richyrich

thank u next

[prettygirlwmula]

• ○ ° ★　 .　 *° :. 　 *° :☾ 　 *° :●. 　 *　°☆　. * ● ¸ . 　

🎧”𝗠𝗼𝗼𝗻 𝘁𝗲𝗹𝗹 𝗺𝗲 𝗶𝗳 𝗜 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱,

𝗦𝗲𝗻𝗱 𝘂𝗽 𝗺𝘆 𝗵𝗲𝗮𝗿𝘁 𝘁𝗼 𝘆𝗼𝘂?”


╰╮ᴍʏ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴍɪɴᴇ ᴀʟʟ ᴍɪɴᴇ - ᴍɪᴛsᴋɪ

•　•　° ★　•　•　° ★　•　•　° ★　•　•　° ★

╰╮# [leah]﹐[she/her] ﹐[straight]៹˚₊

｡˚ ᵎ｡ ┊ ⇢ ☾ [i love Micheal Jackson if you couldn’t tell ] ₊ · ੭｡

｡˚ ᵎ ┊ ⇢ ｡ ✧ ° ｡ • ₊ · ੭｡

┊ ⇢ ● ࿐ ˊˎ

｡˚ ᵎ ┊ ⇢

♡ ╰ ⇢ 𖤐 ˎˊ˗

.　 * 　.　 ○ ° ★　 .　 * 　. * ● ¸ . 　★ ° . *★　 


[strangerexee]

ʙᴀʙʏ ɢɪʀʟ ɢᴏᴛ ᴍᴇ ꜱᴏ ᴏʙꜱᴇꜱꜱᴇᴅ | ᴍɪᴄʜᴀᴇʟ ᴊᴀᴄᴋꜱᴏɴ¹

، summary𓈒 this man was literally the talk of the town, that town being new orleans; everybody loved him. he was hands down the most generous, gentlest soul you’d ever meet, or so you thought. you would’ve bet your last dollar he didn't have a mean bone in his body, let alone think he’d ever kidnap you. but baby, you thought wrong.

، pairing𓈒 yandere!michael jackson x black!fem!reader

، warnings𓈒 captivity, non consensual restraint, stalking, gaslighting, manipulation, historical violence (murder of an ex partner & more), forced dependency, complex trauma, loss of autonomy, drugging (chloroform), torture, dead dove do not eat or wtv.

، notes𓈒 this is like such a shitty plot, i'm sorry...i couldn't really think of anything else. here’s the preview of you’d like to read that…it’s nice..

، taglist𓈒 @divaaprincess , @myxstrx , @uh444 @dirtydih , @cannonindeez , @saigesspace , @junhuisfairy , @dicksapointed , @bbybeminee , @4ngelfacee , @lyneaa , @theonlyfemme , @mrsjacks0nn , @swavydadon , @xonyx-ravenx , @superstar-t20 , @li-da-savage , @blkkbratt , @yslamore , @niyahctrl , @yamumsfavourite1623 , @mirasjointtttttt , @saintwrld , @sukunasstomachtongue , @chocotragedy , @ooooglymoooogly (go here to be added!!)

want more? go here! 𐃘 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 + 𝐂𝐑𝐀𝐙𝐘 𝐉𝐀𝐂𝐊𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐒 𝐌𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

The transition from deep, suffocating unconsciousness to…well, consciousness, was a slow crawl.

The first thing that registered was the pain. A dull, throb heavy ache pulsed right at the base of your skull, radiating down into your neck. When you tried to shift your weight to relieve the pressure, a sharp, biting sting flared across your lower back. Your muscles were stiff, locked up from hours of being kept in an unnatural, rigid position.

You tried to blink, but everything remained pitch black. A thick, coarse fabric was tied tightly around your head, covering your eyes and blocking out every single shred of light. You instinctively tried to bring your hands up to tear the blindfold off, but the sharp, heavy clink of metal echoed in the quiet space.

Your wrists were bound behind your back. Heavy, iron cuffs bit mercilessly into your skin, connected by a short, taut chain that allowed for absolutely zero movement.

Panic suddenly flooded your veins. You opened your mouth to scream for help, to call out to anyone who might be within earshot, but all that came out was a muffled, choked whimper. A thick cloth gag was wedged between your teeth, tied securely at the back of your head, pressing down on your tongue and rendering you completely silent.

The air around you felt entirely different from the damp, drafty quarters you were used to. It smelled of expensive things; sweet beeswax candles, fine french lavender, and the faint, distinct scent of a high grade pomade. This was an estate room. A wealthy man's room.

Footsteps echoed in the space. They were slow and entirely unhurried, the click of expensive leather boots tapping against polished hardwood floors.

The footsteps stopped right in front of you. You instinctively pulled back, your spine pressing hard against the solid wood of the chair you were bound to, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.

A pair of hands gently settled onto your shoulders. The touch was incredibly soft, almost reverent, completely contrasting the brutal reality of the chains holding you down. The fingers were long and slender, tracing the line of your collarbone through the cotton of your dress with a terrifyingly familiar tenderness.

"Shh...quiet now, my sweet girl," a voice murmured.

The sound of that voice made your entire body go rigid.

Mr. Jackson.

He was the wealthiest landowner in Louisiana, a man of immense status and quiet, reclusive habits. When he had first hired you to help manage the upkeep of his massive estate's library, you thought he was the sweetest, most gentle man you had ever encountered. In a world that was unforgiving and harsh, especially to a young Black woman like yourself, Mr. Jackson had been a sanctuary. He spoke to you with a soft, soft spoken deference. He brought you imported chocolates, complimented your intelligence, and always looked at you with eyes that seemed to see right through to your soul. You thought he was a protector. You thought he was kind.

So what the absolute fuck was this?

"I know you must be frightened," Michael whispered, his breath warm against the shell of your ear as he leaned down. "I know your head hurts. The chloroform...it can be quite brutal when it wears off, and you did kinda hit your head. I truly apologize for the discomfort, my love. But you left me with absolutely no choice."

You frantically shook your head, the heavy iron chains rattling loudly as you twisted your wrists, trying to find some slack, any way to break free.

"Stop, stop...don't do that. You'll only bruise your beautiful skin," he chided softly, his tone shifting into something slightly stern, like a parent correcting a stubborn child. He reached around the back of your head, his fingers deftly working at the knot of the blindfold.

The fabric fell away, and you automatically closed your eyes against the sudden, bright light. You blinked rapidly, trying to clear the blurriness from your vision.

The room was huge, and luxurious, and dimly lit by the golden glow of a dozen beeswax candles. Heavy velvet drapes covered the tall windows, sealing the room off from the outside world entirely. And standing right in front of you, looking down with an expression of devotion, was Michael.

He was dressed immaculately, as always, a crisp, white shirt, a dark silk vest, and his hair perfectly styled in soft, gleaming curls that framed his striking features. He looked like one of those oil paintings, all calm and poised and shit, completely unbothered by the fact that he had a woman chained to a chair in his private chambers.

He knelt down in front of you, his long legs folding elegantly as he brought himself to your eye level. He reached up, his long fingers gently untying the cloth gag from your mouth.

The moment the fabric cleared your lips, you didn't hesitate. "Michael, what the fuck is wrong with you?! Let me go! Unchain me right now!"

He didn't flinch at your language or your shouting. In fact, a faint, incredibly beautiful smile touched his lips, his eyes sparkling with a terrifying sort of pride.

"You always did have such fire in you," he murmured, reaching out to gently cup your burning cheek. You tried to bite his hand, snapping your teeth at him, but he merely chuckled, pulling his fingers back just out of reach. "So beautifully fierce. It’s the very thing that made me fall so deeply in love with you."

"You're fucking insane!" you gasped out, tears of anger and frustration already spilling over your lower lashes. "My family...my brothers, they're going to come looking for me! They know I work here! They'll find me!"

Michael’s smile slowly faded, replaced by an expression of calm. He reached into his vest pocket, pulling out a monogrammed silk handkerchief, and gently wiped the tears from your cheeks.

"No, they won't," he said, his voice dropping into a tone so steady and absolute it chilled you to the bone. "Because as far as your family is concerned, you packed your bags and boarded a train back to North last night. I took the liberty of sending a letter in your handwriting, which I’ve spent months perfecting, mind you, explaining that you found a better life elsewhere and that you wished not to be contacted."

Your breath hitched, the gravity of his words crashing down on you. He had planned this. He had planned every single detail. He had killed your ex boyfriend too. Which is why you’re here; but you had to ask-

"Why?" you whispered, your voice cracking as the reality of your situation began to settle in. "Why are you doing this to me? I thought you were a good man."

"I am a good man," Michael insisted softly, his hand moving to rest over his heart, his expression entirely sincere. "I am a man who recognizes a rare, priceless treasure when he sees one. Do you truly not understand the world we live in? Out there, you are subjected to the cruelty of small minds. Out there, men like Thomas think they can diminish you. They think they can possess you or treat you like you are nothing!”

He leaned closer.

"I cannot allow them to look at you anymore," he whispered, his fingers gently tracing the shape of your jaw. "I cannot allow this wretched world to touch you, or taint you, or take you away from me. Here, in this room, you are safe. You are a queen. I will give you everything your heart desires; fine silks, the rarest books, the most exquisite foods. My love. You will never have to work another day in your life. You will never have to face the coldness of society again."

"By keeping me in chains?!" you screamed, throwing your weight forward, the iron links rattling violently. "This isn't love, Michael! This is a fucking prison!"

Michael sighed, a heavy, sorrowful sound as he stood up, smoothing down the front of his vest. He looked down at you, his eyes filled with certainty.

"It is a sanctuary, my love," he corrected gently, walking over to a small table and pouring a glass of dark red wine. "And the chains are only temporary. Only until you realize that your place is by my side. Until you accept that we belong to one another, completely and eternally."

He walked back over, setting the glass down on a nearby stand before bending down to press a soft, lingering kiss directly to your forehead. The warmth of his lips made your skin crawl.

"Get some rest, my sweet girl," Michael murmured, picking up the glass before turning on his heel and walking toward the door. "I’ll return in the morning with breakfast. We have the rest of our lives to get used to this."

His movement died for a second.

“Oh, and please be quiet.” The heavy door clicked shut, the sound of the deadbolt sliding into place echoing through the silent room like a gunshot.

You didn't care about his warnings, his wealth, or his twisted version of romance. You opened your mouth and let out a blood curdling scream that tore right from the depths of your throat.

"HELP! SOMEBODY HELP ME! MICHAEL, LET ME THE FUCK OUT OF HERE RIGHT FUCKING NOW!!"

You screamed until the veins in your neck bulged. You screamed until your throat felt like it was coated in sandpaper. You thrashed against the chair, violently jerking your arms forward, ignoring the way the heavy cuffs tore into your wrists, drawing thin lines of heat across your skin. You screamed for hours. You lost track of time in that windowless, candlelit purgatory, but you kept going, hoping to God that a maid, a stable boy, anybody passing by the estate might hear you.

But you weren't dealing with a normal man. Michael had picked this room specifically. The walls were thick, and the only person close enough to hear you was the very man who put you there.

Suddenly, the heavy lock clicked again.

The door swung open with a harsh bang, and Michael stepped into the room. The elegant, pristine gentleman from earlier was gone. Now, he was dressed in his nighttime attire; some silk, dark blue matching pajamas with white piping down the chest. His hair was slightly disheveled, a few loose curls falling wildly over his forehead, and his jaw was set in a tight line.

He moved across the room so fucking fast, though his feet made absolutely no sound against the floor. Before you could even inhale to let out another shriek, his hand shot forward, his long fingers clamping over your jaw with a bruising force that forced your mouth wide open.

"I asked you to be quiet," he hissed, his usual soft voice replaced by a dark rasp that made your stomach drop.

He pulled out a thick linen rag from his pocket. He stuffed it into your mouth, using his thumb to shove it deep behind your teeth, filling your mouth entirely until you choked, your eyes watering as your gag reflex kicked in. He didn't care that you were making muffled, suffocating noises; he pulled the outer binding around your lips and cranked it tight, tying the knot at the back of your head with a sudden jerk.

The fabric dug mercilessly into the corners of your mouth, stretching your lips to the point of cracking, pinching the sensitive skin until a sharp, throbbing pain flared through your entire face. It hurt like a bitch to say the least.

The moment the knot was secure, the anger in Michael’s eyes instantly vanished, melting back into that terrifying, soft spoken remorse. He dropped to his knees in front of you, his long hands immediately cradling your face, his touch suddenly trembling and gentle.

"God, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, my love," he whispered, his eyes looking up at you with genuine tears welling in them. He used his thumb to softly wipe away the tears streaming down your cheeks, completely unbothered by how hard you were glaring at him. "I didn't want to do that. I truly didn't. But you're going to ruin your beautiful voice, and the servants...I cannot risk them getting annoyed by you. Please, forgive me. Just sleep. Please, just rest."

He stood up, looking down at you with a heartbroken expression, before turning on his heel and leaving you in the dim room.

The next morning arrived, though you couldn't tell. In that sealed off room, time was an illusion. The candles had eventually burned down to mere stubs. Your jaw was completely locked in a dull, throbbing ache from the tight gag, and your throat felt swollen in a way.

The door unlocked, and Michael walked in. He was dressed for the day again; a fresh white shirt and dark trousers, looking refreshed, like he hadn't brutally silenced you a few hours prior.

In his hands, he carried a silver basin filled with steaming hot water, a clean cloth resting over his shoulder, and a small ivory toothbrush along with a cup of mint infused water. He set the basin down on the side table and approached you with a warm, cheerful smile, as if this were just a normal morning routine between a husband and wife.

"Good morning, my beautiful girl," he murmured softly.

He knelt down and reached behind your head, gently untying the gag. The moment the fabric came out, your jaw involuntarily clicked, a sharp pain shooting up to your ears. You couldn't even scream if you wanted to; your mouth was so dry your tongue felt stuck to the roof of your mouth. You instantly spat a bit of saliva onto the floor, glaring daggers at him.

"Let's get you cleaned up," he said, completely ignoring your hostility.

He dipped the clean cloth into the warm water, wringing it out thoroughly. He reached up, his hand steady as he began to gently wipe your face. He was meticulous, carefully cleaning away the dried tear tracks from the night before, washing your forehead, your cheeks, and gently dabbing at the raw, pinched corners of your mouth. The warm water felt good against your aching skin, but the intimacy of it made your skin crawl. You twisted your face away from his hand.

Michael’s hand paused. He didn't get angry. He just firmly but gently grabbed your chin, forcing your face back toward him.

"Hold still, let me care for you," he whispered.

Once your face was clean, he picked up the ivory toothbrush and the cup. "Open up, sweet girl. Let's brush those pretty teeth."

"Get away from me," you croaked, your voice barely a raspy whisper. "I can do it myself. Unchain my hands."

Michael let out a soft, amused chuckle, tilting his head. "Now, you know I can't do that just yet. Come now, don't be stubborn."

When you kept your lips pressed tightly together, Michael’s expression shifted. The warm, cheerful smile vanished, replaced by a calm, chilling neutrality. He set the toothbrush down and leaned in incredibly close, his big ass eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made the breath catch in your dry throat.

He reached out, his long fingers gently trailing down your neck, his thumb resting right over your pulse point, feeling the frantic, rapid beat of your heart.

"You know, my love..." Michael began, his voice a low purr, delivering the threat in the sweetest, most polite tone imaginable. "I want nothing more than to treat you like the lady you are. I want to feed you from silver platters, buy you the finest gowns, and love you until the end of days. But if you choose to make this difficult...if you refuse to let me care for you, or if you ever scream like you did last night again...I will be forced to ensure you can never speak at all."

He smiled, a gentle, beautiful smile that didn't reach his cold eyes.

"And I would truly hate to have a doctor remove that lovely little tongue of yours just to keep our secret safe," he murmured, his thumb lightly pressing against your throat just enough to make you swallow hard. "We don't want that, do we? We want to be happy here. Together."

He pulled his hand back, picking the toothbrush back up and holding it out, his expression instantly flipping back to warm and inviting.

"Now...open up for me, please."

Defeated, exhausted, and utterly terrified by the casual malice hidden behind his sweet words, you slowly opened your mouth. Michael smiled brightly, leaning forward to gently brush your teeth, treating you like a porcelain doll he had every intention of keeping broken in his cage forever.

He didn’t rush the process. He spent another few minutes carefully rinsing your mouth, holding the silver cup of water to your raw lips, patiently waiting as you sipped and spat into the basin. When he was finally satisfied that you were completely clean, he patted your face dry with a fresh velvet towel, his movements so delicate you could almost forget the heavy iron cuffs still eating into your wrists behind your back. Almost.

He stood up, towering over you, smoothing down the front of his white shirt.

"There now," he murmured. "Much better. A beautiful girl should always start her morning feeling fresh."

He walked over to the table, setting the silver basin down. He rested his long, slender fingers on the edge of the wood, tilting his head back to look at you over his shoulder.

"Now that we've taken care of that, we need to get some food into your system. You burned a great deal of energy last night with all that fuss," he said, his tone carrying a light, almost teasing amusement that made your blood boil. "What is it you want to eat, my love? Name anything your heart desires, and I’ll have the kitchen prepare it immediately."

You stared at him, your eyes burning with a mixture of exhaustion and deep hatred. Your jaw was still throbbing from the hours it had spent stretched around that fuckass rag, and your throat felt like it was lined with broken glass.

You swallowed hard, trying to summon enough moisture to speak.

"Porridge," you croaked out, your voice barely a faint, raspy whisper that carried no further than a few inches in front of your face. "And some tea. With honey."

