighs, this sexy lil’ waist,” he gently squeezed your love handles. “Pretty ass bouncin’ just for me. You smell like home, baby. Feel like home. I love you. I love makin’ you feel this good.”
Your eyes rolled back hard at the praise. “L-love you too Mikey— it feels so good— so— so good—” the words broke apart between high breathless moans as the pressure inside you kept building higher and higher.
It felt like something was about to break. Your thighs trembled violently and drool slipped from the corner of your mouth onto the pillow as your walls fluttered endlessly around him.
You could feel it. An intense, almost scary pressure right on your spot. Then your eyes fluttered open just enough to notice the towel spread underneath you. Very carefully placed. He planned for this.
Michael leaned forward and gently grabbed your jaw to tilt your head back so he could kiss you. As his mouth met yours he shifted the angle of his hips, gently alternating between nudging the sensitive swollen tissue of your G-spot and pressing just a little deeper so the head of his dick brushed your cervix. It was pornographic.
The combination of the tender open-mouthed kiss and the dual stimulation made your eyes flutter with submission and roll back. You moaned into his mouth, soft and helpless.
He kissed you like he couldn’t help it, soft and deep as he gave you those slow, alternating strokes before finally letting your head drop back down.
“Your ass looks so pretty like this,” he breathed, almost to himself. Then his cheeks went hot. “Can I say that? Tell me I can say it, baby.”
You looked back at him over your shoulder with glassy eyes.
“You can say whatever you want, Mikey… I love you. And I want you to stay inside. I went and got on the pill. Been thinkin’ about tryin’ somethin’ new with you too.”
His eyes lit up. Something warm and confident sparked behind them. The words his brothers had said echoing in his head. You hit that lil’ spot deep inside her, and she gon’ love you forever. He gripped your hips a little firmer, a soft new certainty in the way he moved.
The pressure kept climbing. Your voice cracked.
“Mikey— wait— I think I gotta— I think I gotta pee—”
His whole face changed. Eyes bright and shining like he’d just unlocked a new level in a video game.
“It’s okay, baby,” he said, voice low and coaxing, a little breathless with excitement. “Don’t hold it. Don’t be scared. Just let it go for me. I read about this… it’s supposed to feel like that when it’s real good. You’re doin’ so good for me. Just let it happen mama. I got you.”
You almost giggled at how earnest he sounded until he nudged that spot again, slow and deliberate. Your eyes rolled back hard. The pressure broke. A sharp, wet rush of fluid gushed out of you around his dick, soaking the towel and splashing against his thighs as you squirted hard, body shaking, high-pitched cries spilling from your throat.
Michael made a sound like he’d just won something. A soft, stunned, almost disbelieving moan left him as he watched and felt you come apart on him.
“Oh my God… baby… look at you…”
The second he felt you squirt, his own orgasm started to crest slow and deep. His eyes fluttered. His stomach muscles clenched. A broken, accidental “F-fuck—” slipped out of him right as the first thick pulse left him.
He immediately looked almost panicked.
“Sorry—! I didn’t mean to say that—” he gasped, still cumming in long, drawn-out waves, hips stuttering as he filled you. “It just— it felt so— oh God, baby, I love you—”
You moaned low and deep when you felt him spill inside you, the warmth of it making your whole body clench around him again. It was y’alls first time like this. Something about the trust of it and the way he stayed buried deep and gave you everything made your eyes sting a little even as another aftershock rolled through you. You pushed back against him weakly, taking every pulse, a soft, satisfied sound leaving your throat.
He stayed inside you until the last tremor passed, arms wrapped tight around your middle, both of you shaking and trying to catch your breath. Stevie Wonder still spun soft in the background.
After a long while he pulled out slowly and kissed the back of your neck. He laid next to you and pulled you on top of him, draping your still shaking thigh across his waist. One hand rubbed slow, soothing circles on your lower back.
He was quiet for a while, just breathing you in.
Then, soft and shy he asked, “Did I… did I do okay? Was that good for you?”
You lifted your head enough to kiss him, lazy and sweet.
“More than good, Mikey. You found it. You made me cry just like Tito said you would.”
He buried his face in your neck, cheeks hot, but you could feel him smiling against your skin.
“Yeah,” he whispered, voice full of wonder. “I guess I did.”
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
please respect my work 💌
Everything posted here is written
by @brownsugarletters. Please do not repost, copy, translate, claim as your own, upload to Al tools, or share my writing outside of Tumblr without permission.
A/N- i’m 3 days late but that’s okay. Happy belated to my baby and enjoy!
cw- oral (f receiving), face sitting (f receiving), praise kink, unprotected piv (don’t do this!) riding, spanking(slight), tyriq is a loverboy.
You and Tyriq stumbled into the semi dark hotel room, bumping into each other and giggling. You two had just gotten back from Tyriq’s birthday dinner where y’all both got tipsy and touchy which led to calling an uber to leave early.
Leaving his own birthday party to fuck was crazy but neither of you cared at the moment.
As soon as Tyriq closed the door with his foot he began to start walking you towards the bed. Once the back of your legs hit the bed, he pushed you down onto it.
“Remember what you promised me?” He asked while leaning down to hover over you.
A few weeks ago, Tyriq asked if for his birthday, you’d sit on his face.
It was something you’d always felt opposed to but with some liquid courage and your man’s encouragement…You were down.
“Yes.” You nodded your head and scooted up the bed.
Tyriq followed you up the bed, stripping his clothes as he went. Once he made it to his dress shirt, he started to fumble with the buttons.