Michael stayed perfectly still by the table. He didn't blink. He just stared at you, his pretty eyes hooding slightly as his face flattened into a calm, unbothered neutrality. The playful warmth from a moment ago vanished, replaced with something else entirely.

"Speak up," he commanded softly. His voice wasn't raised, but it carried a dangerous edge. "You know I dislike it when you mumble. Raise your voice and ask me properly."

You felt a hot flash of anger tear through your chest, momentarily burning away the fear. You glared at him, pouring every single ounce of your disgust into the look, wishing your eyes could strike him dead where he stood, because you didn't know shit! He was the one who had jammed a gag down your throat until you choked; he was the one who had ruined your voice, and now he was standing there playing the grand master of the house, demanding politeness.

You took a ragged, heavy breath, your chest heaving against the tight constraints of your dress.

"I WANT PORRIDGE!" you snapped, your voice cracking violently on the words, the raw friction in your throat making you wince. "AND HOT TEA WITH HONEY, MICHAEL! IS THAT LOUD ENOUGH FOR YOU!?"

Instead of getting angry at your outburst, Michael’s expression instantly broke into a wide, brilliant smile. The sudden shift was dizzying, making your head hurt like crazy. He let out a soft laugh, his white teeth gleaming as he walked back over to you.

"Perfect," he whispered, leaning down to pinch your cheek gently, ignoring the way you tried to jerk away from his touch. "See? I know that beautiful voice is still in there. You just have to use it for the right things."

He gathered the silver basin, the toothbrush, and the rags, balancing them all in one hand with the effortless grace of a man born to luxury. He walked over to the heavy door, unlocking it. He stepped out into the hallway, turning back to give you one last, lingering look.

"I shall return shortly, my sweet girl. Don't go anywhere," he joked softly, before closing the door and sliding the heavy deadbolt back into place.

True to his word, it took about thirty minutes. Thirty agonizingly long, silent minutes where you sat alone, staring at the closed door, the reality of your absolute captivity sinking deeper into your bones. Your back was screaming from the rigid wooden chair, and your wrists were throbbing where the iron cuffs had chafed against your skin.

The door opened again.

Michael stepped back into the room, carrying a heavy, polished silver tray. The aroma hit your nose instantly, making your stomach do an involuntary, painful flip. He had brought exactly what you asked for. A bowl of thick, steaming porridge swirled with brown sugar and cream, a teacup filled with dark tea, and a small crystal jar of pure honey.

He set the tray down on the small table right beside your chair. He pulled up a cushioned stool, smoothing his trousers as he sat directly in front of you.

He picked up the silver spoon, ladling a small, perfect portion of the warm porridge. He blew on it gently before holding it up to your lips.

You didn't open your mouth. You just stared at the steaming food, a sudden spike of paranoia freezing you in place.

"Come now," Michael said softly, his voice dripping with patience. "It's getting cold. Take a bite."

You lifted your gaze from the spoon, locking your eyes directly onto his calm ones.

"Did you poison it?" you whispered, your voice still cracked and fragile.

Michael stopped. The spoon remained suspended in the air between you two. The warm, doting expression on his face slowly melted away, replaced by a heavy, unreadable look. His eyes narrowed just a fraction, a flash of offense flickering in the dark depths of his pupils. It was the look of a man who prided himself on his absolute, twisted devotion, a man who genuinely believed he was saving you, not harming you.

"Poison you?" he repeated, his voice dropping into a low, terrifyingly quiet tone that made the hairs on your arms stand up. He slowly lowered the spoon back into the bowl, never breaking eye contact. "After everything I have done to ensure your safety?"

He leaned forward, his face coming so close you could see the amber flecks in his eyes, the gravity of his obsession radiating off him like heat.

"If I wanted you dead, my love, I would have left you out in that wretched world to be torn apart by the wolves," he whispered, his fingers reaching up to slowly trace the line of your lower lip. "I do not want to destroy you. I want to keep you. Forever. Now...open your mouth and eat the food I had prepared for you."

Your lower lip trembled beneath the pressure of his finger. The smell of the brown sugar and cream was torturing your empty stomach, but his eyes was what truly forced your hand.

Slowly, reluctantly, you opened your mouth.

Michael’s expression instantly softened, a tiny, satisfied smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he slid the spoon into your mouth. The warm porridge was thick and sweet, coating your raw, scratched throat and providing an immediate, desperate relief to your empty stomach. You swallowed hard, the warmth spreading through your chest, though the food tasted like ash in your mouth because of who was feeding it to you.

"There," Michael murmured, his voice dropping back into that gentle, doting purr as he scooped another perfect spoonful. "There's my good girl. See? I told you it wasn't poisoned. I only want to make sure you're strong."

He fed you slowly. Every time you finished a bite, he would take a white silk handkerchief and gently dab at the corner of your mouth, ensuring not a single drop of cream marred your skin. He followed the porridge with small, careful sips of the hot honey tea, holding the delicate porcelain cup to your lips like you were a fragile glass doll that would shatter if he handled you too roughly. You hated every second of it. You hated how dependent you were on his hands just to survive, but you ate every bite, knowing you needed your strength if you were ever going to find a way out of this nightmare.

When the bowl was completely empty, Michael set the tray back down on the table. He stood up, stretching his long legs, and looked down at you with his hands resting casually on his hips. His eyes scanned your rigid posture, taking in the way your shoulders slumped from the exhaustion of being chained upright for nearly twenty four hours.

"You must be terribly uncomfortable in that chair," he said, his voice laced with a sudden, deep empathy that felt entirely misplaced given the situation. He walked around to the back of the chair, his shoes clicking softly against the floor, and placed his large hands on your shoulders. "Your back must be aching fiercely. And these irons...they're so hard against your skin, aren't they?"

You stayed perfectly still, your heart starting to pick up its pace again. "Yes," you whispered, your voice still cracked.

Michael leaned down, his soft curls brushing against your cheek as he whispered into your ear from behind. "I have a beautiful room upstairs, my love. A room with massive windows that look out over the gardens, though they're locked tight, of course. It has the softest feather mattress you've ever felt, nice sheets. A crackling fireplace to keep you warm. I would love nothing more than to take you up there, to unlock these heavy chains from your wrists, and let you rest like a queen."

He paused, his hands sliding down your arms, his fingers lightly tracing the edges of the cuffs.

"But that privileges requires absolute trust," he murmured. "It requires you to promise me that you are going to cooperate. That you are going to be good for me. No more screaming. No more fighting. Just peace. If you can do that, I will take you out of this dark room right now. What do you say?"

A desperate wave of hope and calculation rushed through your mind. A room with a bed. A room without chains. If you could just get him to untie your hands, you’d have a chance. You could look for a weapon, a weak point in the windows, anything.

You didn't want to look at him, but you needed to convince him. You quickly nodded your head, jerking it up and down to show your agreement.

Michael didn't move. He didn't reach for the keys in his pocket. Instead, the silence in the room stretched out, growing heavy and suffocating. You could feel his gaze burning into the side of your face.

"No," Michael said softly, his voice dropping into a stern, chilling tone. He walked back around the chair, stepping directly into your line of sight. He looked down at you, his features flat, his jaw set. "Use your words, my love. You know a simple nod isn't enough for something this important. I need to hear it from those beautiful lips. Tell me."

You glared up at him, your chest heaving as the humiliation burned in your gut. He was playing with you, forcing you to beg for basic human comfort, demanding complete submission before he'd even think about easing your pain. You swallowed the lump of pride in your throat, your voice cracking as you forced the words out into the quiet room.

"I'll be good," you rasped, the words tasting like poison on your tongue. "I'll cooperate, Michael. Please...just take the chains off."

Michael stared at you for a long beat, searching your eyes for any sign of deceit. For a second, you thought he was going to refuse, that he was going to see right through your lie. But then, a breathtaking smile broke across his face, transforming him back into the sweet, gentle man you thought you knew.

"Beautiful," he whispered, reaching into his vest pocket and pulling out a heavy iron key. "That is exactly what I wanted to hear."

The heavy iron key slid into the locks of the cuffs and the moment the metal parted from your skin, a rush of cold air hit your raw, bruised wrists. You instinctively tried to bring your hands forward to rub at the deep, red indentations, but your muscles were so stiff and locked up from hours of tension that they barely moved. You let out a soft, involuntary whimper of pain, your shoulders slumping forward in exhaustion.

Before your feet could even ground the cold floor, his long arms slid beneath you; one supporting your aching back, the other hooking securely under your knees. He lifted you out of that wooden chair effortlessly, pulling your body against his chest.

He smelled so clean.

"Shhh, I got you, sweet girl," he whispered, his voice vibrating right against your ribs as he turned toward the door.

You didn't have the strength to fight him, so you let your head rest heavily against his shoulder, your eyes wide as the door swung open and he carried you out of the dark.

You had worked in his estate library for months, but you had never actually been inside the residential wing of his house. The scale of it was overwhelming. As Michael carried you down the expansive, high ceilinged hallways, your eyes darted to every corner, trying to map out the layout, trying to find anything you could use to your advantage later.

It was nice. Ridiculously nice. And absolutely massive.

The floors were a gleaming, polished marble that reflected the light from the windows. Huge chandeliers hung above, their crystal teardrops catching the sun. As Michael walked with steady, unhurried steps, you caught sight of massive, heavy double doors made of dark oak, leading into rooms that looked big enough to house an entire family.

But the most terrifying part wasn't the size of the house; it was the people.

As you passed through the grand foyer, you saw servants. Lots of them. A maid in a crisp white apron was meticulously dusting a grandfather clock; a butler stood near the formal dining room entrance; two footmen were carrying a heavy trunk down a distant hall.

Your heart leaped into your throat. People. Real people.

You opened your mouth, a desperate impulse to scream, to yell for help, rising up in your chest. But before a single sound could leave your throat, Michael’s grip on your waist tightened just enough to be a warning. He didn't look down at you, but his jaw clenched. The servants didn't even look up. As Michael carried you past them, they simply bowed their heads, completely ignoring the fact that their master was carrying a disheveled, traumatized woman through the halls. They were entirely conditioned to mind their business. The realization hit you like a physical blow: nobody in this house was going to save you. They belonged to him.

Michael carried you up a massive, winding grand staircase, his breathing perfectly steady, as if you weighed nothing at all. He turned down a long hallway where the walls were lined with expensive oil paintings, finally stopping in front of a pair of towering double doors at the very end of the hall.

He pushed one open with his shoulder and stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind him.

The bedroom was exactly how he had described it, but seeing it in the light made it feel even more like a beautiful cage. Though the massive windows lined the far wall, letting in streams of bright afternoon sunlight, offering a beautiful view of the sprawling green gardens below, was what really caught your attention. You looked at them almost hungrily, but you could see the iron latches built into the frames. They were locked tight from the inside. No key, no escape.

Michael walked over to the bed and slowly, gently lowered you onto the mattress.

The softness of the featherbed felt incredible against your aching back, a big difference to the wooden chair you’d been trapped in for hours. You practically sank into the layers of cotton, your legs trembling slightly as the tension finally began to drain from your muscles.

Michael didn't immediately move away. He stayed kneeling on the edge of the mattress, his face close to yours as his eyes searched your face. He reached out, his long, slender fingers gently brushing a stray curl away from your forehead, his touch warm and terrifyingly tender.

"There now," he murmured. "When you use your words, and when you're good for me, I will give you the world, my sweet girl. You're safe up here. You're home."

You swallowed the dryness in your throat, forcing your expression to soften, making your eyes look as tired and small as possible.

"Michael..." you whispered, your voice cracking slightly from the rawness. "Can you...can you please back up? Just get out of my face for a little bit. Please."

For a fraction of a second, his fingers stilled against your cheek. Your heart did a violent flip against your ribs, wondering if you’d pushed too hard, if the "please" hadn't been enough to mask the rejection. But then, Michael’s lips curved into a tiny, indulgent smile. He took it lightly, letting out a soft, amused huff through his nose as he lifted his hands in a gesture of mock surrender.

"All right, all right," he murmured, his voice laced with that gentle shit. He slid off the edge of the high mattress, stepping back a few paces until there was a comfortable distance between you. He smoothed down the front of his dark vest, looking at you like an indulgent guardian dealing with a tired child. "I can give you some space. You've had a very long, trying night, my love. I understand."

You let out a breath you didn't realize you were holding, your shoulders sinking further into the plush velvet pillows of the canopy bed. Your eyes immediately darted past his hip, tracking the layout of the room again. The fire popped in the hearth, throwing warm orange light across the room, but the size of the space just made you feel smaller.

Michael crossed his arms, leaning his hip casually against one of the bedposts. He studied you, his eyes never truly losing that sharp, calculating look even when his posture was relaxed.

"Now that you're comfortable," he began. "Is there anything else you need? Anything at all to make you feel more at home up here?"

You looked up at him, the bitter truth slipping to the tip of your tongue before you could stop it. "I want to leave."

Michael didn't get angry. He just tilted his head, a faint, almost pitying smile touching the corners of his lips. He let out a soft sigh, shook his head gently, and tapped his long fingers against the wooden post. "Well...other than that, sweet girl. You know we've already discussed that. This is your home now. Think of something realistic."

You clenched your jaw inside your mouth, hiding your fury behind a blank face. You knew better than to argue about your freedom right now. You needed to focus on the immediate necessities; getting clean, getting out of this dress, and finding a way to feel human again.

"I want to take a shower," you said, making sure to keep your voice steady, and perfectly polite so he wouldn't find an excuse to check your attitude. "And I need some clean clothes. Please."

The word please felt like sandpaper on your tongue, but it worked like magic on him. Michael’s smile widened, his eyes crinkling at the corners with genuine delight. Hearing you ask him nicely, using your words exactly the way he wanted, was clearly feeding into the sick, domestic fantasy he had built up in his head.

"A bath," he corrected gently, pointing toward a heavy, arched door on the left side of the bedroom that you hadn't noticed before. "There is a beautiful clawfoot tub in the adjoining washroom. The water is drawn from the local springs and heated daily. And as for clothes..." he pressed his tongue against his cheek before he walked over to a massive, beautifully carved wardrobe that stood against the far wall. He pulled the heavy double doors open, revealing rows upon rows of silk, velvet, and fine cotton dresses, all tailored in rich, deep colors. Your stomach dropped as you stared at the full wardrobe.

"I had these brought in weeks ago," Michael murmured, his fingers lovingly brushing against the sleeve of a soft cotton day dress. "I chose the fabrics myself. I knew they would look absolutely exquisite against your beautiful skin."

He pulled the dress from the wardrobe, along with a set of fresh undergarments, and draped them carefully over his arm. He walked back over to the bed, setting the clean clothes down at the very foot of the mattress, far enough away that he wouldn't be invading your space again.

"I will have the maids bring up fresh linens and ensure the water is perfectly warm for you," Michael said, his voice dropping into a low promise as he backed toward the bedroom doors. He paused at the exit, his hand resting on the brass handle, giving you one last, long look. "Take your time, my love. Wash away the stress of yesterday. I’ll be waiting right outside when you're done."

You merely nodded. The moment the door clicked shut behind him, the tension left your shoulders, and you finally allowed yourself to breathe.

Michael leaned his back against the double doors of the bedchamber, the soft click of the brass lock signaling that you were safely enclosed within your new room. He let out a slow, measured breath, the tension finally draining from his own shoulders.

He stood there for a long moment, listening to the faint, hesitant rustle of the mattress springs inside as you finally shifted your aching body. A wave of relief washed over him. You were upstairs. You were in a bed. You had used your words, you had eaten his food, and you had looked at him with those beautiful eyes without screaming.

A passing housemaid, carrying a stack of fresh fabrics, froze a few paces down the hallway, her head immediately bowing.

"Madison," Michael called out. "The young lady requires a warm bath. Ensure the pipes are clear and the water is heated to a comfortable temperature. Fetch the jasmine oils from the pantry. When she is finished, leave her be. No one is to disturb her but me."

"Yes, Mr. Jackson," the maid murmured.

"If she attempts to speak to you," Michael added, his voice remaining impossibly sweet, "you will nod, complete your work, and exit. Should I find out that you engaged in unnecessary conversation...well. I'm sure I don't need to remind you of the generous salary I pay your family."

"No, sir. Not a word, sir," the girl whispered, her face pale as she curtsied and hurried off toward the servants' stairs.

With his orders given, Michael turned and walked down the grand corridor, his shoes clicking against the polished floor. He bypassed the grand staircase and headed straight for his private study at the eastern wing of the mansion. He unlocked the door, stepped inside, and locked it securely behind him, needing the absolute solace of the room to finally sort through the chaotic rhythm of his own heart.

He walked over to his grand desk, pouring two fingers of whiskey into a crystal glass. His hand trembled slightly as he lifted the glass to his lips.

He took a slow, burning swallow, staring out the window, rubbing a long hand over his face.

He hadn't meant for it to get out of hand like this. He truly hadn't. In his mind, he was a gentleman; a man of high status, refinement, and immense gentleness. He had never envisioned himself dragging the woman he worshipped down into a dark, candlelit cellar, chaining her wrists to a wooden chair, or jamming a linen gag into her mouth until she choked on her own cries. The memory of your frantic, muffled whimpers from the night before flashed in his mind, making his chest tighten with a sharp pang of genuine remorse. He had hated hurting you. He had hated the terror in your eyes.

But you had left him with absolutely no choice. You were going to ruin everything. You were going to destroy the beautiful future he had meticulously built for the two of you.

He leaned back and sat down in his chair, his eyes tracking the flickering flames of the small hearth in his study, and let his mind drift back to where it all began. Months ago. Before the chains. Before everything.

It had started off as a little crush. Or, at least, that’s what he tried to tell himself initially.

You were new to town. You stood in the doorway holding a worn satchel, a little bit lost, wiping a stray bead of sweat from your forehead. Your skin practically glowed against the soft afternoon light filtering through the stained glass windows. You were wearing a simple, modest dress, but the way you carried yourself instantly rooted him to his chair.

In Michael’s mind, it was love at first sight. He liked to tell himself that the universe had finally taken pity on his lonely, wealthy existence and delivered his breath of life straight to his doorstep.

You had come looking for a job. You explained, with a voice so sweet it made his pulse stutter, that you had just arrived in the city, that you were literate, good with numbers, and needed employment to secure a small room in the French Quarter.

He didn't even care about your qualifications. He would have handed you the keys to the entire estate that very second just to ensure you returned the next morning. He hired you on the spot as his assistant cataloguer.

During those first few months, Michael was the very picture of sweetness and devotion. He found every excuse to abandon his business ledgers just to sit in the library with you. He would stand on the rolling ladders, pulling down heavy, leather bound texts, his soft voice filling the quiet air as he explained the history of the pages. He brought you little gifts; imported chocolates from France, rare teas, fine charcoal pencils for your cataloging notes. He loved the way your face would light up, the way your voice would lose its guarded edge whenever you thanked him.

The turning point had come during a late autumn evening, right at closing time.

You were reaching up to place a heavy encyclopedia back onto a high shelf, your stretching frame caught in the amber glow of the oil lamps. Michael had stepped up behind you, his hand gently covering yours on the spine of the book to help you slide it into place. You mumbled a thank you but when you turned around, you were trapped between his chest and the shelves. He remembered the way your breath caught in your throat. The way you said his name.

"Mr. Jackson..." you had whispered.

"Michael," he corrected softly, his eyes searching yours. "Call me Michael."

He had looked down at your lips, his heart hammering, before leaning down and pressing his mouth to yours.

It wasn't a demanding kiss; it was incredibly gentle, reverent, and slow only because it was supposed to be a gentle taste, a tentative brush of his mouth against yours. And to his surprise, you had kissed him back and it was filled with months of suppressed longing. The shock of the pleasure had caused an involuntary, soft moan to escape the back of your throat; a sound so sweet, so intoxicating, that it had sent a jolt of possession straight through Michael's veins. He handled you like glass, pulling you closer, his hands sliding up to frame your pretty face as his lips moved down to taste the soft, warm skin of your neck. He wanted to hear that sound again. He wanted to make you make that sound for the rest of his life.

But the moment his lips brushed your pulse point, you had stiffened a bit, your hands pushing gently but firmly against his chest.

Michael had pulled back instantly, his eyes wide, almost identical to a deer, a rush of panic flooding his chest. "I...I apologize," he had whispered, his voice trembling slightly as he adjusted his collar. "Have I misread the signs? Please, forgive me if I have crossed a boundary."

"No, no..." You had swallowed hard, looking at the floor as you tried to smooth down your dress. "It’s...it’s not you, Mr. Jackson. I’m sorry. I just...I recently got out of a relationship. A very bad one. Back north. I just...simply don't want to...I came to new orleans to start over. I apologize for leading you on..."

Michael had immediately melted, taking your hands in his and pressing a gentle kiss to your knuckles. "There is absolutely nothing for you to apologize about," he had murmured, his voice a soothing tone. "You did not lead me on. I pushed too fast, and I am deeply sorry for causing you distress."

He smiled, a sweet, reassuring smile that made him look like an absolute angel. "We will go at your pace, sweet girl. Always at your pace. I am just grateful to have you near me."

But words had haunted him. A very bad one.

Behind his gentle smile, a protective instinct had taken root.

It was as though something had awoken inside Michael. He couldn't sleep. The mere thought of someone causing you pain, of someone making you look so broken and feel so fearful, made his blood run cold with fury. He needed to know who did it. He needed to know everything.

The opportunity arose a few weeks later, you had trusted him enough to invite him over to your small apartment in the city for tea. It was supposed to be a friendly visit, but while you were in the kitchen preparing the kettle, Michael sat in your small parlor. His eyes wandered over your meager belongings; the small vase of dried flowers, your hand stitched curtains, your books. Then, his eyes fell upon a small, locked wooden jewelry box sitting on your vanity in the bedroom.

He stood up, glided silently into your bedroom, looking around a bit, patting his pockets before he found a small random paperclip to pick the lock.

He simply needed to know who had dared to dim your light.

Inside, beneath a few silver trinkets, he found a stack of old letters tied with a frayed blue ribbon. He opened them quickly, his eyes scanning the aggressive, cruel handwriting.

Thomas Dunkonu.

Michael had stared at the name, a sneer curling his lips. Thomas Dunkonu? What a ridiculously, dumb name.

As Michael read through the letters, his blood turned to pure ice. Thomas hadn't just broken your heart– he had abused you. The letters contained horrific threats, cruel insults, and vile references to the physical bruises he had left on your beautiful skin before you managed to escape him in the dead of night.

Michael stood in your bedroom, holding those letters, his body trembling with a sudden rage. A dark, terrifying switch flipped deep inside his psyche. How dare this dirt born pig lay a hand on his angel? How dare any man touch the woman destined to be Michael’s queen?

He put the letters back, closed the box, and walked back out to the parlor just as you walked in with the tea tray. He smiled warmly at you, took his cup, and drank his tea, chatting pleasantly about the weather.

Two days later, Michael took a private train to New York.

He didn't hire anyone. Michael made sure he was the one to do it alone.

He tracked Thomas Dunkonu down to a filthy, low end tavern near the docks. He watched the man for three days, learning his routine, watching him drink himself into a stupor every single night, listening to him brag to his foul friends about the women he had broken.

On the third night, it was raining. Thomas staggered out of the back door of the tavern, reeking of cheap liquor, humming a tune as he stumbled down a pitch black alleyway.

A tall figure stepped out from the shadows, blocking his path.

"Get out the way," Thomas growled, slurring his words, reaching for something in his coat.

Michael stepped into the light of a gas lamp. He was dressed to impress, even if he was going to kill a man. In his hand, he held a heavy, iron headed cane.

Before Thomas could even raise his blade, Michael moved and the head of the cane struck Thomas directly in the knee. The sound of bone shattering echoed loudly in the alley, drowned out only by Thomas’s blood curdling scream as he collapsed onto the muddy cobblestones, clutching his shattered leg.

"Shut up," Michael whispered, his voice dangerously calm, almost clinical. “Why must you yell?”

He stepped forward, bringing the cane down onto Thomas’s hand, the hand that had hit you, the hand that had bruised your skin. Thomas let out a choked, wet gurgle of pain, and tears and rain mixing on his filthy face.

Michael leaned down, grabbing Thomas by his greasy collar, dragging his heavy body deeper into the dark, abandoned warehouse at the end of the alley. He threw him onto the dirt floor, locking the heavy sliding doors behind them.

For the next two hours, Michael took his time.

He pulled up a wooden crate, sat down, and slowly destroyed the man who had hurt you. He used a sharp, thin doctor's scalpel he’d brought, cutting into Thomas’s skin like he was a surgeon, asking him endless questions about you.

"Did you touch her cheek with this hand?" Michael would ask softly, his dark eyes wide and unblinking in the lantern light, before driving a needle under Thomas’s fingernails. "Did you speak to her with these lips?"

Thomas wept, and he begged, and he whimpered, vomiting onto the dirt floor, pleading for mercy from a man who possessed absolutely none.

"She is an angel," Michael whispered, kneeling over the dying man, his face inches from Thomas’s swollen, bloody features. "And you are a rat. You never deserved to breathe the same air as her."

Michael finished it by pressing his leather gloved hands over Thomas’s mouth and nose, watching the light slowly fade from the man’s terrified eyes, holding him tight until his body went entirely limp. He disposed of the body in the dark, churning waters of the Hudson River, packing his bags and catching the early morning train back to Louisiana.

He felt no remorse. He felt only a profound satisfaction. He had cleansed your past.

But it didn't stop with Thomas.

Once Michael had smelt the blood of a man who crossed you, his obsession mutated into something completely unhinged. The world became a landmine of potential threats to your purity.

There was the young fruit vendor at the French Market who made a flirtatious comment about your smile when you bought peaches, he disappeared three days later, his body found floating in the bayou miles away.

There was the wealthy cotton merchant who tried to press his hand against your waist when you were delivering a stack of books to his carriage; Michael ensured his carriage suffered a "tragic accident" on the steep road outside town, breaking the man's neck.

Even a local woman, a bitter socialite who had whispered a racist slur under her breath when you walked past her on the sidewalk, found her home burning to the ground in the middle of the night.

Michael became a silent, invisible grim reaper hovering over your life, slaughtering anyone who dared to look at you or wrong you, or hurt you, or disrespect you. In his mind, he was your guardian angel. He was keeping you pure, and keeping you safe, and unblemished by a cruel world.

But then...you found out.

It was a terrible, tragic coincidence. You had gone to Michael’s private desk in the library to fetch a ledger, and you stumbled upon a hidden compartment. Inside, Michael had kept trophies– Thomas’s pocket watch, the fruit vendor's silver ring, a newspaper clipping detailing the cotton merchant's death, along with pages and pages of journal entries where Michael detailed every single murder, every single stalker like detail of your daily life.

You had read it with horror dawning on your face. You realized the sweet, gentle Mr. Jackson was a mass murdering, obsessive monster.

Panicked, crying, and terrified for your life, you had grabbed the evidence, intending to run straight to the constable's office in town to report him. You ran out the back door of the library into the pouring rain.

Michael had seen you from his upper window.

He didn’t panic. He simply walked down the stairs, taking a secret path, intercepting you in the dark, muddy garden behind the estate.

"Where are you going, my love?" he had asked, stepping out of the dark trees, his voice dripping with that terrifying, sweet calm.

"Get away from me!" you had screamed, sobbing, holding the newspaper clipping against your chest. "You're a monster! You killed them! You killed Thomas! I'm going to the police! I'm going to tell everyone what you are!"

Michael had looked at you with a expression of deep, profound sadness.

"I did it for you," he whispered. "I did it all to protect you."

He shifted the moment you tried to slip past him. His hand shot out, iron grip fingers wrapping hard around your arm to yank you back, all of the evidence slipping from your fingers to scatter across the slick, rain soaked earth. You fought him, your nails tearing deep across his cheek, a sharp shriek tearing from your throat. The sudden violent struggle unbalanced both of you. You stumbled hard into him.

Down you went together into the mud, your limbs tangled, your kicks and thrashes eager as you tried to pin him beneath the weight of the fall. He cursed, his knee pinning your hip into the wet grass while he shoved you back down, your head slamming against the ground. Breathing hard, his face stinging from the bloody welt on his cheek, his free hand plunged into his deep coat pocket, fingers closing around a soaked cotton rag and the small, pungent vial he kept ready for emergencies.

You wrench your head away, twisting violently through the mud, managing to break his grip for one fraction of a second. You scrambled up on all fours, slipping in the wet dirt, lunging toward the trees. He launching himself through the air to tackle your shoulders right before you reached…freedom.

As you twisted around to scream again, he slammed his weight against you and put the rag over your mouth and nose. The sweet, suffocating reek of chloroform hit the back of your throat before you could draw breath to yell. You bucked and pounded your fists against his chest, but the heavy, sweet chemical poured into your senses, dissolving the strength from your limbs until the frantic thrashing slowed to a dull shudder, and the wet grass blurred out of view.

He had carried you down to the dark room in his basement, chained you to that wooden chair, and sat beside you in the dark for hours, weeping as he kissed your forehead, begging you to wake up so he could explain to you why you had to stay with him forever.

Now, in the quiet study, Michael snapped out of his memory. God, how long has it been?

He finished the last drop of whiskey in his glass, setting the glass down on his desk.

He walked over to the mirror hanging near the door, smoothing down his hair, fixing his collar, making sure he looked like the handsome, gentle gentleman you had once trusted. A soft smile returned to his face.

She's taking her bath now, he thought, his heart fluttering with excitement.

He unlocked the doors of his study and glided back down the hallway toward the master suite. He stopped outside the doors, listening intently. He could hear the soft, rhythmic splashing of warm water coming from the washroom inside.

Michael smiled, leaning his head against the wood, closing his eyes.

"Take all the time you need, my sweet girl,"

© 2026 Strangerexee. All rights reserved or wtv.

[mikaylajacksonnn]

this is what it’s like to come back to tumblr after being offline for a couple of days..

getting all excited cus i get to read all the fics i missed 😫

[pierrotdoesnteat]

positivity train!

if you see this or are tagged in it, tag a couple of your favorite mutuals/blogs and let them know you appreciate seeing them on your dash!

@h0neysugarfree @blueberrylovv @bequiteanddriveeeeeee @cherri-bomb-bomb @eg0mechan1c @fatrexicisback

[normanscupcake]

Thxx, @gingermatchalatte 🫶💕💕

@bubblepeep @strawberrycherrycola @l0ngdog @wintersldier @coconutprincesspassion @xoxycodonex @kwatzaya @fawnzquee @ilegalyungjaws @pinkcottonberry @angeldel-rey

There are so many more moots to this list, just know I love ya all 😭🙏💕🫶

[strawberrycherrycola]

Thank you sm! @normanscupcake 💋💗

@popecodysgirl @sleepingbeautiiies @cuti3-81 @andrewpuppycody @jackabbotsarms @sabrinajamesluvbot @princessofphiladelphia @babystrwberry

There’s more to this list but these blogs come to mind!! 🪽💘

[popecodysgirl]

tysm for the tag @strawberrycherrycola ily mwah 😘🫶

@shoniebalognie @robinavitchslut @ceriseangels @mariasont @whatif-ialreadydid @lostalioth @mast3rbait3r @mahoganybimbo @romantic-insomniac @atlaslapis @mysatnin @lanadelreyylover @baransdollie @neverendingdreamers @tanely @80sfilmclub @lavenderchaise @iheartshawn @wistfulyears @in-ky

i'm probably missing some moots but i love you all so much!!! you're the best 🫶

[mast3rbait3r]

thank you for the tag, baby <3 @popecodysgirl

my loves :3

@whitakersbabymama @in-ky @romantic-insomniac @nightpitt @yuyuch3rry @neverendingdreamers @m4mm4ls @theariespov @baransdollie @mariasont @di1fluvr @honimoon @froggyzworld @dirtygir1 @wistfulyears @grimgasm @groovyangelkisses @sunbonesss

[groovyangelkisses]

thank you for the tag angel, mwah!💋 — @mast3rbait3r

a few cuties that i looveee seeing on my dash—

@romantic-insomniac @in-ky @nightpitt @mochapuppy @ceriseangels @j4ckr4bbits @lovaeir @moodyabbott @lipsliketangerines @dollsonlyhurt @cherrywineisawaltz @sugartalkingwrites @lostalioth @missmanlykink @misspossexxive 😽

[missmanlykink]

awww thanks for the tag <33 — @groovyangelkisses

some of my fav writers and moots 💕 love u guyss:

@mayhemi @s4ngel @str4wbsstuff @deansdeer @j4ckr4bbits @ccandlehead @murdrdocs @hanasnx @midniqhtt @wistfulyears @pittsick @pinksplace @avashifts06 @kill3ill @kryptidfiles @kissophile @dirtygir1

[deansdeer]

aww ty aydellaa <3 smooches

I love seeing yall on my feed

@beausling @inbred-eater @slashedgutz @d3ad-aliv3 @filthgf @honeyroots @scariffs @basicasfusername @bleachedduck @yyvnille @bitemysin @bunnyyrot @bruisedfig

[beausling]

AHHH EHEHEHEHEHE THANK YOUUU SMM MY BELOVEDDDSS @deansdeer & @lostalioth for the tags🫂🫂

some more of my beloveds n fave ppl to see on my feed/in my notifs 😽💟

꩜ meow meows : @abbotsbunnygf @arkhamknightmares @badbish-suki @beecomingnothing @bleachedduck @bluestrd @bruisedfig @catmg @chevroletdean @cosmicbucky @cowboycastles @crystalcider @cryptic-doe @diner-girl @faiszt @floralscented @funkycoloured @g0thamgirl @honeyryewhiskey @honeyroots @inbred-eater @irisgrrl @jasvtsc @jackcody @kill3ill @mystic-writings @notaviolentdog @pittsick @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @psychsworld @rh1nestcned @rockerbarnes @rottndeer @sacr1ficialang3l @soldiersgirl @thefourhorsies @thesevnthseal @tortureddarkstar @voidsuites @wildwestdean @xoabbot @6milesdeep

nearly maxed out tags cus i’m crazy and just have so much love in my heart i wanted to tag everyone but i had to condense so i’m sorry if i missed anyone also but just know i love you all so bad

also a lot of you i haven’t interacted with in a long time and i feel bad abt that🙁 and some ppl that i tagged haven’t even been active since last year or longer like omg pls come back soon i miss you guys 😣😣

[irisgrrl]

OMG THANK YOU SM BABY I MISS INTERACTING WITH YOU TOO<\3

my most favourite people here🙂‍↕️: @cherryvvave @moviecritc @bloomcissa @cryptic-doe @rh1nestcned @lechelovestoyap @luviery @vianawaits @scissorhvnds @dreamersentity @kamislop @batwngs @sakunai @mystiquevoid @1nsignia @patientofarkhamasylum @arfemiz @froggibus @tinafication @bitemysin @torupng @brinawing @biovomit @evilmanhater @gr0und-zer00 (i'm sorry if i didn't tag someone, but know that you're very dear to me too<3)

i feel like i don't say it enough, but i love you all, and y'all are very very dear to me. here on tumblr i found the community i feel sort of belonging to and with who i have experienced peak girlhood♥️