“You taking too damn long to unbutton that shirt.” You burst out into laughter with him falling into laughter right with you.
“Ah fuck it.”
After a few more attempts, he gave up and left the shirt half unbuttoned. He started crawling over to reclaim his position on top of you.
“You sure you wanna do this?” The softness in his voice was definitely a contrast from the look in his eyes. He stared down at your designer dress and how it fit your figure so well, he just wanted to eat you up—well he was about to.
“I’m sure.”
The second the words left your mouth, he wrapped his arm around your waist and flipped you so you were straddling his chest. You reached for the hem of your dress but he pulled your hands away from the hem.
“Keep it on, and get up here.” Tyriq couldn’t wait any longer. You shifted higher, giving him more reach to touch the pink lacy panties you had on. “So pretty. You wore these f’me?”
“I did. Do you like it?”
“Mhm I do.” A loud rrrip went throughout the room. He ripped your panties straight down the middle.
“Tyriq! I thought I told you to stop doing tha-“ A sharp smack to your ass cut you off.
“Shut up and put that pussy on my face.” He wasn’t asking, he was telling. And what did you do? You listened. He formed a tight grip on your hips as he pulled you down onto his face.
He aligned your pussy with his mouth and you didn’t hesitate to close the distance.
Tyriq didn’t waste any time licking from your sopping hole to your clit with his slick pink tongue. Almost immediately, you regretted not doing this any sooner. He always ate you out but the feeling of being on top of him like this was something out of this world.
The room was silent except for your heavy breathing and the sound of Tyriq’s mouth lapping and sucking up all of your juices.
“Fuck, we should’ve been did this.” You looked down at him and his darkened eyes and how drunk he looked—not just off of the alcohol you drank earlier—off of the taste of your pussy.
He hummed against you as a response and pulled back momentarily. “I told you baby.” His voice came out lower and rougher than he last spoke. His enjoyment in giving you pleasure was evident by the way his bulge strained against his jeans.
Tyriq moved you up some more and you felt his tongue slide into your pussy, making you gasp. You could feel him swirling and flicking his tongue inside of you like he was trying to scoop out your orgasm.
You couldn’t help but start rocking your hips against his mouth. A soft yelp left your mouth when his nose nudged against your clit.
“So perfect…” You whispered and groped your breast through your dress. Tyriq didn’t seem to be complaining about his position so you sped up the movement of your hips.
The hums deepened into moans and you looked back over your shoulder to see him rutting against the air. You faced forward again and locked eyes with his hungry stare.
He dragged your hips up and down his mouth, quickening the speed at which they moved. One hand scratched at his low cut hair while the other remained on your breast.
“You’re enjoying this way too much.” A breathless laugh left your mouth watching Tyriq close his eyes, relishing in your pleasure and making you feel good.
He smiled against you and held your hips down while he sucked on your clit. “Oh that’s it Ty!” Your body stuttered and you clawed at his scalp even more.
Just as you were about to reach your peak, he pulled away and moved you onto his chest. “W-What?” Your brows furrowed, thighs shaking, and chest heaving.
“You not coming nowhere but my dick right now.” He grumbled and moved you to his lap before sitting up against the headboard. His arms wrapped around your waist to undo his jeans and pull himself out of his underwear.
He wasted no time pulling you flush against his chest and lining his dick up with your pussy and dragging you down onto him.
“This pussy is so warm and wet baby.” He was hardly 3 inches in and he was already losing it. Slowly but surely you sank all the way down onto him, swallowing his thick cock whole.
Tyriq grabbed your ass cheeks and started to guide you up and down his cock. A sniffled moan left your mouth as you two fell into a rhythm.
Your hands flew to his shoulders for stability while he bounced you on his cock. “So deep.” A raspiness left your throat as skin clapped against skin and Tyriq let out a guttural groan right against your neck.
“I love this dick.” Your nails were digging into his shoulders as this point but if anything, it turned him on.
“Mhm you do, my love?” One of his hands moved from your ass to grip your jaw, forcing direct eye contact. You nodded the best you could but he wasn’t taking that for an answer.
“Speak up.” He planted his feet on the bed and slammed up into you. “You love this dick?”
“Yes!” You exclaimed with a moan, back arching and toes curling. It was like the sound of your wet pussy plopping on him got louder the more he spoke to you.
“That’s my good girl. Keep riding me just like that.” He looked you up and down like you were a 5 course meal. He stopped your hips for a split second just to pull your dress over your head.
“Needed to see this body. So pretty, so mine.” A gasp left your mouth when he wrapped his lips around your nipple while he pinched and pulled at your other one.
While he was sucking on your boobs, he continued his thrust up into you. He was holding you so lovingly while fucking you like he hated you.
The pleasure was getting to be too much. You were reaching your climax sooner than expected which is exactly what Tyriq wanted.
He felt the way you tightened around him, and the way your moans got pitchier. He pulled off your nipple, leaving it covered in saliva.
“Need you to cum for me.” His voice came out a bit shaky, as if he was on the verge of release with you. His thumb trailed down your stomach until it reached your twitching neglected clit.
He almost immediately got to work and started rubbing it in rough circles. “I love you so much.” You whimpered and grabbed his face and leaned forward to kiss him.
Your tongues and teeth clashed together messily. His thrusts never faltered or slowed. He was gonna bring you to that orgasm no matter what.
You pulled back with a string of saliva disconnecting from your lips as well. “I’m about to cum,” you threw your head back towards the ceiling and started to bounce yourself.
“You so pretty when you’re right on the edge. Look at me.” He tapped your cheek. You looked back down at him and how intense his gaze was.
“I’m gonna cum for you baby.” Your lips quivered as you pulsed around him, signaling how close you were. “I’m right there with you, honey. Let it all out for me.”
After a few more rough thrusts, a rush of pleasure ran up your spine. Your eyes fluttered shut and nails dug into the back of his neck as you came.
At the same time, Tyriq buried himself inside you, spilling loads deep while holding your hips down against him.
After about a minute of panting and heavy breathing, Tyriq slid out of you and pulled you against his chest, tucking your head under his chin.
A light sheen of sweat coated his body and you could feel his heart beating right where yours was. He kissed the top of your head.
“Best birthday gift ever.” Laughter erupted from the two of you as you sat in silence with each other.
— guide to writing in the mj fandom if you’re not black !
hi everyone! i think it’s about time someone from the black community puts this together just for everyone else to know what’s acceptable and not acceptable when writing in this fandom, and basic etiquette in a fandom dedicated to a proud black man.
your username/blog name!!
of course we’ve all probably seen the discourse around that blog and their username including a word associated with the black community (the word being ebony). if you use a word that associated with being black, or a race that isn’t yours, don’t use it!!!
how you portray yourself!!
using reaction photos/memes that primarily depict a black person should be avoided!! pinterest and the internet is a wide place to search for alternatives. of course, you may stumble across a few of another race that you like, but if you only limit yourself to using black people as images, it comes across as you’re making fun of us.
how you speak (outside of fanfics)!!
the majority of “tiktok slang” derives from aave and black people centred dialects. think about how you come across when using it, and maybe search the connotations/origins of the words you’re using before you do so.
how you create speech in fanfics!!
michael was a proud black man, we all know that. but non-black authors should steer clear of using aave in their work. it isn’t for you, using it comes across as trying to imitate/mock us. instead, try to keep dialogue “neutral” and avoid common patterns such as knocking letters of the end etc.
using stereotypes!!
being black doesn’t automatically make you sassy, aggressive, or “street”. this goes for writing michael as well, avoid using their tropes, and instead rely on interviews/videos to see his real personality instead of labelling us under the same umbrella. and michael was not white.
black characters in your work!!
again, avoid using stereotypes. we are not all “hood”. not every lesbian black woman is butch. we do not all speak the same way. avoid writing black characters purely because you can not relate to our experiences or have lived a day in our shoes.
black authors, feel free to add anything else onto this at you’d like to in the comments. everyone else, thank you for reading and please be mindful of who you’re writing about, speaking to etc. there has been far too many instances of conscious and unconscious racism in this fandom, which is shocking considering who this fandom is about.
lots of love,
@bambijackson 🧸 (a proud black woman)
As an outsider looking in on the current situation in the MJ fandom (I don’t read MJ fics, I just scroll through MJ’s tags to find photos/ rares of him cause of how bad Pinterest has gotten with AI), I hope ya’ll let that Ebonymuse/ Michaelmuse chick fade into obscurity.
She knew what she was doing, and she knows what she’s currently doing. She’s playing victim, playing “poor, naive, uneducated white woman”, and she’s trying to gain as much sympathy as she can from white people/ white centered people in the MJ fandom that’ll come to her defense, and begin villainizing all the black women calling her out. I've seen this game from white women before. It is so obvious that she is now trying to garner a white adjacent audience so that they may now attack the black women who use to support her.
She was not "uneducated", she is not "naive"– she was black fishing, and it's clear from her "sudden switch" in how she's talking that she's using her poor, helpless, "naive" white woman card/ weaponizing her whiteness to make sure the very black women that use to support her are now attacked by the white people/ white centered people in this fandom. Do not forgive her. Do not give her the benefit of the doubt. Do not gaslight yourselves into thinking she was being "naive". She was not, she is not, and it's obvious that she is weaponizing her whiteness so that the black women in the MJ fandom will face the brunt of everyone else's racism for daring to "attack the poor, uneducated, naive white woman". What she is doing is blatantly obvious, disturbing, and insidious.
Cat Got Your Tongue? (Chapter 1: A Matter of Pride)
Pairing: otw!Michael Jackson x fem!reader
Chapter: 1/?
Tags: enemies to lovers, slow burn, supernatural, shapeshifting, angst with a happy ending, eventual fluff, idiots in love
Summary:
As an assistant to Michael Jackson's lawyer, you've spent months delivering paperwork to a star you can't stand. One dismissive nod at your first meeting was all your pride needed to write him off as arrogant.
Then a strange old lady decides that pride deserves a lesson and puts a curse on you: human by day, cat by night. One night, a wrong turn leads you straight into the garden of Hayvenhurst, where the man you've been so cold to scoops you up without a second thought.
Now he tells you everything he's never told anyone, and the more you listen, the harder it becomes to keep hating a man you never tried to understand.
A few notes before we begin:
I wrote this fic some time back in May and it's already finished, but as a oneshot it would have been way too long, so I decided to cut it up into smaller chapters. I think it will be around 4-5 chapters, so a pretty short fic. There will be no smut.
The idea came to me after watching one movie ("Beastly") and one K-Drama ("Miss Night and Day", which I LOVED!!!), they combine shapeshifting and being cursed and it just gave me the idea for this fic. I know supernatural themes aren't really popular in the MJ community, which is why I never posted this fic even though I wrote it months ago, but maybe some of you might like it.
It's also my first Off The Wall era fic ❤️
Hope you enjoy!
December 1980
John catches you just as you're reaching for your coat.