[kamislop]

GAH STOP THIS IS SO SWEET siri how do i tag all of my 150+ mutuals-

i'm going to tag some of my babygirls and if i miss some PLEASE DON'T TAKE IT PERSONALLY i love and cherish all my lovely mooties :( even if we don't interact much

mi babygirls: @jeanmarcosno1, @ie4ri, @tentypos, @gfsuki, @cupidkats, @riotsgrl, @tokkushin, @updownandbatty, @lonelyfooryouonly, @liahcharms, @lilithkleia, @6x-x9, @kireampie, @hangenism, @rengoatku, @fushihearts, @moviecritc, @mamashima, @indisuki, @dulcores, @miminist, @gyarujo, @valberryboos, @suganoms, @da1ntyli1ly, @sugurusplaything, @satorusdreamer, @torumaii, @toruii, @kenforty, @dynamite-roll, @freakynad, @blushryo, @talkingscaresme, @deathscheduled, @txmxkis, @ervvinz, @lxnarphase, @jiyuspassion, @foryuiwill

[6x-x9]

ah and I can't tag everyone, thanks so much cutie <3. I love everyone of you's

@tycrine @yummidumplingss @/cttelina @/kill4ill @/barbatoswh0r3 @/0celotmilk @liahcharms @mimimochis @rengoatku @astriiixx @jiyuspassion @/mainstarv @megumisrighttoe @satorusdollie @oropotheca @/yaliuxe @louistxq @/cateleya21 @fayelero @daflex @/yxo7 @/paperellina @/sadisticslut666 @/an9els @/da1ntyli1ly @ouist @/cupidstrace @oksukuna @hanawoof @foryuiwil @/splurtz @httpskrys @notsoslightlysexual @stqrgumi @satolune @honeyoftheisle @xchosos-wifex @caramelluxe @satorus-princess @jazzthatonewriterchick @kamoslover @gyalcapone @moviecritc @keistriction @/princess-rueee @/rambld @sugurusplaything @sugurusbeloved @/teaspecifically @/gyarujo @togesbabe @s-uwu-kuna @/casualnightmaretragedy @/himboelover @/megum1sstepm0m-blog @/booboobear-12 @yorikae @yoonsucks @hangenism @valberryboos @kireampie @paninsoup @revolvingsaturn @ryoride @/butterbeanandsparkleface @lilithkleia @/kamislop @macbethinchains @tokkushin @torumaii @toruii @bearlovestea @/noitoii @lostinsmut @serpenttine @/sextier @blu-goingdark @satomiu @/xoxonahyo @bloomflix @pillsatoru @alexynthia @tojidihcheese @shiruigami @sozila @tigerpetals @/madamechrissy @frostedpinkdoll @eraserbread @atelphobist @t0jisbunny @onyxiix @feyrinnn @sukunahs @satoriee @sky-lemonade @flvvffy

[moviecritc]

ahhhhh thank you all for tagging me<3333 i don't think there's any other mutual left to tag, STILL, i'm tagging some of my fav girls here<33

@liahcharms @ryoride @tokkushin @veiledbulletz @ackpplepie @brinawing @4theloveoflotus @hotties4gojo @swamelon @ie4ri @fancy-possum @suigenerisisadiva @wiinterz @shoyomegs @batwngs @froggibus

[wiinterz]

aww thank you so much for the tag, here are some of my lovieeess and to all the beautiful ones i haven’t tagged

@inbred-eater @lonerslug @requiemdesreves @doiliedaze @mwahbabe @torufanj @tinycas @grotesquevi @lotties-ashwagandha @lyfeofbilly @hotties4gojo @h3avenlyglory

[lyfeofbilly]

Aww thank you tay 🥹.

my loviesssss

@mariquitaaa @mitchesmoon @ebvnydesires @inmyheadimobsessed @santhiquee @onyxstones-world

[ebvnydesires]

THANKS BB 🥹🫰🏾🫰🏾 ! !

I love y’all’s work sm! My talented babies 🤍

@faiology @moonlitjane @reverieglow @cinnamoncunt @kissmyglxck @prettyangeliczz @lullora @lil6uapa @angelcrescent @pvtypyt

[kissmyglxck]

🪽— aww ty mamaa🥹!!

My stinkies I luv yall 💋🤍

@blkkbratt @cherrishkissed @angelfacediary @dollfacegallery @neopolitandoll @siighrns @mikedotorg @kkgalerii @youluvyanni @yearlyjams

(I love all my mooties)

[blkkbratt]

Omg thank you queen, I love you too😚❣️

@faiology @fullofmelaninsarcasmandepression @brownsugarletters @cermoore @pvt-luv @neocharm @angelfcee @angelfacediary @sunsetdrvr

And I especially love the rest of my moots and blogs that I follow!! 💕

[angelfacediary]

Tysm for the tags, I LOVE YOU ALL MWUAHH

@neopolitandoll @cermoore @brownsugarletters @applewebb @orangecatauthor @siighrns @faiology @prettyangeliczz @invinor @plumppies @plan3tch1ld

[orangecatauthor]

IM SO EMBARRASSED I DID IT WRONG THE FIRST TIME IM SO SORRY (੭ ;´ ⌂ `;)੭♡

@michaeldiary @blkkbratt @j3ons4 @prettygirlwmula @miratate @missharper33 @angelfcee @gentl3bliss @magica1mind @imeatingheehee

I LOVE YOU ALL FORGIVE ME FOR MY MISTAKE

[michaellvr]

IF I WERE A ZOMBIE

zombie! michael jackson x fem! reader

summary: after the apocalypse, you find your missing boyfriend, but he’s no longer human… at least, not completely

warnings: GORE, tiny bit of angst but happy ending, not proofread!!

you shouldn’t have come back to the cemetery.

everyone knew it was where they gathered after sunset. survivors whispered about seeing them wandering between the crooked headstones whenever the moon was full, swaying almost like they were dancing before disappearing into the fog.

you only came because you had no choice.

your backpack was nearly empty, and an emergency supply cache had supposedly been hidden inside the abandoned chapel years before the outbreak.

you climbed over the rusted cemetery gate just as the last streaks of sunlight disappeared,the silence felt wrong.

too quiet.

your flashlight swept across cracked angels, broken crosses, and graves that had long since been disturbed.

then, faint music. it sounded warped, as though an old cassette player had been left out in the rain, but you recognized the melody instantly.

your heart stopped.

that song.

| thriller, thriller night

| girl i can thrill you more than any ghoul would ever dare try!

he’d been rehearsing it for weeks before everything fell apart.“michael…?” you whisper, stopping dead in your tracks.

the music stopped, something shifted behind a mausoleum, you turned too slowly. a figure stood between the graves. still. watching.

the moon caught the outline of a familiar red jacket, your breath caught in your throat. he looked almost exactly the way he had the last night you’d seen him.

the curls.

the glove.

the black pants.

until he stepped forward.

his skin had faded into an unnatural faded green. dark veins traced beneath it. part of his collar had been torn away, exposing the old bite on his shoulder. dried blood stained the front of his shirt, and his cloudy eyes reflected the moonlight without blinking.

he tilted his head. “mmfh.” he groaned. the sound was low, curious, and almost questioning.

you couldn’t move as his gaze stayed fixed on you. he took one slow step, then another. his movements weren’t clumsy like the other infected.

they were smooth, deliberate. almost… graceful. the way he’d glide across a stage.

your pulse hammered. “michael…” you mumbled, tears welding up in your eyes.

his shoulders twitched. then another quiet huff escaped him. “mhmmgh.” recognition flickered across his face for the briefest second.

then it vanished. a branch snapped somewhere behind you, another infected stumbled from the trees with a raspy shriek. then another.

their cries echoed through the cemetery. every head turned toward you, your body finally listened to your instincts. you ran.

your boots slipped across wet grass as dozens of shadows emerged between the graves. snarls erupted all around you. cold fingers brushed the back of your jacket.

before they could grab you… a deep, guttural snarl cut through the night.

one of the infected was thrown sideways into a headstone with enough force to shatter the stone in half.

you looked back. michael stood between you and the horde, his posture had changed completely. his shoulders were squared as his head hung low. another warning growl rumbled from his chest.

the other infected hesitated, one lunged anyway. michael met it headon, sending it crashing into an iron fence. another reached him from behind, only to be shoved hard enough to tumble into an open grave.

the rest slowly backed away. they weren’t afraid of you, they were afraid of him. the cemetery fell silent again. michael remained facing the others until the last shadow disappeared into the fog.

only then did he turn toward you. his breathing came in slow, uneven hums. “mmgh.” signaling you to come over. you took a cautious step closer. he didn’t retreat, didn’t advance. he only watched.

you reached into your pocket and pulled out the silver chain he’d given you on your birthday years ago. you’d worn it every day since.

the moonlight caught the pendant, his eyes locked onto it instantly. his head tilted again. another tiny sound escaped him, soft. almost wounded.

he reached toward the necklace with trembling fingers. his touch was unbelievably gentle. his thumb brushed across the pendant before he looked back at you, something in his expression shifted.

not hunger.

not rage.

memory.

your eyes filled with tears. “you remember… don’t you?” his lips parted, but no words came. instead, he let out the quietest whimper. “mm…” you stepped close enough that only inches separated you. every instinct told you this was dangerous.

but your heart remembered the man beneath the monster. slowly, you lifted your hand and rested it against his cheek. his eyes fluttered shut. he leaned into your palm with another soft hum, as though the warmth of your touch was something he’d been searching for without knowing it.

you smiled through your tears. “i’ve missed you.” his forehead slowly came to rest against yours. his nose brushed yours ever so slightly. he stayed perfectly still, listening to your breathing.

you hesitated only a moment before closing the distance, pressing a gentle kiss against his cold lips. for one terrifying second, nothing happened. then he answered in the only way he could. a quiet, contented hum vibrated against your lips.

his gloved hand carefully gathered a small handful of your jacket, not pulling you closer, only making sure you were real. around you, the wind stirred through the cemetery.

far in the distance, the other infected began to howl. but none of them came near.

their king had already chosen someone to protect.

[prettyangeliczz]

he’s so beautiful and so gorgeous and so beautiful and so gorgeous

[moejacksonn]

i really love this interview..

[lesbothinks]

Taste ˚.⋆꒰১ ໒꒱⋆.˚

Summary: Michael comes home famished because he doesn’t have time to feed properly due to his schedule. You offer to let him feed on you and well… 

Warnings: SMUTTT, Michael x Fem!reader, michael’s and eater, p in v, panty gag, sub!mike ofc, mostly soft!dom reader, blood mentions, vampire feeding, michaels such a good boy, thriller era, those bambi eyes, yes this vampire can cry regular tears, aftercare 

Wc: 2k

a/n: ALL OVA ALL OVA ALL OVAAA okay on a serious note ty guys for 100 likes on my headcannons!!!! I really did not expect that amount of support i luv each and every one of you!!

⋆˚✿˖°

Michael was a very busy man. Being 24 with the greatest selling album in the world was a lot of pressure. So when he came home, completely famished due to all the meetings and interviews, he was hungry. He hadn’t been able to feed because no one else knew his secret. Imagine the tabloids if the Michael Jackson was seen with a rat in his mouth! The thought of it made him nauseous.

As he walked into his, room he saw you already in your cute nightgown, the lights dimly lit, and a book in hand.

“Oh hi baby!” you say enthusiastically as you put your book on the nightstand and immediately run over to him. 

You guys embrace and Michael nuzzles his face into your neck. He can hear your heartbeat and feel how warm your blood is. God, he needs to eat. As you pull away you immediately notice how sunken his face is.

“Are you okay Mike?” you ask as concern takes over your face. “Yes baby I’m just really hungry” he says trying to smile so he doesn’t worry you anymore. His eyes are dark, the opposite of their normal golden brown.

“Well…” you say putting your hands on his chest “I’m always here if you need me”

Michael blushes and shakes his head, “You know I can’t do that mama, I- I don’t want to hurt you”.

This isn’t the first time this conversation has happened. Ever since Michael told you what he was you were always open to the idea of letting him drink from you. As much as he denied you every time you asked, you knew he thought about it often. The way his kisses would linger on your neck for a little too long when you guys would make out, the way that when winter came along he would look a little disappointed every time you wore a scarf, and the way he was looking at you now with complete hunger in his eyes, completely unaware of it.

Confidently you say “Michael look at me and tell me you don’t want to taste me right now.”

Michael looks at you with all of his courage and says “I- I don’t-” he can’t finish the sentence without looking down at his feet.

You whisper in his ear, “That’s what I thought.”

A small whimper escapes him as you do it. “Mama you know what you’re doing to me” he says softly.

You smile while saying, “Do I? Tell me what I’m doing to you.”

He blushes as he says “You’re making me- you know-”

“No I don’t know baby tell me”.

He whines as he tries to speak again, “Mama please I need it- I need to taste you baby please ‘m so hungry.”

You instantly pull him in by his collar and kiss him. Moans escape both of you as your tongues collide. He pulls back and begins kissing your neck, leaving marks as he goes.

“Please mama can I? I’ll be so good I promise I won’t take too much”.

You think about it deciding if you should tease him more. But by the look in his eyes, you can tell he hasn’t eaten in a while so you nod your head.

“But when I tell you to stop you stop do you understand?”

“Yes mama I understand” he says trying to contain his excitement. His teeth begin to graze your neck as he finds the perfect spot to bite. He opens his mouth and, as gently as he can, sinks them into your neck. You moan as it happens and pleasure takes over you. It feels as amazing as you’ve always imagined. The taste hits him immediately and he whimpers as he takes his first sip. 

He continues to feed for another 30 seconds before you say “Okay baby that’s enough.”

He whines before pulling his fangs out of you making sure to not leave a single drop on your neck. His golden brown eyes return and you smile saying “There’s my baby”. 

He blushes as he leans in to kiss you. As soon as his body meets yours you feel it. You pull back and look down. Michael was hard. Did feeding from you turn him on? Michael looks down at his arousal in surprise, he had no idea that he was this aroused from just your taste.

“Oh my- I‘m sorry baby I’ll handle it I know it’s late-”

You cut him off with a kiss. “It’s okay baby let me fix it” You say as you grope him over his pants. 

You sit him at the edge of the bed and sit down in front of him.

“You look so beautiful mama” He says trying not to cum just from the sight of you.

“Thank you baby. Do you want a reward for being such a good boy?” You ask, still touching him over his pants.

“Yes- mmph- please baby I need you.” You take off his belt and slide his pants down. There’s already a spot on his underwear.

“Did my taste get you like this baby”

“Mhm yes mama you tasted so- mmph- good” He says slowly grinding on your hand. You love seeing him get desperate like this.

You slowly pull down his underwear to reveal his member. You begin stroking him slowly. Painfully slow. Michael begins to buck his hips upwards into your hands trying to relieve his ache.You stop saying “No bucking you take what I give you.”

“Yes- mmph- yes ma’am- please more I need more mama.”

“Such a good boy asking for what he wants” you say as you begin to stroke him faster. He whines as he throws his head back in pleasure. He looks into your eyes and he swears he left Earth for a minute. He sees the bite mark he left on your neck and that is his end point. He needs to taste you in a different way.

”Mama- ‘m gonna- oh my god- baby please stop- mmph- don’t wanna- not yet.” 

You stop and you look at him confused. “What’s the matter baby, is it too much?” You ask with genuine concern.

“No mama, it's perfect” he says trying to catch his breath. “It’s just I wanna make you feel good too”

You smile at him and lie back on the bed. Michael slips off your underwear, placing them on the headboard, and lies between your legs. “Can I touch myself- while- while I please you baby?” he asks shyly.

“Yes baby as long as you don’t cum until I say so.”

“Yes ma’am I won’t” he says. 

Michael inhales your scent before he begins tasting you. He begins to lick your sensitive spot while stroking himself with his hand. Moans begin to leave your mouth as you say, “Yes baby just like that you’re doing so good for me.”

Michael whimpers at your praises as he pushes himself deeper into his hand. He sticks his tongue inside of you while his nose brushes against your sensitive area.

“That feels so good baby you’re such a good boy” you say in between moans. Michael lets out the most pathetic whimper and strokes himself faster. You watch him as he is pleasing you and himself and it brings you close to the edge.

You begin to buck into his face with your hand in his curls saying “Keep going baby I’m almost there.”

“Can I please cum with you mama?” Michael asks.

“Beg for it.”

“Please baby- mmph- you taste amazing and I’ve been- so good mama- please- I’ll do anything” he says while looking at you with those beautiful brown eyes.

“A little more baby, how bad do you wanna cum for me?” He lets out the most pathetic whine saying,

“Please please- baby I can’t take it anymore- your scent is driving me crazy mama please. I’ll be such a- a good boy mama and I’ll make you cum baby- mmph- please.” 

“Such a good boy for me, yes we can cum together.” Michael immediately puts his tongue back on you as he strokes himself. You push his face into you and he whimpers.

“I’m gonna cum baby oh my-” You say as you continue to moan. Michael begins sucking on your bud and you lose it right there. “I’m coming baby!”

As your release washes over you, you look down and see Michael’s release on the bed.

As he brings his head up he says, “I made such a mess- oh my gosh- thank you baby.”

You smile at him and pull him up to you for a kiss. “You did so good for me baby.”