"Perfect timing," he says, holding out a folder thick with paper. "I need these contract amendments at Hayvenhurst today. He has to sign all three copies and don't let him put it off, he'll try to do it later and later means next week."
You look at the clock on the wall, then at the folder. It's nearly the end of the day and you’re looking forward to getting home. Still, you obey.
"Got it,” you say as you take the documents from his hands.
"You're a lifesaver." He's already turning back to his office as the phone on his desk starts ringing, and that's that.
You look down at the folder in your hands. Michael J. Jackson, printed on the tab in neat block letters. Great.
You've been at the firm almost a year now. Fresh out of university, hired at exactly the moment John Branca needed an assistant, because his newest client was turning out to be a full-time job on his own.
The timing was perfect, your father made sure of that. He'd made a call, mentioned your name, said good things that were definitely not earned yet, and doors that usually stay shut for everyone else swung open for you the way they always had.
You're not proud of it.
You work twice as hard as anyone in the building because you're not proud of it. You’re the first one in, the last one out, don’t complain and don’t say no.
You live alone, you pay your own rent, you do your absolute best at everything, and still some mornings you look at your desk and think: Daddy made this possible because daddy has connections. The truth of that follows you everywhere like an annoying splinter in your finger that you can’t get out.
The taxi ride to Encino takes forty minutes because of the end-of-day traffic. You have plenty of time to think.
You met Michael in March at John’s house. They had been there for hours, and when you arrived to drop off files the two of them were deep in talking, heads put together over a table covered in papers.
You caught pieces of their conversation.
Joseph getting fired from being his manager. Something about the next album, about doing it differently this time. It sounded serious and you should have just brough the files and left. But you'd never met him before that day, and you thought it would be strange to work this closely on his legal matters without at least introducing yourself, so you walked up to the two men, put out your hand toward Michael, and gave him your name.
“Nice to meet you”, you said and smiled.
He looked up briefly and nodded. "Nice to meet you too."
And then he turned back to John and continued talking. That was it. Five words and then the top of his head.
You stood there for a secnd too long with your hand still held out to him. Then you put it back down as your smile slipped off your face and something in your mind went cold.
You knew that move, you'd seen it your whole life. All the famous people who came through your father's world did that move too, the actors, the singers, the ones who could turn the charm on for cameras and off for staff.
You are staff. He'd understood it in half a second and decided you weren't worth the interruption.
Fine.
You never asked yourself if there was another way to read his reaction. You were twenty-three and proud. You'd always been too proud, your mother said so and your friends said so too.
And proud people don’t ask follow-up questions or give second chances. You had him figured out by the time you reached the door of John’s house.
The gate at Hayvenhurst opens for you now without much waiting because by now they know your face here. The taxi drops you at the curb and you tell yourself you'll flag another one down after, there's always something moving at the main street.
You take the folder and walk the path around the side of the house and toward the studio, because that's where he always is.
Today is the coldest day of December so far and the light is going amber and long across the yard. The sun sits low in the sky, probably only a few more minutes left in it. You wish you could go home before dark.
You knock.
The door opens and he’s standing there and immediately, you notice how he reacts to seeing you. You see how he tries to keep his expression neutral. He’s like a child who doesn’t know if he can approach an animal or not.
"Hi," he says.
You don’t greet him back.
"Mr. Branca needs these signed. All three copies." You hold the folder out. "Today, if possible."
"Oh. Sure, okay." He takes it and goes back inside the studio, searching for a pen among the tapes and notepads. You stay by the door.
The room seems warm and there's music paused on the machines, probably a part of a new demo he’s working on.
He finds a pen. He reads faster than you expect him to, flipping the pages, then signs all three copies carefully, his tongue pressed to his upper lip in concentration.
He brings the folder back to you with both hands as if it's fragile. "There you go."
"Thank you." You're already turning away from him.
"Thank you," he says quietly. "For bringing it so late. Tell John I said, um… Tell him it's fine, the changes."
"I will."
You don't meet his eyes because you never do and then you're through the gate and out onto the sidewalk before he's even closed the studio door. The streetlights are slowly turned on one by one along the avenue as the sky becomes darker.
He watches you go standing in the doorway with his arms crossed on his chest.
He's given up trying to solve you. At first he told himself it was professionalism, that you were new, fresh out of school, trying so hard to be taken seriously that you'd decided friendliness would make you look unprofessional.
But he's seen you being friendly with John. He's heard you laugh with your colleagues in the office, has seen you bring a coffee for the receptionist and watched you be warm and easy with everyone in the building.
Everyone in the building except him.
You show the coldness to him alone, so it must be personal, and he's gone through every conversation you've ever had looking for what he could have possibly said that started this, and there's nothing. He doesn't know what he did.
But he hates conflict and confrontation, so he's never asked. He just stays out of your way, gives you the space you seem to want, keeps his his voice small and polite and hopes it will somehow end on its own.
He closes the studio door. The tape is still where he left it and in one minute he's back inside the music and you're just another person outside the walls.
–
The walk toward the main street takes some time or maybe it seems that way to you because it’s getting really cold now. You pull your coat tighter and walk fast with the folder pressed to your chest. The sky is now completely dark.
There's a bench up ahead where the residential street gives out onto the boulevard. An old woman sits on it, wearing a coat over another coat and a scarf wound up to her chin.
"Spare some change, dear?"
Your hand is in your pocket before you even think about it. This was one thing you’d never not do. You come up with a few coins and put them into her open palm, and notice that her fingers are cold.
"Thank you," she says. "Bless you."
Then she doesn't let go of your hand. "Let me read your palm for the coins. A fair trade?"
You glance down the boulevard. There are no taxis yet, just some headlights that turn out to be normal cars. You're cold and you want to go home, but there's nowhere to be while you wait to see a taxi, and it seems rude to pull your hand back.
You shrug. "Sure, why not."
She turns your hand over and looks at it closely. She doesn’t say anything for a long time. Her thumb moves over the lines of your palm slowly, back and forth. A few cars go by.
Then she looks up at you, and you notice her eyes are darker than before.
"You have a good heart," she says. "Kindness runs out of you like water when a stranger holds the cup. You give without question. That is rare."
Her thumb presses into the center of your palm. "But you give it only to strangers. The ones who stand closer to you, the ones who would drink too if you poured your kindness for them, those people you weigh and measure first,” she says, shaking her head.
“And your scales with which you weigh them are broken, child. You look upon people through the eyes of pride. You have mistaken silence for arrogance, and distance for disdain, and you have never once asked yourself if you read it wrong. You just assumed.”
The old lady gives you a small smile. “And for that, you will learn what it is to have a heart no voice can defend."
The words hang there in the cold. You don't know what to say about any of it.
You can feel an awkward laugh making its way up your chest, and you're already preparing the sentence, okay, well, thank you, I should really go, when she lifts her free hand.
She holds one finger up between you.
"This is your curse. By day, you shall walk as yourself. By night, you shall wear the shape of a creature that cannot speak. Only when someone comes to know your heart beyond your face, and chooses it still, will you be free."
"I'm sorry?"
"You'll understand," she says gently, "when your pride is gone."
And she taps you once on the forehead.
Everything around you jumps. That's the only way to describe it. The whole street lurches upward, the bench, the woman, the streetlight, all of it shooting into the sky, and there's a sensation like falling without moving, and then it's over and you're looking at the underside of the bench.
The underside of the bench.
You're on the ground, but you don't remember falling to the ground. The pavement is right there against your body, close and cold and the cracks looking enormous somehow. You try to push yourself up and something is wrong with your arms, they don’t move the way you want them to, and you look down.
Paws.
Small, trembling paws, standing where your hands should be.
You look for the woman. The bench is empty. There's no one on the street at all, just the buzzing light and the folder, John's folder, lying on the pavement beside you, huge and impossible to carry.
You scream. What comes out is a meow.
You scream again, louder, and it's just meowing, high-pitched and useless. Your own voice is gone and this small animal sound has taken its place, and the panic that floods you then is not like any fear you've had before.
You start moving. Your legs wobble like they belong to a newborn deer, you have four of them, four legs, and you can't coordinate them and you stumble against the bench leg. You keep going anyway, toward the shops on the corner.
When you reach the closest shop’s window you stop in front of it. You make yourself look.
A cat looks back. Small and furry, with huge eyes that have your own eye color. You lift a paw. It lifts a paw. You open your mouth and the cat opens its mouth and you let out a tiny cry.
You run.
You run down the boulevard, low to the ground with the cold air over you, passing shut stores, past a man walking who says whoa, past a couple waiting at a crosswalk. You stop near them.
You try to speak, please, help me, something has happened to me, and it only comes out as meowing, and the woman crouches down with her hands out and says oh, hello, sweetheart, are you lost?, and scratches you under the chin with one finger.
She pets you. You are a thing that gets petted now.
You back away from her hand and she laughs a little, and the two of them walk on when the light changes to green, and you stand there on the corner shaking.
There's an alley behind the shops. You wedge yourself into the gap behind the trash bins where the smell of rotten fruit and grease and wet cardboard reaches your tiny nose, and you press your back against the brick and make yourself small.
The cold comes up through the ground all night. You shiver so much you think your insides are frozen. And then hunger arrives at some point.
You keep crying out into the dark because it's all you have, and every time it comes out as the same small meow.
The sky stays black for a very long time.
–
You sleep curled into yourself behind the bins with your tail wrapped over your nose, a position your body somehow just knows, and that frightens you too, but then...
You wake up falling.
That's what it feels like, the world dropping away underneath you.
Everything is shrinking, and then your cheek is on wet pavement and your legs are sprawled in the trash around you.
Legs. Arms. Fingers with dirt under the nails, and you lie there breathing heavily in the gray light while a thin line of sun comes over the rooftops across the street.
Your clothes are on. Coat, shoes, all of it. You don't understand it and you’re too exhausted to try to understand it. You sit up behind the trash bins of an alley in Encino, a grown woman in yesterday's clothes shaking on the ground, and the first thought that forms in your head is the folder.
The folder. John's contracts. Your purse.
You're up and running before your legs are fully ready. The street is empty, shops still shut, one car sliding by with its lights on.
The bench is where you remember it. You look under it and there is your purse and beside it the folder, damp along one edge.
You snatch it up and go through all three copies right there on your knees. Signatures are still intact, pages a little cold and wavy from the night air, but all of it is there and untouched. Nobody took anything. Nobody even came.
You press the folder to your chest and something between a laugh and a sob comes out of you, and you thank God, luck, whatever is listening.
A taxi comes down the boulevard with its light on. Before your mind can catch up, your body is already up with your arm in the air.
The driver looks at you for a second too long in the mirror, but you don’t blame it. You can imagine what he sees.
You give him your address and watch the streets slide past, people opening shops, a man hosing down a sidewalk, the whole world carrying on like the night never happened. You sit very still in the back seat with your hands in your lap, watching the sun rise and praying it won’t go down again too soon.