He blushes at your praise. You kiss him again then slowly lay him against the headboard and straddle his lap. You begin to grind on his member and unbutton his shirt. He whimpers as you take his shirt off and run your hands over his chest.

“I’m so sensitive mama- mmph- can I see all of you too?” He asks while looking at the way your hips are moving against him. “Yes baby you can.” You say as you slide your nightgown off. 

“Mama, can we try something?”

“Yes of course baby anything you’d like.”

He reaches up on the headboard and grabs your underwear, gripping them in his hands. “Can you gag me with these mama?” He’s looking at you like you’re his whole world, which to him you are. God those eyes of course the answer is yes. You nod and he hands you your panties.

“You want me to put them in your mouth right now angel?”

“Yes mama please use me.” You smile and he opens his mouth for you. His eyes begin to roll back as you push your panties in his mouth. “Is that good baby?” He nods enthusiastically. 

While looking at him you tease his tip along your entrance. His whines are muffled as he begs you with his eyes to put it in. As you slide down onto him you feel every inch inside of you. Michael’s muffled moans turn you on even more as you begin to grind into him. You leave peppered kisses along his face and neck as he just barely bucks his hips into you.

“You wanna fuck into me baby?” You ask already knowing the answer based on his body language. He nods quickly as tears begin to build in his eyes from the way you’re clenching around him. You allow him to buck into you as he takes in the scent of your panties. You knew he wouldn’t last long, and neither would you seeing him like this.

Moans and whimpers begin to fill the room as you both near your peaks. Michael has tears of pleasure coming down his face as he watches himself go in and out of you.

“I’m gonna cum baby-” Michael begins to buck into you even harder as he begins to reach his peak. You notice that Michael is still waiting for your permission so you guys can cum together. You look at him and nod. When he sees this you feel his release inside you and you immediately release right after him. You take your underwear out of his mouth and he whines as he tries to catch his breath.

“Thank you baby- mmm- that was so- I don’t deserve you mama” He says, still a little taken aback.

“Of course baby I’m always here when you need me.” You lean forward to kiss him and he moans, still sensitive because he’s inside you.

You slide off him about to get towels to clean up when he says,

“No baby I got you’ve done enough for me today.” Him drinking from you has made you really tired but it didn’t matter to you because you knew how important aftercare was for Michael.

“Are you sure baby? I’m okay it won't take-” He cuts you off with a deep kiss.

As he pulls back he looks at you with so much love and says, “Please let me do this one thing for you mama.”

You nod and he stands up and gets warm towels from the bathroom. He gently wipes you and himself clean before getting you another nightgown. He then puts on his pajamas and cuddles you from behind whispering quiet “I love yous.”

[prettygirlwmula]

my favorite vampire micheal 😍😍

[yearlyjams]

to the one i love

          ❛  otw!michael ckon　𝑥　𝒻 black woc!reader ❜     ╱    𝓶.list   𓂋   reader is bill's daughter . since this will be a series reader is referred to as sweetie . fluff . michael is whipped and i mean he's gone , done for . the jackson brothers . protective!michael . brief talk of tabloids & gossip .      ℘     1.176k

𝓻𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐬⠀ ⠀𝐚𝐫𝐞⠀ ⠀𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝⠀!

bill's daughter!reader . . . who gets called sweetie more than her actual name. what started out as an endearing nickname given to you from you father became the name that stuck on you like honey once a young michael questioned the nickname. not use to hearing such softness used for anyone, growing up with his parents calling him michael, and in return calling them joseph and mother, while his siblings alternate between michael and mike. so when you enthuse the nickname and said he could call you that too if he'd like it became your name from then on.

bill's daughter!reader . . . whose seen michael as michael and not just the young prodigy to star status, but just as michael, your mikey from the moment the two of you met. meeting on a warm summer morning in early august. you had been away at summer camp when your father became head of security for the jackson's, so when you eventually returned he took you to their estate to tag along as you and michael are the same age. you always love to remanence and tease michael for how shy he was when your father had first introduced you, saying his name in barely a whisper. taking it upon yourself to step out from your father's grasp on your shoulders and extend a hand to the boy, bobbing the curlers set you begged your mother for and showing off the braces you had gotten right when summer had started to introduced yourself on your own accord. sternly shaking michael's hand the moment he wearily puts it out. and it's history from there.

bill's daughter!reader . . . who has been there through thick and thin. to be the first one to hear a whisper about the thought of doing solo projects away from the jackson 5. to being there during the making to the release of off the wall. you have been the constant in his life, and yes technically his family is has been the most constant part of his life, but you are the never ending light at the end of the tunnel, a symbol of strength and perseverance. and he bites his tongue when asked what his inspiration is, spewing a bunch of word jumble that is true, but the real truth that his inspiration, his one thing keeping him going, is you.

bill's daughter!reader . . . who begins to peak the interest of the other jackson siblings. latoya whisking reader away to go out shopping or his brothers convincing her to watch them play basketball (she agreed to one game and one game only). there's even been times that jermaine has tried to convince her to go out with him and always fails. except the one time latoya jumped in and begged for her to come along to the clubs and how much fun it would be to get ready together, but you had to decline apologetically (with a smile on your face) that you and michael already planned a movie night and that you always look forward to them. you chose to ignore how latoya rolled her eyes and jermaine scoffed and made a comment about how 'a pretty girl like you shouldn't be cooped up on a weekend night watching movies people have forgotten about'.

bill's daughter!reader . . . who michael wants to protect you. you were actually pretty well hidden out of your father's own need to protect you, but one you turned an adult it became harder. you tag along basically anywhere with michael, so it was only a matter of time until the two of you are caught in the perfect spot for paparazzi to capture. and the tabloids spread fast, unbelievably fast when your name is michael jackson. he remembers it all too well, pacing back and forth in his room with the paper in his hand, eyes trained on the title 'WHO IS MICHAEL JACKSON'S SECRET LOVER?'. to you it was comical to watch him stress as you entertain bubbles, you never cared about what the tabloids had to say about other people so why should you care about what they say about you? especially when they're guessing on you are and are not even close to pinpointing that your father is the man who protects michael's life like it's his own. you cool demeanor only makes michael pace faster, this is serious to him. starting to worry about the public now creating and having access to you, being able to form untrue and harmful assumptions about you. it honestly messes him up for a bit, asking if it's okay if the two of you just stay together in the safety of hayvenhurst's walls.

bill's daughter!reader . . . who is michael's muse. any little thing about you sparks inspiration. from the crease of your eyebrows drawn together when your book finally gets good, your hair whether it's in it's natural fro or blown out, or his favorite, the way your nose crinkles when you laugh, to listening to you talk about your interest even, the twinkle in your eyes and the enthusiasm at which you talk about your interest never fails to get him excited as well. and although you know just about everything about him, you're his person, the one he can go to and never fear the thought of being dismissed or understood, the person who never judges about his own interest in things deemed as 'childish', only quipping back when he brings it up out of his own insecurity to say that you still collect comic books and have an interest in porcelain dolls. but, there is one thing you don't know about him. the massive crush he's been harboring on you for years. it's probably one of if not the largest best kept secret he has that only his journal knows about, or journals as his admiration for you has been a common topic in his journals since you two met. and even so rough sketches of you are in them, even between the notepads he uses to scribble drawings. having to make sure he skips over certain pages when he's asking your opinion on certain lyrics because a page will have a drawing of you asleep on the couch in his studio. and it's not like he hasn't tried to tell you before about his feelings, but every time you respond back with 'yes, mikey?' in the same normal and known soft tone you always use when saying his name or speaking to him in general, mikey, oh mikey. even though you've been using the nickname for years, and there's been a few times his siblings call him the same name, it's different when coming from you, it makes him lull as heat creeps up the back of his neck every time. and it always leaves a lingering thought of mickey and sweetie, or maybe sweetie and mikey he likes the ring of both. but it's just that, just as much as he's your mikey, you're his sweetie and he can't bear the thought of losing you if he did confess his feelings.

© yearlyjams , a reposted work from my archived blog

[siighrns]

she did it again !! stop, i love this.

[prettygirlwmula]

i love i love i love this!!!!!

[3leni]

this is information i never should’ve been shown…

[prettygirlwmula]

woah

[ladyinhislife]

ᯓ★ what did frank ocean say… “i need that bitch to grind on my belt”

[bvtterfliess]

𝓽𝓻(𝓮𝓪𝓽) 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓫𝓮𝓽𝓽𝓮𝓻 - michael jackson x black female reader

synopsis: michael's been wayyyy too busy to spend time with his childhood best friend and now you have a boyfriend. it's time to take matters into his own mouth hands.

tropes & warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI — smut (we all know what we're here for), pwp, thriller era, baby eater!michael, fingering, oral (f receiving), mentions of male masturbation, switch!michael, slightly ooc!michael, black female!reader, sub!reader, messy!michael in the best way, praise kink galore, detailed female anatomy descriptions, female worship, teasing, overstimulation, slight implications of edging, toxic relationship, cheating if you squint but it's okay because michael told me to tell you that your boyfriend sucks, religious corruption if you squint harder

wc: 6.1ish (had to get my head back in the mf GAME okay?! a true yapper)

an: first things first - I loveeee me some secret mutual pining! that's how this grew legs and ended up being 6000 words lmfao. also - in this house, michael was an eater long before bad and that's a hill i'll die on! look at the material! after an almost five year hiatus I done picked up my pen chile, so thank you for reading in advance. enjoy!

𝒽𝒶𝓎𝓋𝑒𝓃𝒽𝓊𝓇𝓈𝓉 𝓀𝒾𝓉𝒸𝒽𝑒𝓃, 𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑒𝓉𝑒𝑒𝓃 𝑒𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉𝓎 𝓉𝒽𝓇𝑒𝑒

You were trying to be mindful of your body language knowing there was an audience, but you couldn't help but fidget and anxiously spin the spiral phone cord around your fingers. You were in one of your favorite places in the world - one that held warm memories of meals, joy and shared life experiences with your inherited family. Being at Hayvenhurst often made you wish you were an oblivious, innocent kid again running around with your best friend who was patiently standing on the other side of the counter. The space was uncharacteristically empty aside from you both… his head was resting on one of his fists, doe-like eyes on you as he indulged himself in some homemade honey vanilla ice cream. 

You mouthed give me a moment, he nodded in reply. Who knew a simple check-in call could have this much potential to sour your mood on an otherwise very peaceful evening. 

But here you were, an adult woman free to do whatever you pleased, begrudgingly arguing with a man with too much audacity on the other line.

“Carl, seriously?’ You leaned against the wall, sucking your teeth into the receiver wedged between your head and shoulders.

In your opinion, you didn’t understand what was so strange about having a movie night with your childhood best friend. Carl went on and on, matter-of-factly pointing out that your best friend was a celebrity and how it didn’t make sense why you had to spend time with him instead of your boyfriend.

“You’re overreacting. I already told you it’s not like that.” You casually added, which seemed to rile him up even more. So much so you couldn’t get a word in.

You were on the verge of losing your temper and patience altogether.

Michael’s brow perked up slightly at your irritation, helping himself to his favorite frozen treat customized specifically to his liking. He really didn't like what he was picking up on. The tension of your phone call was palpable, and it unsettled him. 

Carl. 

Hearing his name leave your lips made his favorite ice cream a little less sweet. The cinnamon dusted on top might as well have been mixed with dirt. Hearing his name was like an out-of-tune horn his ears rejected every time he heard it playing. Any mention of him from you was rare… but still shrill, off-kilter, punching violently through the recesses of his mind. He never hated anyone ever in his life but this had to be close… Not to mention, the affection in your tone irked him if he could be honest, like having one of his performances cut short before it truly hit a groove. Out of place and unwanted... especially in his place of solace.

Man, he wished you'd just hang up. 

All he wanted was to make you laugh, call him Mikey, offer his comfort, his time, attention. Make you forget Carl. 

And then there was another part of Michael - driven by an ego you would label as slightly conflated if you saw more of it in action. Birthed by independence manifesting for him on the horizon, handcrafted by waves of women (and men) packed together at shows like sardines screaming his name when he sang or spun or just smiled, and vindicated by crotch-grabbing and moonwalking into more of a public phenomena on the Motown stage just a few months ago. It was hard not to be altered by such life-altering fame. Since young, he watched people of all ages and colors literally stop traffic and swarm around cars with him inside… banging their fists against it just for a glimpse of him. Thousands of eyes instantly welled up with tears if they caught that glimpse, even if it was just the tips of his fingers shyly waving out the back window of the car as it sped off. The man who stood next to one of the greatest producers when the world was quiet and created magic. The part he armored himself with for public consumption. One who knew exactly who he was and what he was capable of.

That part of him smirked behind his spoon, confidence silent but strong enough to override the jealousy bubbling in chest. 

He could put two and two together. Your body language alone told an interesting story - the way you refused to look at him while trying to reassure your boyfriend, Carl, even with the hole he was burning in your face. The way your deliciously proportioned weight shifted under his stare, from one hip to the other, one leg to the other, repeat. The way you angled away as you spoke, biting down on your lip at times to censor yourself. All of this was evidence that led him to conclude that your boyfriend, Carl, was not happy about the fact that you were here. 

Oh well.

Michael was ecstatic. You looked so pretty today. 

He found himself thinking that about you quite often, lately… as he haphazardly scribbled those kinda secret thoughts and other kinda secret feelings into blueprints that would eventually become lyrics. Stealing moments on studio breaks to call you inspired him in so many ways, but also made him feel a pang in his chest that was becoming a lot harder to ignore. Afterwards, he’d find himself humming melodies that seemed to flow straight from beyond, mirroring and transmuting those longing feelings. And he’d do with these melodies what he did best. He recorded them. Demo after demo, those recordings turned into full songs, songs that held very important kinda secrets about his feelings for you. 

His voice came out sweeter then, emoting more than he ever did before. Quincy would knowingly tease: “You singin’ like there’s someone on your mind, Smelly.”

All Michael could do was bite his lip and smile, shaking his head as he laughed him off. 

He felt guilty spending most of his time on his music these days. Since Motown - between rehearsals for the next tour and recording for his next album, heightened demand with limited time created unwanted distance. It was the main obstacle in the way of carving out chances for you both to spend time together like when you were younger.

So he intentionally cleared his schedule for tonight. Bought snacks, had Bill take him over to the Wherehouse to pick out a bunch of your favorite movies in hopes to talk to you about his absence and make it up to you. When he called to ask you to come over… he half-expected you to tell him off, knowing he hadn’t been the best at balancing things. He was grateful you didn’t, understanding.

And when you showed up at his door looking exactly like his muse should, it kinda felt like the world was in technicolor again.

The first thing he noticed was your hair. It was big and curly and it looked extra, extra soft. Michael loved when you wore it that way, his hand often twitched at the thought of holding you close and twisting some of the coils around his fingers. He welcomed the comforting scent of mandarins and honey when he hugged you hello, tucking you under his chin in affection. Hearing the smile in your voice as you said hey Mikey into his red cardigan made him too happy to worry about if you could hear how hard his heart was beating.

He knew he’d have to repent for how he didn’t even bother diverting his eyes from the swish swish swish of your denim skirt as you pulled away, walking deeper into his home. The familiar tightening in his jeans that he wouldn’t be able to hide was a sobering enough feeling to halt his thoughts from going further. Trying to distract himself, he almost missed when you asked him to use the kitchen phone to call your boyfriend.

Oh. Had he really been gone that long?

He noticed you gnawing at your bottom lip in annoyance. Your soft lips, accented with a tinted gloss. He had to exercise more serious mental restraint from getting worked up again as he wondered what your kisses tasted like. Surely sweeter than ice cream.

“I let you talk, so it’s time for you to listen and stop interrupting me. No, I won’t stand for it and I’m not gonna keep going on like this with you anymore… I’m done talking about it. I’m staying here tonight. If you don’t like it - oh well.”

As if you both merged into the same wavelength, you abruptly slammed the phone into the mounted receiver so hard that you swear you heard it crack. You had enough.

“I - sorry, Michael…” His eyes apologetically softened at you and it ignited both shyness and shame in your chest. You shifted uncomfortably under his observation. All the work you’d done up until that point to keep everyone out of your salvaged threads of a relationship - now ruined with one untimely call.

“What you apologizin’ for, girl?”

“Mighta broke that.” you started, motioning to the receiver hanging on the wall, making a mental note to check if the phone was actually broken later. “Shoulda never called him. This was supposed to be our time to catch up and now my good mood has gone all sour.”

“Don’t you worry about that phone. Dunk smashed Randy’s big ol’ giant rockhead into it plenty and it still work.” Michael comforted you, chuckling at the fond memory of his siblings. His feet led himself next to you without a second thought, gently rubbing your back. “D’you wan’ talk about it?”

Leaning your head against his shoulder, you felt his long, sinewy fingers against your forehead moving your curls to plant a consoling kiss there.

“Don’t even know ‘em and he turnin’ out to be a real schmuck. C’mon, let’s go upstairs so we can talk.”

𝒽𝒶𝓎𝓋𝑒𝓃𝒽𝓊𝓇𝓈𝓉, 𝓂𝒾𝒸𝒽𝒶𝑒𝓁'𝓈 𝒷𝑒𝒹𝓇𝑜𝑜𝓂

“I’m just so frustrated, Mikey!” You said, plopping down on the edge of his bed. The change in environment seemed to turn your emotional state towards the better and you wonder if he knew it would all along.

Michael’s mind instinctively reacted to you being in his space. As much as he knew he shouldn’t think this way, he couldn’t help it. You looked so good in his bed. It was embarrassing to think about how many times he’d allow himself to imagine you just like this: lights dim, you staring up at him through your dark lashline, full lips parted anxiously, waiting for him to talk, or move closer, shoes off, knees together... 