The moment you get home, you immediately collapse on the couch. Your body stops resisting the exhaustion and you lie face down in your coat for a long time, and when you finally move again it's because the shivering has come back and won't stop. You know you’re sick and you can feel it deep in your bones, your throat is raw and your skin is hot and cold at the same time from a whole night on cold ground.
You force yourself to take a hot shower, as hot as you can possibly bear it. You eat whatever you find closest to you because you feel like you're dying and food feels like the only thing that might help. Then you call the office and you tell them you've caught something and you won't be in. It’s not even a lie.
You're sick for seven days. Fever, cough, body aching, the whole package.
And every evening, you transform into a cat.
The first time it happens at home you're standing at the window watching the sun go down over the buildings. You tell yourself maybe it was a dream, maybe it was something you can explain? But the moment the sun is gone the world shoots upward like the night before, and you're on the carpet on four legs with your heart going like a drum. You spend the entire night pacing your own apartment at ankle height. Your furniture is enormous and you have to jump to reach your bed. You start crying at some point and it comes out as meowing, and you stop, because hearing it is worse than the crying.
In the morning when the first rays of sunshine come through your blinds you turn back into yourself. The change happens every time.
You don't leave the apartment at all. You're too scared that if it catches you outside again you'll be lost for good, so you order takeout during the day and pay through the cracked door. You eat soup as a woman and, once, when the transformation catches you before you've finished your meal, finish it as a cat, face down in the bowl on the kitchen floor.
But you're observing now. You’re still sick, but you’re watching the trnasformations, and by the third day you know it, and by the fifth day you could swear on what you observed.
It doesn’t happen at any time of the night. It starts and ends with the sun. The moment the sun is fully down, when there’s not even a sliver left, you turn into a cat. The moment the first ray of sunshine comes back, you turn back into your human form.
You test it out, because you want to be sure of it. Even if the sky is cloudy int he morning and doesn’t let in any light, you still turn human at exactly the same time. And even if you leave your lamps open at night, standing in a blaze of every light you could find in your apartment when the sun goes down, you still turn into a cat.
You remember the old lady’s words.
By day, you shall walk as yourself. By night, you shall wear the shape of a creature that cannot speak.
She meant that literally, because you realize it’s an actual schedule.
So you do the math while sitting on your couch with a cup of tea and a notepad.
Your work hours are day hours. Winter days are short, but you can manage them from sunrise to sunset, and if you're careful and never get caught out at the wrong hour, you can keep your job. You can keep your life, or at least the daylight half of your life.
When you finally go back to work, you go to John directly before even taking your coat off. You tell him you're better (which is true), and then you tell him the lie you rehearsed on the way to work: your grandmother is ill and she's relying on you now because you live closest to her, so your evenings are hers. You'll give the firm everything between nine and sundown, you'll come in early, you'll work through lunch if needed, but once the sun is down you're unreachable, no exceptions, and you're sorry, and you understand if it's a problem.
John waves it off before you even finish your speech.
"Family's family," he says. "We'll work around it. Just arrive on time and do your job well and we're fine."
You let out a breath of relief. He's a fair man and you feel a little sorry for lying to him because of how easily he takes the lie and how kind everyone is at the office, genuinely concerned for you being sick for a whole week. You thank John and go to your desk and when you sit down, you notice the sunlight coming through from the window behind you. You check your watch because this is your life now. You, the sun, your watch.
Today, sunset is at 5:13.
–
Two weeks pass and it’s now close to the end of the year. You learn to live with it. Human by day, cat by night.
You stop waiting for it to end on its own. Your hope slowly dies each time you turn into a cat at night. You keep going to work and keep watching the sun.
Every day without exception you're back home with the door locked before the sunlight disappears. You’re thankful you live rather close to the office as it makes getting home in time easier. Your evenings now belong to a small animal that paces your apartment and sleeps on your own pillow.
Your friends take the damage. Drinks after work, dinner on Friday, a birthday of a friend at a bar next week. You decline and decline and decline, tell them grandmother, grandmother, grandmother, but you know they’re getting irritated with you, so you give them your lunches instead.
You meet whoever can make it at noon for sandwiches or a diner near the office, forty-five minutes of being a normal person with normal friends. You laugh at their stories and say you're so sorry you couldn’t make it the other day. They don't stay mad and it makes you feel worse because they’re so forgiving.
Michael comes by the office once in those weeks. John’s running behind on something and his secretary tells Michael he’ll be with him in five minutes. You’re unaware of his presence because you're at your desk with two of your colleagues, deep in some office gossip and you're laughing loudly, and then the door opens and he’s standing there.
The laugh immediately dies in your throat. Your whole demeanor changes and you become stiff, the warmth with which you spoke to your colleagues just seconds ago completely gone as you turn back to your desk and organize a stack of papers that was already organized.
Your colleagues go back to their own corners of the office as he stands there by the door, waiting for John, hands in his pockets, and you can feel him trying not to look at you.
"Cat got your tongue?"
He says it lightly as a small joke to cover the awkwardness in the room, but it hits you hard and you go completely still. Of every phrase in the English language, of everything this man could have picked to tease you with.
You stare at the papers in your hands and try to answer him with something normal like “Of course not”, but the truth in his words, even if he meant it as a joke, sits heavily inside you. Because the cat does get your tongue every night.
"John should be out in a minute," you manage to say finally, but it’s not an answer to his joke.
"Okay," he says quietly and doesn’t speak to you again, keeping his eyes down.
And suddenly, annoyance comes over you like a wave. You know in this instance it's not fair, he just made a small joke and he can't know what that joke means to you, nobody on earth can know what it means to you, but somehow that makes it worse instead of better.