The circumstances of these fantasies would be different of course, but they always ended with him losing control. The thought of touching you, tasting you, pleasing you… aroused him beyond belief. More lust to repent. And sometimes faith and morality would quell his ongoing battle with these fleshly desires like a beacon of light, motivating him enough to get up at the dead of night and get dressed to record in his studio. But he was a man… and when he found himself rutting against the bed in his sleep thinking about the swell of your breasts, the unscrupulous promises of pleasure would wake him up in a sweat. And those promises would whisper to him the dark and keep him up, prisoner, until he gave in. 

He groaned through gritted teeth as his hands hesitantly descended down his body from under his t-shirt, imagining they were yours…. Soft, warm… nails accented with whatever colorful lacquer you picked for the week. He could almost feel you dragging them down his chest, rubbing affectionately through his happy trail. So close… By the time he touched his dick, the gravity of his actions reflected in the weight of it in his hands. Flashes of you played behind his eyelids, especially of what your face would look like contorted in pleasure. His imagination would have him throbbing angrily against his belly, strings of precum leaking from the tip, squirming and waiting for release.

Shit.

He moved across the room to his tape player to create some distance while pushing down those thoughts, picking something to play. He was at a crossroads. Chewing his bottom lip, he knew he wanted to be empathetic…but wanted to satisfy his curiosity about what’d you been up to. He decided to keep things casual and collect some information first.

“Is he always like that? Surprised he didn’t blow the sound out with all that yellin’.”

Meanwhile, you smoothed your hands down the pleats of your jean skirt, choosing to do that instead of meeting his stare. Truth was, if Michael’s eyes searched yours long enough it would be just like taking a big gulp of truth serum. You were bound to crack and tell him everything.

“Not at first… but things have been changing for the worst, lately. I seemed to really upset him today.”

“And why is that?”

“I’m not sure. He’s just… worried? I guess….”

Sure, in the beginning - Carl was charming, good-looking… you were on the market, a very single and very beautiful woman looking for companionship to fill a Michael-shaped void in your life. He seemed to be looking for someone, too. Matchmaking at an industry mixer seemed to hit it off. 

When things were good, they were good - it was exciting going on dates and being in his company. He was really generous with his time and money he made as a club promoter, making you feel like you were really the girl for him. However, a couple months had passed and his actions revealed that he saw you as someone he could parade around the city and show off like that was the only thing you were good for. There were times where he would lose his patience with you and say mean things, withhold affection, and discourage you from things that made you happy. It was almost like he didn’t want you to smile about anything else but him. He didn’t like the way you dressed (You not goin’ nowhere with me like that… I wanna have sumn sexy on my arm tonight, toots…), he didn’t like your hobbies (Wastin’ time fingerpaintin’ when you should be comin’ to this party with me instead), and he didn’t like your friends (I ain’t jealous of a man who wear glitter and rhinestones, baby, besides… you don’t need no more friends). His snide comments caused a lot of arguments. You’d threaten to leave and he’d sweet-talk you, promising changed behavior. Things would smooth over, rinse and repeat. If you could be honest, you were at the end of your rope with it all. 

He wanted to control you and you felt trapped in a cycle of his insecurities. You wouldn’t be submissive to just any man.

You felt the bed dip next to you. Michael sat and grabbed your hands, the warmth of his thumbs sweeping back and forth across your knuckles was a welcomed sensation that grounded you. Ironically, touching you in this more intimate way made Michael feel a bit out of body but he kept his nerve. He decided to ignore the warning signs, ignore the fluttering in his ribcage.

“You’re a beautiful girl, inside and out… so sensational, intelligent, creative, empathetic, and very special to me. And any man standin’ next to you should admire you, treat you preciously, and with respect. He should be worried.”

There was a rawness in his voice.

You’ve heard it before. When he created music, danced, laughed with his loved ones… when he discussed plans to heal the planet, shared goals to create sanctuaries for children and animals, defended his stance to anyone who would listen about his favorite ice cream. All you could do was look into his eyes, selfishly admiring the wonderment inside before you until you felt too caught up… laughing it off to save face. 

“Mikey, when’d you learn to sweet talk a lady like that?” Your face was burning and he could tell.

“Hey, it’s the truth.” Michael smirked, mischievously tilting his head at your reaction before stroking your cheek with the backs of his fingers. “Hmm... you gettin’ shy on me, pretty girl? I say somethin’ wrong?” 

He should be worried.

His voice echoed around in your head in whispers.

He should be worried.

“What’d you mean?” You asked, mind not even registering that your mouth was moving.

“Pardon?”

“‘He should be worried.’ What do you mean by that?”

Michael shrugged, leaning back so that he was propped up on one of his hands. “He should, that’s all.”

“I don’t understand.”

“‘Cause you here with me, right where you should.” The certainty in his voice stirred something inside you, different from any tone he’d ever used with you in the past. And in that moment, you really looked at him.

There weren’t too many lights on in his room but there didn’t need to be for you to see him. It was always like that. Even if he tried to hide he was always the brightest thing in every room. You sometimes got lost noticing things, things that you forced yourself to pretend to not to notice every time you noticed them. The way his legs splayed out as he sat, open wide. Tonight, it felt like an invitation… fingers expertly tapping his muscular thighs along to the music playing in the background. The medium-wash denim underneath his palms was tailored to a perfect fit, doing an amazing job of accentuating his slim waist and hips and wide shoulders. He almost looked unreal, doll-like, growing out of his childlike gangliness to a modelesque physique that hinted subtle strength. 

When you hugged him, you tried not to notice how his broad shoulders flexed under your palms. They were wider these days, strengthened by carrying his world for so long… You hugged and his arms were almost long enough to wrap around you twice, gripping you tightly and making you feel safe and surrounded by the comforting scent of amber, lemon and cedar. You wanted to touch his chest, feel if his heart was racing just as fast as yours. Admire the expanse of his muscles through the cardigan he was wearing under your palms. But you stayed still, not trusting yourself to make any sudden movements. 

Watching Motown sparked flames you'd been fighting for what seemed like your entire life. Opened your eyes wider than they’d been in years. God, the way he sounded, the way his body translated his innate divinity. He was hungry with need - determined to stir something in others, to prove himself. Michael’s energy was raw and uninhabited during the performance, but yet still maintained his razor-like focus and precision as he danced. 

Especially the way he moved his hips. You tried not to notice how those movements seemed to come natural to him.

Michael’s head was tilted with a curious expression, like he was considering saying more… even if it came at a cost. A couple of juicy curls fell into his eyes, exaggerated by his shorter, more defined hairstyle. Your angelface was losing the last of his boyish features (minus that heart-stopping smile), being replaced with angled lines - masculine, sharp, like his jawline would cut if your lips were to brush too close… 

Then his mouth parted and it felt like the world was moving in half speed. Watching him lick his lips made you subtly shift, suddenly very aware that you were a woman sitting on a bed with a man next to you.

You both locked eyes. 

Michael’s brown eyes were one of the many strikingly beautiful things about him. They sparkled with whimsy and torment all at once, an amalgamation of secrets he thought he’d never speak out loud to anyone. Untold until he met you. 

This particular look whispered something entirely different than any secrets you know. Eyelids low, his wispy lashes framed the deep-seated desire you felt smoldering his stare. It created an invisible force field around the two of you. The heat behind his eyes made your stomach flip with want. 

“Yeah,” he began, keeping them on you, “he should know his time ran out.”

Your breath hitched as Michael took the lead, turning to lean into your personal space. God, he was so close… one of his hands found your waist, pressing you closer while the other took its time, rubbing up the expanse of your neck until finding your jaw.

“Y’feel that?”

You nodded, keeping your eye contact. Gravity shifted. Your entire being screamed for you to move closer, to close the gap and explore the unknown territory of his mouth with your own… but you fought that urge a little bit longer to enjoy the feelings of mutual longing you missed… ones that left your nerve endings tingling and craving touch. Michael shook his head slowly, not satisfied, thumb tracing your bottom lip.

“I need to hear you say it, mama.”

“Y-yes, I feel it.”

“That's right.”

Michael was intoxicated… he watched your eyes flutter down to his lips in anticipation. He could get used to you looking at him like he had the whole world in his hands because he felt like he did too, especially with the heated skin of your waist under his fingertips. Waiting to kiss you any longer would’ve been an unnecessary crime, so he didn’t wait. As soon as your mouth met his, he decided at that moment it was a crime he didn’t plan on committing ever again in his life. 

That pang of longing in his chest was being cured by his bold declaration, and the willingness expressed in your lips answered one of his most selfish prayers.

God, your mouth was so sweet. 

Your gloss tasted like a syrupy summer strawberry he handpicked himself… lips just as full and juicy as the fruit. It was better than anything he ever imagined writing in his notebooks, any run or riff he ever sung, spin he ever spun. Better than anything he visualized in bed, stroking himself to intense climaxes that made him tremble and shudder roughly until he saw spots under his eyelids. Better than honey vanilla ice cream. He couldn’t help the groan rumbling in his chest, jeans already beginning to tighten around his lap as he took his time and savored your mouth. Michael helped himself now that he had you where he wanted you, tilting his head just enough to indulgently suck the delicious candy coating off your lips one by one.

Your moans only encouraged his ministrations even more.

You couldn’t believe you had gone this far, this long in life without kissing him. Fuck, there was so much want blooming inside you as the kiss intensified, getting to the point where your lips barely bothered to separate. His mouth moved intentionally, expressive of his desire, special and just for you, making you blush and sigh and rub your legs together underneath him, unable to resist creating some subtle friction between your legs. You wanted him to touch you, like really touch you… So instead of saying that, you slid his rather large hand from the side of your waist down to your bare thigh. Michael smirked against your mouth as he hovered over the side of you closest to him, welcoming new territory by gripping your heated flesh between his adept fingers. 

Mm, he was gasoline and you were a brushfire… He pulled back a little, teasing you. His throat bobbed as he sweetly kissed the side of your mouth.

“We gonna get rid of him tonight right, pretty? Ready to call him back and tell him?”

At this point you were clay, pupils blown, lips swollen. Anxious to be molded. You’d do anything.

Sensing your compliance, Michael leaned over and grabbed his phone off the nightstand, sitting it on the opposite side of you as he knelt in front of your legs.

“Call him.” 

You bit your lip, hesitant at first until a soft kiss was planted against your ear.

“I’m waitin’, mama. Don’t you want me to touch you?”

His words were emphasized by the feeling of fingertips just barely grazing your knee, giving you goosebumps. You and Michael both watched as he laid his hand ceremoniously flat, starting a painfully slow creep up up up… thumb tracing teasing circles on your inner thigh from underneath your skirt.

Panting, your lungs burned momentarily in anticipation.

“Mikey,” you warned, looking over to see his lip between his teeth trying to hide his mischievous expression.

“Yes, pretty girl? Already sounding so needy f’me… I mean it. I don’t appreciate the way he treated you today. Let’s tell him it’s over.”

Against better judgement, you picked up the phone and dialed Carl’s number. Honestly, you couldn’t tell if the ringing you were hearing was coming from inside your eardrums or the speaker. God, it was so hard to concentrate on holding the phone steady with Michael rubbing on you and peppering whisper-soft kisses on your neck. 

Carl answered and you did your best to keep yourself composed.

“..Hello… hey, yes, it’s me…”

Michael moved closer, spreading your legs wider to give himself room to explore. He couldn’t believe this was happening, couldn’t fathom the softness of your skin… Why did he wait so long to touch you like this? He loved your curvy legs, and the sight of your trembling thighs reminded him of things he only dreamed of. God, he wanted to feel more of you, get lost in you, every inch, all over… 

His eyes widened in surprise when his fingers were invited by the heat between your legs. Upon further inspection and an eager swipe of his thumb, he discovered the seat of your panties were already sticky.

Your legs pitifully twitched at the contact, hips squirming forward into his hand.

“Focus, pretty, or I’ll stop. Tell him why you callin’ back so late.” Michael whispered in your ear, shifting your top over with one hand to plant an affectionate kiss on your shoulder while the other moved the damp lace out of his way, exposing you to him. Yeah, you felt exposed and mostly embarrassed by how worked up you were at this whole thing. But most importantly of all, you were unbelievably horny and ready for him to touch you.

“I-I can’t do this anymore.”

Michael smirked, nodding in encouragement for you to continue. It was hard not to get lost in gratitude, cherishing the way you’d fully relinquished control to him. He teased you long enough. His thumb dipped into your spongy folds, generously coating your clit in your own juices. Meticulously he experimented, testing out different patterns and intensities of pleasure as your eyes fluttered closed.

His dick was impossibly hard now, straining in his jeans.

But nothing was more important than how slick and flushed your pussy felt around his fingers. He noticed everything, his senses heightened by the smell of your pheromones in the air and the sounds of your choppy breathing as he took you higher. He noticed the exact moment he found the winning combo that made your thighs quiver. Index and middle forming a V around the bundle of nerves, he created more pressure and friction and your breath caught. He revered in the sight of you squirming at the new sensation, throbbing and desperately pulling at sheets under you with your free hand. Nothing was more important than this performance right there in his bedroom. 

You stifled another moan by putting a hand over your mouth before it was too late.

Unsurprisingly, Carl was oblivious and completely furious. His tone was accusatory and downright disrespectful as he expressed the vindication he felt about disliking Michael, now proven by you calling him with such finality.

Little did he know he had a bigger reason to be mad.

“That’s right baby, I know…  my pretty girl’s so slick down here. Keep goin’… tell him he sucks.” Having Michael in your ear… saying things like that drove you crazy. God, the mix of praise, affection, and direct commands in his soft voice made your walls angrily clench around nothing. Speaking of, your free hand guided his fingers further down. You didn’t care that your now ex-boyfriend was on the phone yelling your name to get your attention, or care to wait anymore. Your eagerness was enough to sway Michael until he obliged, sliding them inside.

“Here? You want me to touch you right here, mama?” You nodded, sighing as you felt the beginnings of relief from the tension building in your lower belly. His fingers felt like heaven as they curled upwards inside you.

“Then you gotta keep talkin’ for me.”

So you did. “Carl, you really suck…”

You told Carl how much you absolutely hated his guts. Told him about how stupid he looked in those fake designer suits he wore on nightclub grand openings. How dare he try to tell you what to wear. You told him that you’d no longer accept suggestions or criticism from a man that threw temper tantrums like a child. Told him he was insecure and that would no longer be your problem, that he needed to figure his own shit out… away from you. 

And while you unloaded all the thoughts you’d thought and never said to keep any semblance of peace, Michael’s long fingers eagerly pumped in and out of you. 

Your mouth dropped in shock as he abruptly stopped, pulling his glistening fingers to his mouth and sucking them clean. The blissed out look on his face was enough to make you want to explode into a thousand sparkly pieces.

“Mmm, like I thought… you don’t know how bad I wanna taste you, pretty.” Before you could recover, you felt your panties sliding off your legs. His head lowered between them, gripping the backs of your thighs as he spread you wider. 

There was a look of reverence on Michael’s face as he stared at your pussy for the first time.

Your outer lips were puffy and covered in slick, drooling in anticipation as your labia instinctively bloomed for him. He buried his nose into the neat little tuft of dark curls on your mound first and inhaled, cursing under his breath as he declared you the prettiest flower he’d ever seen, losing the last of any restraint he had. God, he knew by how you tasted on his fingers that once he started he wouldn’t be able to stop.

He loved women. Their femininity, their spirit, their softness and soul… inspiring him so much. So naturally, he enjoyed eating pussy. The feel of it, the earthy taste was addicting to him from the moment he was invited to try with a lovely older woman on tour some years ago. It was a whole new world, he was very attracted to her assertiveness… she only wanted a purely physical relationship. It shocked him at first until it intrigued him enough to agree to it. She’d travel to every city, discreetly meeting in his hotel rooms with sunglasses on and nice dresses, nipples visibly hard against the fabric. He’d kneel down on the carpet and she’d prop her leg up on his shoulder, nothing underneath. Grabbed his hands, guided them to him to squeeze her flesh under his palms, touch places she wanted him to touch, taught him how to be patient as he pleased a woman. He was mesmerized. This happened for some time until she felt her purpose was served, sensing his feelings growing. He was heartbroken. Grateful for what she left him with, experiences and a savant’s thirst for knowledge. He took to his own studies, memorizing and learning women’s anatomy in biology almanacs and books written by women about sex and became an expert at providing pinnacles of pleasure, never to be outdone.

But this was more than that. His heart physically ached knowing there was a person in your life who didn’t value someone who he felt was so precious. He wanted to show you just how much you and this moment meant to him. He’d whispered soft, but honest claims against your skin tonight and now he was ready to seal them with a special kiss.

Drunk with pussy lust, his mouth enclosed around your entire pussy and he sucked, oh my God… you wanted to climb up the wall. Your legs desperately shook, heart stalling in your chest. He moaned into your flesh and instantly you were breathless, frowning at the feeling that you bit off more than you could chew. His eyes were bright behind tendrils of curls as he watched you respond to pure, irrevocable pleasure. When he felt your legs attempting to close, he shook his head firmly against your heated skin, still attached to you as his hands slid under your ass to firmly hold you in place. The sudden intensity made your head snap down, moaning with your mouth open as your eyes met. There would be none of that. He wanted you right there submitting to whatever he had to give you until he decided you were done. Your slickness was already beginning to coat the bottom half of his face. He wanted to savor this, committing your sublime taste to memory as mouth made the most vulgar sounds… 

God, you were sure Carl could hear how loud Michael was licking and sucking at your clit. Boy, he was a noisy eater. It was something about how passionate he ate you, the sounds of him moaning and grunting in worship, sucking, lapping, devouring.

“Tell him how good it feels. Tell him how I’m takin’ good care of you.” Michael mumbled, mouth full. 

“It feels so good - fuck - Michael, pleaseee.”

“Mmm, yes pretty? So polite… I’ll do anything you want, just tell me… mmm you taste unreal. So good, so perfect on my tongue.”

“M-more, please, your fingers -” He meant what he said. As soon as your pleas sounded his middle and index finger found their way inside you again, making your back bow. The way they fluidly slid up against your engorged sweet spot over and over sent shocks throughout your entire body.

He pressed his lips to your thigh.

“Carl should keep listenin’ to how happy I’m makin’ you, huh mama? Maybe he could learn somethin’ hearin’ me treat you better…”

You didn’t get a chance to reply with anything intelligible at first. Michael’s eager mouth was on you again like he was starving and desperately missed your taste. The phone unceremoniously fell against the bed and you went feral, holding his head as your hips lifted.

He felt the walls of your pussy start to clench, signaling him to keep his mouth and fingers steady, ready to reward your obedience with the first of many orgasms he had planned for you tonight. You were making the most beautiful sounds, hoarsely moaning his name, begging him not to stop, whining, but most importantly - not caring if Carl was still listening on the other line. 

“Yes baby, that’s it - unh, pleaseeee…”

The tension in your lower belly finally snapped, turning into waves of pleasure so euphoric that they began in your mind and spread - manifesting into your unstable body, making you roughly tremble in release. He didn’t stop pulsating his lips around your engorged clit. In fact, he repeatedly moaned - those vibrations coupled with the way his tongue moved so fast barely gave you any time to process what was happening as you gripped his hair and rutted into his mouth. 

Shit.

His fingers incessantly stroked your g-spot until you quite literally broke, sobbing as viscous juices trickled down his face and wrist until it pooled on the bed under you. You were in what had to be your own special version of heaven, hot tears running down your face.

And he was glad to do it. Grateful, even. 

God, Michael could cum himself from what he beared witness to, finding himself rutting against the edge of the bed in response to your obvious overstimulation. Mmm, he was so grateful knowing that you desired being pleased by him, being pushed to limits you hadn’t experienced before. Everything about the way you made him feel motivated a commitment to worshipping you until his jaw was sore. Your neediness was more rewarding than any accolade he’d ever received, completely immersing himself in the sensations he was giving you. More than anything in his being, he was determined to show his love for you.

Better than Carl ever could.

taglist: @justalocallesbian (heyyyyyyy omg you're my first person on a taglist!)

[deerlyenchanted]

‪‪❤︎‬ | I LUV YO GIRL

･ ‎ꫂ᭪݁ ⋮ AUTHORS NOTE: ANYB notice michael LOVED songs from other artists where they sung abt being the side piece/stole others girls like GOODNIGHT MICHAELLL. this was fun to write tho so lmk if we want a part two n comment. I love reading them.

･ ‎ꫂ᭪݁ ⋮ SUMMARY/CW: theres this story about this lady who when to the dyrtt recording bc her bf was the producer and he went up n asked her boyfriend if he could borrow her for a movie date. SO I wrote about it. Fem!pov, sfw, w.c: 1.6k (I DO NOT IN ANY WAY ENDORSE CHEATING THIS IS FICTION GOSH) black!reader but anyone can read

The set was hectic.

People hurried from one end of the soundstage to the other carrying lights, cameras, costume racks, clipboards, anything that looked important. Makeup artists darted around with brushes in their hands while dancers rehearsed in little groups off to the side. It seemed like every five seconds someone was shouting for another take.

You, meanwhile, stood quietly near the producer, watching everything with wide eyes.

Your boyfriend had insisted you come visit the set, claiming you were always asking what he actually did at work. Now that you were here, you had to admit it was pretty interesting. There was so much happening all at once that you hardly knew where to look.

"...Hold still, Michael."

Across the room, Michael Jackson sat patiently while a makeup artist dabbed powder across his forehead. At least he pretended to be paying attention. His eyes had wandered, right to you.

He frowned slightly. He'd never seen you around before, you definitely weren't one of the dancers…not crew either. His curiosity immediately got the better of him. The second the makeup artist stepped away to grab another brush, Michael slipped out of his chair before anyone could stop him.

"I'll be right back." Nobody questioned it, lots of people were always on set during Michael’s recordings. He walked straight over to where you and the producer were standing, wearing the sweetest smile you'd ever seen. "Hi.." he greeted politely. "I don't think we've met before."

The producer chuckled. "Oh, right. Michael, this is—" You introduced yourself before he could. Michael repeated your name quietly to himself, almost like he was making sure he'd remember it. "It's nice t'meet you," he smiled. He reached out to shake your hand.

You took it, his hand completely swallowed yours. Instead of giving one quick shake like a normal person, he held onto it for another second... then another... his thumb absentmindedly brushing across your knuckles before his hand slowly slid away.

"...Nice to meet you too, I uhm know who you are." you answered, trying not to overthink it. Michael grinned. "Oh," the producer added casually. "She's my girlfriend. I invited her to see the set." Michael blinked. "...Your girlfriend?"

"Yeah." There was the smallest pause. "...Oh." His smile never disappeared. "Well," he nodded politely. "Hope you're enjoyin' everything." Then he walked away, the producer didn't think twice about it.

He quietly repeated your name under his breath again. Girlfriend. Producer's girlfriend. That was... unfortunate, for the producer not him. About an hour later everyone broke for a short rest.

The producer had wandered off to discuss something with another crew member, leaving you standing by yourself near one of the massive lights. "...Hey." You turned around.

Michael, again. "So..." he smiled, rocking back on his heels. "Whaddya think so far? Like the music video?" "I do," you nodded. "It's really cool seeing how much work goes into all this."

He beamed. "I know, most people don't realize. It’s really a lot." That somehow turned into a twenty-minute conversation. One question became five. "What kinda movies do you like?"

"Oh, horror mostly." His eyes lit up. "No way." "What?" "I love horror movies." "You do?" He nodded excitedly. "'Specially the old ones, I uhm — that’s how Thriller got made." You hummed.  The conversation kept going. It was surprisingly easy talking to him.

He was funny, awkward too. A little dorky, honestly. Then he made his move. "I actually..." He rubbed down his thigh, trying to sound casual. "I got a movie theater at my house." "Oh?" "Yeah."

He looked around before turning towards you more. "...You should come watch one sometime." You smiled politely. "That sounds fun." Before either of you could say anything else. 

"Michael?" Your boyfriend walked back over. Perfect timing. Michael looked between the two of you. Then, without even the slightest bit of shame...

"Hey," he smiled at the producer. "I was wonderin' if I could borrow your girlfriend for a movie date." Silence. You stared your lips pressing into a flat line. Your boyfriend stared at you then at him a bit confused.

Michael stared right back like he'd said the most normal sentence in the world. "...A movie date?" your boyfriend repeated slowly. Michael let out the tiniest giggle. "Oh!" He waved his hands in the air. "No, no. I meant... like... invite her over t'watch movies."

Another pause. "...Not a date." He absolutely meant date. He hadn't stumbled over his words the first time. He'd said exactly what he wanted to say. Your boyfriend narrowed his eyes for a second before sighing.

"...I mean..." He looked at you. "You wanna go?" You shrugged, it’d be rude to say no. "Yeah." Michael smiled far wider than he probably should've. "Great." The rest of the afternoon somehow got even worse or better. Depending on who you asked.

Every chance Michael got, he wandered over to wherever you were standing. "Hows my makeup?" he'd ask after makeup artists had spent fifteen minutes fixing it. "It looks nice." "Really?"

"Yeah, it really does." Five minutes later:

"Did that dance move look okay?" "Well it looked difficult."

"It is! But I really wanna do somethin’ different" He laughed at almost everything you said and you knew damn well you weren’t that funny.  If he needed to guide you through a crowded part of the set, his hand somehow always found the small of your back.

If your hands brushed while someone passed equipment between you, he'd linger for just a second too long before pulling away. Whenever your boyfriend got called off to deal with something… Michael magically appeared.

Almost like he'd been waiting. The thing you noticed most, though...was the way he looked at you.

Those ridiculously big doe eyes never seemed to leave your face whenever you were talking. Most of the time they were soft and curious, but every now and then, usually after saying something that was just a little too flirty, they'd darken ever so slightly before he'd smile to himself.

By the end of filming, the crew had started noticing. Your boyfriend… was trying very hard not to notice. By the end of the recording, Michael had completely stopped pretending he was just being friendly.

The poor crew had watched him drift toward you every chance he got, whether it was between takes, while makeup artists fixed his hair, or when everyone broke for lunch. If he disappeared, someone usually joked, "Check wherever she is," because without fail that's exactly where he'd be.

Your boyfriend had started noticing too. He tried not to think much of it. Michael was naturally affectionate, everyone knew that. He hugged people, complimented people, asked a million questions. That was just... Michael.

At least that's what he kept telling himself. As everyone began wrapping up for the day, Michael wandered over once again, hands tucked into the pockets of his military jacket.

"So..." he smiled, looking directly at you. "Can I have your phone number?" You stared at him for a second. "My phone number?" "Mhm." He nodded. "I wanna call you." Your boyfriend looked up so fast he nearly dropped the clipboard he'd been holding.

"...Excuse me?" Michael glanced over at him with that same innocent smile. "I said I wanna call her." "I heard what you said." "Oh." Michael looked back at you. "We didn't get t'finish talking today." You laughed awkwardly, unsure whether he was joking anymore.

"I don't know..." "C'mon," he said, pouting just enough to be dramatic. "I still wanna hear about those horror movies you like." "Michael." "I'm bein’ serious." 

Your boyfriend finally stepped closer, folding his arms. "...You're asking my girlfriend for her phone number while I'm standing right here."

"Mhm." He nodded once.  There wasn't an ounce of embarrassment on Michael's face. In fact, he looked genuinely confused as to why that mattered. 

"I'll probably be on the phone awhile too," he continued, reaching out for a pen, his staff handed it to him and he held it out to you. "So I'll pay your phone bill."

You blinked. "...You'll what?" "I don't want you gettin' charged because I'm usin' the phone." He said it so sincerely that for a second nobody spoke. Your boyfriend slowly turned to look at you, a brow raised.

" He just offer to pay your phone bill?" Michael nodded matter-of-factly. "It's only fair, I have a habit of talkin’ a lot." Against all common sense, you reached for the pen because you weren’t going to say no! He was so kind today.

Your boyfriend watched in complete disbelief as you scribbled your home landline onto a scrap of paper before handing it back to Michael.

He looked down at it with the biggest smile you'd seen all day, carefully folding it before slipping it into his pocket like it was something priceless.

"I'll call soon." "Not too late," you teased. "I'll try." He looked at your boyfriend then, smiling just as politely as he had when he'd first introduced himself that morning. "Dont think I eva’ told you thanks." "...For what?" "For lettin' me borrow your girlfriend all day." Your boyfriend's eye twitched. "You weren't borrowing her."

Michael let out a quiet little giggle looking your boyfriend up and down before turning on his heels. With one last wave, he walked off toward his trailer, humming lyrics to himself like he'd just won something.

PART TWO MAYBE GUYS? 

[soldierlovebunny]

Both Ain’t Shit

Pairing: Michael Jackson x fem!reader Warnings : angst, adultery, Michael cheats on you with LMP, you’re cheating on him with Brad Pitt I guess, arguing, light descriptions of smut, uhhhh no happy ending :/ Word count: 2.5k authors note: uhhhh sorry if this is cringe guys I’ve never written angst before😭 also don’t take this fic too seriously cause honestly it seems kinda comedic even to me 😅

1995 

You should’ve known this was going to happen. The way he’d slip away to make phone calls, sneaking around more than usual, giving lackluster answers to your questions. He was doing it again. Entertaining her. Despite the fact that you and him were supposed to be married. He even kissed you on stage, in front of thousands of people. And yet, there he was, on tv, being seen with her. His little side chick. His mistress, Lisa Marie Presley. 

You sat there, on the couch in your Parisian hotel room, the one you were supposed to be sharing with Michael. But while he was there, with pretty little Lisa decorating his arm, you were inside. With your boyfriend. You both watched them on TV, listening to some reporter gawk at the scandal unfolding. 

“It seems that the King of Pop simply can’t be satisfied with just one woman, even when it’s a world-famous actress like Y/N L/N! He’s been spotted around the city of love with none other than Lisa Marie Presley. Looks like there’s trouble in paradise. More on this later.”

You seethed. But not with blinding rage from his betrayal. Just with annoyance. He was doing this to piss you off. He knew you wanted to go to Paris with him, but instead of spending time with you, he was out there taking pretty little Lisa around like a dog on a walk. His cocky smile was a message to you, like he was bragging to you through the screen. ‘You’re jealous, aren’t you?’ 

Your boyfriend noticed your icy glare, reaching for the remote to change the channel quickly. 

“Don’t worry ‘bout him, babe. You’re way more beautiful than that chick he’s messing with. She’s a five at best, you’re a ten.” He commented, placing his arm around your shoulders as he kissed your cheek. 

You didn’t relax at all. You were still agitated, your posture straightened and rigid with anger. You were not going to let Michael win this game. You had to find a way to make him jealous, even more than you were right now. You had to find a way to give him a taste of his own medicine. Make him desperate. 

“Get off me, Brad. I’m thinking.” You scolded, shooing his affections away. You rose from the couch, your mind clouded with plans to make Michael pay for his actions. 

“Oh c’mon babe, you really hung up about that jerk? You know I make you cum harder than he ever did. I don’t understand why you don’t just leave him already.” He scoffed, taking a swig of wine directly from the bottle. 

“Shut up, Brad. You know I’m not going to do that.” 

He shrugged. “Whatever. Why don’t we go out tonight and forget about that loser?” 

An idea sprang to mind. Michael isn’t the only one who can bring his little plaything around Paris. Two can play at that game. And better yet, you can beat him at it. He’ll be turning green with envy, feeling ten times more jealous than you do right now. 

“Sure. Let’s go out to eat. I’ll pay for it.” You smiled, your voice suggesting more than what you spoke out loud. 

“Sweet. I’ll be back in a bit to pick you up.”

Just as planned, you and Brad made a grand entrance at a famous restaurant in the most beautiful part of Paris. The paparazzi went wild as soon as you left the limo, and cameras followed you both as you walked into the restaurant. You made Brad put his arm around you, ensuring that your pairing made everyone suspect more than friendship. 

By the time you left, the paparazzi crowd had tripled in size, wanting to capture the moment that the most famous actress in the world got a little more than friendly with her rising co-star. Where was her husband? Why weren’t they together? Was Michael Jackson simply a sub-par husband who couldn’t keep his woman satisfied? The story was being blasted the moment you kissed Brad on the cheek and got into the limo with him. 

Like usual, you and Brad got real busy the moment you returned to the hotel. A trail of clothes led to the bedroom like a trail of breadcrumbs leading to the scene of the crime. You had nearly forgotten about Michael by now, your mind melted and consumed with only the sensations buzzing about your nerves. All you could hear was a sensual song, your melodic moans mingling with the beat of the headboard tapping against the wall. 

You felt a hot coil in your lower stomach, winding up tighter and tighter, ready to snap in mere seconds. You were lost in ecstasy, blinded by the rapid approach towards your peak. 

“Ring, ring! Ring ring!” 

Your eyes shot open, both you and Brad flinching at the shrill ringing that shattered the perfect moment you were having. You were ready to ignore it, to simply pull him back down and finish what you started, but you were quickly reminded of your goal. 

It must be Michael calling. He always pretended like he didn’t care when you went out with your boyfriend, but he took the bait every time. He was always the first one to call, to scold you for being out with another man. You sat up, much to Brad’s displeasure, and reached over for the phone. 

“Hello????” He nearly growled, his familiar voice full of barely contained rage. It sure was Michael, alright. But it wouldn’t be enough to give him what he wanted, to pick up the phone and argue with him like usual. You were trying to push him over the edge. 

You handed the phone to Brad, a cocky smirk plastered on your still flushed face. 

“I think it’s for you, Brad.” 

He held the receiver, his brows furrowed in confusion. He raised his eyebrows, wondering if you meant what he thought you meant. You nodded, your smile widening with mischief. 

His expression gained the same cocky pride that you had, and he chuckled into the microphone as he held the receiver. 

“She’s busy right now, man.” He stated simply. 

Your eyes widened at the volume that started coming from the phone then. You could hear it clear as day, and he wasn’t even on speakerphone. He was livid. And although you were frankly terrified, you laughed like a mad woman, even after he clicked the receiver back into the phone. 

“He is pissed, ain’t he? I’ve never heard him yell like that before.” He chuckled. 

“Me neither.” His eyes widened at your words. 

“What?! You sure he’s not gonna kick my ass or something? It’s real fun being with you and all, but I’m not risking getting a black eye just for a good fuck.” 

“Oh come on, Brad, don’t be scared of him. If we hurry up, we’ll be done before he gets here. Trust me, he won’t do anything.” You assured him. He was easily convinced by your confidence. 

“Alright, baby.” 

Half an hour later, you were completely spent, covered in a sheen of sweat, your hair wild and tossed around your head. Brad was still catching his breath as he slid his shirt back on. He was eager to leave, now that his post-coital clarity had reminded him of the rage your husband was bound to bring in the house when he returned. 

You didn’t bother putting on clothes when you walked him to the door, you merely draped a silk robe over your flushed form. You granted him a long goodbye kiss before he left, reigniting his desire to return as soon as your husband forgot about his anger. 