He walked in here and said the one exact thing that summed up the struggles of your past week and because of that, you can hear your own heartbeat in your ears, and he’s the reason why. Without knowing or trying to piss you off, he still managed to do it.
You feel your dislike of him doubling and spreading out inside you because it never needed a reason anyway, it just came naturally ever since your first encounter with him. Some small part of you might know there's no logic in any of it, but you always ignore that part. Instead, you hate him a little more anyway.
Finally, John’s door opens and Michael stands up to enter. You still sit there with your ears ringing and your face hot from anger. You stand up to go to the bathroom and when you splash water on your face, you try to think clearly.
He wasn't really rude, you know that. He made a small joke into a cold room which you had made cold because of how you reacted to his presence. But without knowing it, he came too close to your pain and you couldn’t look past it.
Maybe that's what finally pushes you to act. Because that same week, you start looking for the old lady.
You have to plan it, because you never do anything unplanned. You sit at your desk and write down everything you’ve observed about your transformation.
Your clothes come with you through the change, but your purse doesn't. You learned that in the alley, so the purse has to stay home when you go out looking for the lady. The house key is the problem, because what if you can’t make it home by the time the sun is up and you become human again? There are no pockets on a cat, so you hide a spare key in the flower pot with the dead geranium by your entrance. And you leave your window open a crack, just enough for you to fit through when you return home as a cat.
The first night of your plan you test it out, coming back in through the fire escape and wriggling through the gap. Once you drop to the carpet inside your apartment, you sit there in the dark feeling almost proud, and then you catch yourself feeling proud of being a competent cat and you don't feel proud anymore.
You go back to the bench. She's not there.
The first night she's not there, and the second, and the fifth.
You curl under the bench and you watch the boulevard. Old women come and go at bus stops all up and down the street but none of them is her. You know you'd recognize her if you saw her.
You decide to widen your search circle. Night after night, you walk through the streets of Encino as a small shadow, checking benches and alleys and checking the faces of everyone who passes you and you can’t find her. She's gone like she was never even there.
Some nights you cry about it in the only voice you have, but when your meowing attracts curious people who want to help a kitten in need, you run away scared. Every night you return home through the window and wake up as a woman and go to work.
It's maybe the eighth night, or maybe the tenth (you've stopped counting), when your legs act on their own. You've finished the same streets all over again, and there's nothing left to check and you should turn back, but you don't. You just keep walking. Only when you see that big familiar wall do you understand where you've taken yourself.
Hayvenhurst.
You've come here so many times with folders and messages that the route is so familiar to you now. And here you are at the gate at an hour you have no business being anywhere. The gap under the gate is small, but your even smaller body fits through easily without having to duck. It frightens you just how easily you can squeeze in anywhere as a cat.
The garden, which you already thought was extremely vast as a human, now seems like a whole new country as a cat. The plants tower over you, the flower beds envelop you and you freeze when you see a cricket which, with your body being so small now, looks like a huge monster. You’re just about to turn back and leave because this is trespassing, when you hear it.
A soft, high-pitched voice coming from around the side of the house.
You follow it carefully and a few feet away under a garden light you see a hutch, and crouched down in front of it, in a thin cardigan, is Michael.
You stop walking.
"There you go," he says with a voice so soft, softer than anything you’ve ever heard from him. It’s not his interview voice or his singing voice.
"I know, I know. You always want more, you're greedy, yes you are."
He's feeding the rabbits something green through the wire, one at a time. He’s patient, like he has nowhere else to be. One of the rabbits takes the leaf from his fingers and he laughs quietly to himself. The gentleness in his voice and his movements is so surprising that you can’t help but stay where you are.
You watch him. You should go home, but you watch him.
He talks to them the whole time about anything and everything, calls them sweet names and endearments, telling one of them it's beautiful and asking another if it’s warm enough. Then he reaches into the hutch and tucks the straw around a rabbit with two fingers like he's tucking in a child.
Twenty-two years old and one of the most famous young men in the country, crouched in the cold at almost midnight making sure a rabbit is comfortable. There's no wall around him. That's why you can’t stop looking.
When he’s around you, he’s distant and closed off, and here he’s soft, unguarded, and easy inside his own skin. You crouch on the grass with your tail wrapped around your feet thinking, so he can be like this. He just isn't like this with you.
You're so busy thinking about it that you miss him turning around.
"Oh," he says.
His eyes are on you. You go stone still, every muscle ready to bolt, and he sinks down slowly onto his heels and gets very quiet.
"Well, hello," he says softly. "Where did you come from?"
You should run for it. There's the hedge, there's the gate, there's the whole garden behind you and he couldn’t possibly chase you through it.
But you don't run.
He comes toward you in a crouched walk slowly, holding out one hand loosely, and he keeps his voice soft the whole way, "It's okay, I'm not gonna hurt you, look at you, out here all by yourself."
Up close his hand is so enormous it fills your whole vision, and he stops a polite distance away and just waits with it open in the cold air. And you don't know why you do it, but you lean in and touch your nose to his skin.
"Hi," he says, delighted, and his fingers slide along your jaw, up behind your ear, and…
Oh.
You didn't know how good that would feel. A scratch behind a cat’s ear. No wonder cats always looked like they lost their minds over it. You lean into his touch with your eyes half closed.
"Did you lose your way in here, hm?" His other hand comes carefully around and he's feeling at your neck, tilting his head. "No collar, no tag."
He pauses for a moment, then speaks in a softer voice than before. "You must be a stray. You got no owners, huh? Nobody's looking for you?"
Nobody's looking for you?
Your heart squeezes at those words.
"You're freezing," he says, and he’s right. Even though your fur helps, you’ve still been feeling the cold seeping up from the ground through your paws the past days.
"Come here, let me get you inside, it's so cold out here for you. Let me warm you up."
And he cradles you up into his arms.
You could jump down as he carries you to his studio. At any moment while he’s walking, you could just twist free and disappear into the night, but you don’t.
You don't know why you don't.
His cardigan smells like clean fabric softener and his heart is going against your ears, calm and even. The cold has been in your bones for weeks, and you just hold still and let yourself be carried across the garden by Michael Jackson like the animal you are. This is the first time since the night you got cursed that someone just took care of you and you let it happen because the last weeks’ exhaustion finally crashes onto you.
The studio is so warm. He sets you down on the couch, then goes searching and comes back with a blanket and wraps you carefully in it, tucking the edges around you the way he tucked the straw around the rabbit.
Your senses are not your old senses when you’re a cat. Everything is more heightened now, and the blanket is so soft and it smells like him, like the cardigan, warm and clean and sweet, and your body curls into it involuntarily. You tuck your paws under your chin.
"There you go," he says smiling. "Better?"
He gets you a saucer of milk from somewhere in the house and sets it down in front of you. And then, surprisingly, he apologizes to you. "I know you're supposed to give cats real food, I don't have any cat food, I'm sorry. Tomorrow, okay? If you're still here."
Then he runs the back of his index finger along the top of your head gently and goes to work.
That's the part nobody would believe if you told them. It's midnight and he goes to work, and you lie in a blanket on the couch of his studio and watch Michael Jackson build a song out of nothing.
The tape keeps rolling and rewinding. He sings a line, then stops, shakes his head and sings it again and again. Each time with a tiny change until he finally finds the version he’s satisfied with, and you can see his whole face open the exact moment it happens.
Then he moves on to the next line. He beatboxes rhythms into the microphone, he stacks his own voice on top of itself to try out an idea in his head, he scribbles on a notebook, he stands in the middle of the room with his eyes shut and one hand moving like he's conducting something only he can hear.
You can see he’s dead tired from the yawns he keeps swallowing and from the way he leans on the console between takes. He still pushes through as if he can’t allow himself to take a break.
His voice fills the room for hours. You’ve always admired his work ethic, even though you couldn’t stand him as a person. But those two were different things, you were good at separating the artist from the art. You’ve never watched him work like this before, and you lie there in your blanket thinking about the man who couldn't spare you five words in March, trying to fit him and the man who took care of you tonight together.
They don't fit.
You come to the only conclusion you can think of. He’s only gentle when he’s around animals. Animals and music. It’s probably people he looks down on, especially people who are staff, like you. That’s why he’s distant with you and won’t even spare you a look, always lowering his eyes. You notice his disdain for you constantly.
Still, the thought has a logical gap in it that you conveniently ignore. Because he’s nice to other staff.
Somewhere past three o'clock he finally surrenders. "Okay," he says to nobody, "okay, okay," and he stretches his body until something pops.
Then he comes over to the couch and looks down at you, smiling like you're a present he forgot he had. "You're still here."
He gathers you up, blanket and all, and lies back on the couch with you on his chest.
"What a long day," he murmurs. His hand absent-mindedly finds your ear again. "Long, long day. Everybody wants something, you know? Everybody. All day long."
He stops talking when a yawn makes its way out of him. "You don't want anything. You're just soft." His fingers trail down your back and up again. "You're the best thing that happened today, you know that? You're so adorable. Yes you are."
You start purring involuntarily when he presses a gentle kiss behind your ear, the way he kissed the rabbits.
"Night night," he says.
He's asleep in two minutes. And just like that, the hand on your back goes heavy, his breathing slows down, and you lie on the chest of the man you've hated since March, rising when he inhales, falling when he exhales.
You should leave now. But you decide to stay a while. You tell yourself that moving away would wake him up.
Up close his face has nothing in it but exhaustion, only twenty-two years old and already worn out and you can't help thinking, nobody sees this.
Because this is a private moment you have no right to look into. You, of all people, who hated him since your first meeting, and yet here you are, witnessing his vulnerability without earning it, without him even knowing he's allowing it.
It changes nothing about how you feel about him, you tell yourself. You still can't stand him. But maybe, you think as his heart beats steadily under your ear, there's now a new layer on top of the old hatred, something you can actually respect: the work. You saw it tonight with your own eyes. Nobody can take that away from him, and you're honest enough to admit it.
The fear of sunrise is what finally moves you, because if you fall asleep, you wake up as a woman on his chest, and there's no possible way in which you could explain that to him, so you step off him slowly, one paw at a time and gently jump onto the floor.
He stirs but doesn't wake up, his hand sliding off into the space where you had been moments ago.
He's thankfully left a window open a crack for fresh air, just like you do. You manage to squeeze through the gap and drop into the flowerbed. Immediately you feel the cold again.
At the gate you stop and look back once. The studio light is still on and it’s the only light coming from the estate.
It’s almost 4 o’clock when you arrive home and you jump onto your bed, allowing yourself to sleep a few more hours before you have to go to work.
When you wake up again in your human form, the first thing you do is bring your wrist up to your face.
Your sleeve smells like his blanket.
I worked hard on this fic, so I hope you like it ❤️
If there are any errors, please excuse them. I did proofread this fic, but I did it quickly so I might have missed a lot of typos or grammatical mistakes.