You opened the door for him, only to find Michael on the other side. 

All three of you froze, eyes widening like they were ready to pop out of all your heads. Brad gained his sense first, slipping past Michael before he had the mind to go after him. He gave you one last look, waving back at you with a slightly cocky grin. 

“See ya, Y/N.”

“Bye, Brad.” You called back. 

 Michael’s head turned to follow his retreating form, watching him briskly stroll down the hotel hallway. He was still nearly frozen, having never caught you so red-handed before. He knew you weren’t being loyal, but this? This was a slap in the face, a flashing red sign that laid your infidelity out right in front of him. You turned around, returning to the hotel room as he followed you with heavy, charged footsteps. He nearly slammed the door behind him, the two clicks of the lock sealing your fate for what was to come. 

“What the fuck was that, Y/N??!?” He shouted, his hands balled into fists at his sides as you laid coyly on the couch. Your panties were somewhere nearby, forgotten along with the rest of your outfit on the floor. He looked around at the mess with disbelief, his gentle features hardening like you’d never seen. 

“My friend Brad.” You replied snarkily, picking up a forgotten wine glass and taking a brief sip from it. 

“Don’t act stupid with me.” He snapped, his patience already thrown out the window long ago. Your little remarks were only pissing him off even further. 

“You were having sex? With him??? In MY hotel room?” 

“You mean OUR hotel room?” You corrected, tossing him an irritated glance without answering his question. 

“I told you to stop acting stupid! You were fucking another man in here!” He accused, making you sit up with a fire in your eyes. 

“Oh, but you fucking Lisa in her hotel room is any better? Don’t get on your high horse with me, Michael! Me and Brad weren’t even having sex!” You retorted, knowing you were lying right through your teeth. 

“I wasn’t having sex with her! She’s only a friend, unlike you and Brad! Do you think I was born yesterday, Y/N?? Your fucking clothes are everywhere! Just admit you were cheating on me with him.” He argued. 

“No. Not until you admit to cheating on me with Lisa.” You demanded, your voice firm with a lack of budging. 

“I’m telling you, I wasn’t.”

“You’re such a fucking liar, Michael!” 

“SO ARE YOU!” 

“Well then I guess we both ain’t shit, huh?!” 

There was a silence that stretched on for what felt like forever, and as you laid back on the couch once more, sipping a dark red wine that failed to soothe you, he failed to find his patience, or an alibi. 

“You’re gonna leave him. Tonight. You’re never gonna see him again.” He ordered. 

You sat up once more. 

“Uh, excuse me? Who do you think you’re talking to? I’m not one of your little side bitches, Mike, you’re crazy if you think you’re just gonna tell me what to do and who to talk to. I’m not letting you control me.” You spoke firmly. 

“You’re such a whore.” He spat. 

You gasped. “Oh really? I’m the whore? Well then, I’m just perfect for ya, aren’t I? Considering you looove to fuck around with little whores like Lisa!” Your words came fast and harsh, your face heating up with a growing anger and fiery rage. 

“Don’t you dare call her that! She has more class than you could ever have, and she’s not a two-faced liar!” He whined angrily. 

“Oh right, cause it takes soooo much class to be a side chick! She’s a real trooper for following you everywhere like a goddamn puppy while not having a ring on her finger! I’m just so envious!” You attacked, a thick layer of sarcasm coating your words. 

“Yeah, you are! You’re jealous of her, and you won’t even admit it. You’re jealous of her, and that’s what all this—“ he gestured to the plain evidence of your infidelity strewn around the room, “—is all about! You think you can get back at me for being with her, don’t you?” He accused, your eyes narrowing with a glint of pride. 

You smiled, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. 

“Well, it worked, didn’t it? You called me, you got angry when Brad answered, and I bet little Lisa begged you to stay with her, but look at you. Here you are, arguing with me about Brad. You fell for it, Mikey. Hook, line, and sinker.” 

He went silent, lips parting and closing like he forgot how to speak. You put a mirror to his true feelings, and he had no defense or denial. He stood there, dumbfounded, processing the bomb you’d dropped on him. 

“You… you need to leave him.” He insisted, refusing to acknowledge the truth behind his discomfort. 

“Not until you leave Lisa.” You retorted. 

“Then I’ll leave her.” You nearly spit out your wine. 

You finally looked at him again, scanning his face for a hint of dishonesty or sneakiness. His eyes were set and darkened, not with ulterior motives, but a seriousness that made your stomach tighten. 

“You’re not gonna trick me with that, Michael.” You muttered. 

“I’m not trying to. I’m serious. I’ll delete her number, I’ll stop seeing her, I’ll never talk to her again. I’ll be here. With you.” He pressed, his voice lacking the demanding anger or consuming jealousy from before. He looked sincere, he sounded sincere… but was he? Was this just another tactic to get the upper hand over you? Make you think he was all yours so that you’d focus all your attention back onto him?

You sighed, looking down at the nearly empty glass of wine in your hand. You decided to play along, to pretend that you believed in starting over monogamously. You were an actress after all, better put on a believable performance. 

“Okay then. I’ll stop seeing Brad. I’ll be here with you. We can be like we used to. Husband and wife. Just us, and no sneaking around. No more lies.” You promised, your voice full of conviction and honesty. You sat up, placing the wine glass back down on the table. 

He crossed the room slowly, and your eyes followed him as he came to sit on the sofa next to you. You both stared at each other until he took a deep sigh, his expression a mask of solemnity. He placed his other hand behind his back while he raised his pinky finger up between you, like an olive branch outstretched to an enemy. 

“You swear?” He asked, his voice softened with a twinge of hopefulness. You eyed him for a moment, but with your own defeated sigh, you also raised your pinky finger, intertwining with his.  

“I swear. We can start over. Together.” You promised, gazing deeply into his eyes that reflected your honesty and dedication to commitment. You let go of his finger, smoothing out your robe as he stood from the couch. You noticed him uncrossing his fingers as he stood, which deeply relieved you. 

You had crossed your fingers too. You really both weren’t shit. 

[offthawall]

this is genuinely how it feels to be a michael fan in 2026 like ugh we have been eating so good. i love all of the new fans but this really hits different when you’ve been a fan your whole life🥰

[prettygirlwmula]

we find new things everyday 😋😋😋

[mikesfaveater]

ＤＲＵＮＫ ＩＮ ＬＯＶＥ

𝘑𝘦𝘳𝘮𝘢𝘫𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘺 𝘑. 𝘹 𝘉𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

A/N: just a small blurb of the reader being drunk and wanting to touch her boo.

You didn’t know how you ended up here, you have had 3 shots of tequila and a lemon drop.

You were a lightweight so you were for sure drunk.

You had needed this night out, between work and your family problems you needed something to ease your mind.

Your friends were right on cue, they called you earlier this morning asking if you wanted to go out— of course you said yes.

Jermajesty had told you have as much fun as you want but don’t get too drunk, but that went in one ear and right out the other.

And now look at where you were at, him carrying you out the club, holding all your belongings— plus you.

“i missed you dada mannnn” you dragged out as yall approached the car, jermajesty shook his head with a small smile.

“i miss you more mama” he slid you into the passenger seat before setting your shoes on the floor and your purse next to you.

“unt unt that’s impossible, you can’t miss me more than i missed you” you slurred.

“oh it’s possible baby, i waited all night for you” he reached over buckling your seat belt.

“are you s-sure?, you didn’t have any bitches over while i was out right” you hiccuped as jermajesty closed the door.

“this going to be a long night” he jogged over to the drivers side sliding in.

“You didn’t answer my question, did you have any bitches over while i was gone?” you asked again pointing a finger in his face.

Jermajesty laughed and shook his head no “no pretty, nobody was over while you were gone”

“oh alright then, and you bet not be lying or imma have to ike yo ass” you grumbled taking your finger out his face.

He shook his head before grabbing his phone and unlocking it.

“you wanna listen to music baby?” he asked going to his apple music, you nodded snatching his phone out his hand.

“ouu yesss, let’s listen to jhené aiko my favv” you started to type in her name—well trying to.

It ending up saying “hene iko” which made you frown, tears welled up in your eyes “why isn’t she popping up baby, i swear she’s a real person and im not hallucinating”

Tears now streamed down your face as jermajesty took the phone back seeing you misspelled the name, he wanted to laugh so bad but he knew that would make you cry more.

“baby you just spelled it wrong that’s it, your fine” he said he typed in the right letters.

“so that means i’m dumb and illiterateee” you dragged out once again, a loud sob came from you.

Mind you, yall haven’t left the parking lot.

Jermajesty couldn’t hold back his laugh, he turned his head towards the window and covered his mouth, covering up his laughs the best he can.

You were still was sobbing saying how you didn’t know how he could love someone as dumb as you.

Finally jermajesty calmed you down, your sobs now sniffles as he pressed play on your favorite song “sativa.”

Your head bopped along to the beat as yall finally made your way out the parking lot.

Soon you started feeling the song too much, you wiped your eyes and looked over at your boyfriend.

One hand on the wheel as the other rested on your thigh.

He looked so sexy at the moment, his hair freshly trimmed, his lips plump and his goatee—made you wanna cum right there on the spot.

Your hand found its way to his sweat pants, palming his dick.

Jermajesty looked over at you with a raised eyebrow, “unt unt mama, you’re drunk”

“so? you look so sexy right now, i just wanna lick” you moved your hands up to his waist, sliding it inside his pants.

Jermajesty quickly pulled it out setting it back on your lap.

“babyyyyuhhh, i need your dick nowww” jermajesty shook his head, the ride home wasn’t going fast enough.

“baby no, just sit back and enjoy the ride”

You sucked your teeth, you definitely didn’t listen as your hand went back over to palm him once again.

“(name) no, i’m not saying that shit again” his voice was stern but you still didn’t care.

You repeated your actions from earlier, sliding your hands down into his pants again, this time you actually made it to touch his length.

His breath caught for a moment as he stopped at a red light, he remembered you were not in your right state of mind making him quickly yank your hands out once again.

“Like deadass mama, stop, wait until you sober up” he said looking at into your low eyes.

He then saw your lip form into a pout, he knew he fucked up.

“you don’t love me or something?” you threw your head back onto the head rest.

“all i want is to touch you and love on you but you’re not letting me, i missed you so much tonight” you said in between sobs, now jermajesty felt bad.

His hand grabbed yours putting it back on his lap, which earned a small smile from you.

“you can keep your hands right here, that’s it don’t go any further” he instructed, his voice still stern, you decided to finally listen as you wiped your tears away.

“my baby loves me, my baby love me” you sung moving your head side to side.

Jermajesty looked over and smiled, he really didn’t know what he was going to do with you.

[amnesia-sc]

vampyr | michael jackson

a/n: i know ppl don’t like au’s but i’m sorry i love writing them

vampire! michael jackson x f! reader

t/w: victorian setting, nosferatu inspo, toxic? dark romance, obsession, manipulation, concerning levels of yearning, stalking, blood/gore, 18+ mdni, smut, p in v, blood kink (i mean c’mon), broken bed frames and a lot of biting and hair pulling

wc: 11.6k (sorry don’t kill me)

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The morning sun was pale as it slipped past the curtains, slowly warming up the hardwood floors as much as it could with winter approaching.

You sat on the edge of your bed, your cat brushing up against your legs, impatient to be fed. Leaning down, you picked him up, taking in the soft fur and his warmth as he purred. Trying to gather the courage to get out of bed.

A melancholy had taken hold of your heart the past few months. A weight resting on your shoulders. A presence.

Ever since that night.

Weakness. Loneliness. Desperation. Sin. Whatever it was to be called.

Your mind felt like it was in hell as you called out into the night, teary eyes gazing up at the moon. At an angel. At God. You didn't know, you just needed help. An out. Not knowing how to outrun your mind.

Come to me. You cried, hands clasped so tightly in prayer, your bones shifted beneath your skin. Come to me. Guardian angel. A spirit of comfort. Any celestial being, a sob racked your chest. Come to me. Hear my prayer.

Suddenly it felt as if your breath had been robbed. Stolen. Ripped right from your lungs. The moon too bright and air too still.

But your mind— it was so quiet. Calm.

Something was holding you. The presence greedy.

Your feet carried you across your room, acting on their own accord. Or perhaps someone else's. A string tied around each joint and tugging you along, coiling you up and closer to the puppeteer.

You were brought to the window, the moon so bright. Looking at you.

Oil slipped over you mind as something, someone, he spoke.

I've got you. A caress, enveloping you. Bliss.

You shook your head, begging the memory to go away before it finished.

You always woke up in a sweat despite the long dead fire. Feeling as though you’d been dragged through something. Some sort of unreachable plane.

He was haunting your dreams. Stalking you. You felt like a rabbit running from a wolf. Not a person. Feeling it, Him, crawl beneath your skin like a spider, spinning a web around every vein and heartstring.

The clock chimed and it startled your cat, causing him to leap off your lap and his claws dug into the flesh of your thighs through your nightgown, spotting it with crimson.

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Late.

You pushed through the door with your hip, holding a crate of glass bottles filled with herbs and elixirs. Your spine felt stiff. Your bones not right. You could've sworn you felt Him on your walk to the apothecary that morning.

You were losing it. You knew you were. You couldn't have possibly… it wasn't possible.

But as you turned, the air on the back of your neck stood and it wasn't the cold.

The faintest voice. An echo rattling in your mind.

Come to me.

You blinked the thought away. The daylight was supposed to be safe.

Your boss called your name from somewhere in the back of the shop. Shortly after his head peaked over the shelves, his graying hair a mess. "Have you brought it?"

“Yes, sir." You set the crate down, urging the thoughts of Him, your shadow, to the back of your mind.

You dug the few bottles your boss asked you to order from the crate, the glass cold against your palms, bitter from the atmosphere.

He made his way between tables, his black coat heavy on his shoulders and his glasses perched down his nose as he took one of the bottles from you.

Observing it with scrutiny to see if you’d done a good job. Which you always did. You never messed up.

A slight crease formed between his brows and he set the glass back down into the crate. Barely a nod. That's all you ever got from him. All that you needed. He wasn't one to give thanks or praise. He took a chance on hiring you, you knew that. He didn't owe you anything else but your weekly wages.

He got back to work as you began organising bottles and mincing up ingredients, trying not to let your mind wander as the blade sliced through dried lilac. The sound of the knife hitting the cutting board in tune with your heart.

It began to rain on your walk home, the droplets bitter cold and feeling like bullets of ice. Other city dwellers used what they had as umbrellas if they had none.

You didn't see a point. Your skin was burning, your blood bubbling as if it were trying to claw its way out of your veins. You needed this. The cold.

You didn't mind it as rogue hair stuck to your forehead and neck, water dewing up so heavy on your lashes it was hard to keep your eyes open.

Come to me.

You flinched, turning to the sound, feet picking up pace and frantic to get away. Instincts kicking in as your eyes darted around the bodies rushing to find cover, feet splashing up water.

He was here. In the city. You knew it to be true.

Turning, your world suddenly upended as you collided with someone, black clouding your vision and you felt gloved hands grab hold of your arms to break your fall.

You blinked the rain away, your mind spinning, not understanding and your manners tried to quickly scramble their way forth.

“Apologies," tumbled out of your mouth and you tried to right yourself, but your dress was heavy with water and your skin was tight with the cold.

The hands slowly slid away from you, almost hesitant, and you finally allowed yourself to look up.

Your breath caught, heart skipped a beat, for a mere moment you thought…

“It’s okay."

The man looked down at you. Imposing. Face hidden half in shadow from his hat and the veil of rain.

Your mouth hung open slightly. Your nerves tangled in shock and what might've been trepidation.

The water pounded into the cobblestones beneath him. The rain soaking through his fine coat and hat, water beaded up on his own lashes. His eyes, they looked like the dark side of the moon that kept you company every night. Familiar.

He tilted his head to the side as he watched you, his eyes practically glowing with something you didn't think you’d ever be able to name.

Your heart was thudding in your ears. Or maybe that was just the rain.

Do something.

"I'll be–"

“Have we met–"

You both spoke at once and you couldn't help it as you felt yourself blush, but you blamed it on the cold.

He took his hat off for a moment to push his wet hair back, the locks nearly looked like spilled ink as a black-gloved hand ran through his curls. His eyes met yours again, his expression unreadable and far too encompassing.

“Find a fire, I wouldn't want you to get sick." With that he bowed his head and stepped past you, the sharp click of his shoes fading in with the rest of the crowd.

You looked after him, watching the slight sway of his shoulders, his presence alone towering over everyone else. Men parted for him as he walked, not thinking twice, like he commanded the tides.

His voice...

A crack of thunder startled you and you kept moving, your skin prickling up again.

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Those eyes flickered, blinding you, dancing in your mind. Intent. Obsessed.

You gasped, ripping yourself awake before your mind suddenly eased, like warm water was slowly consuming your body. You were slipping, your mind's chatter easing into quiet as you went under the surface.

You saw him again. That stranger. But not quite. His silhouette was flickering in the shadows but his eyes gleamed of moonlight.

Who are you? You asked, though the air remained still.

The shadows folded, swayed, his eyes tilting. You pulled me out of the dark. His voice was like oil, dripping over the room and staining it.

But who, you stretched your jaw, your common sense fighting its way up, trying to break the surface.

He stepped closer. Your breath hitched. Equal parts frightened and enamoured.

Dark curls suddenly caught the moonlight but it was still difficult to make him out. A shifting phantom. Restless. Crazed as you felt something rough yet soft slide down the side of your neck.

A hand. Possessive.

You are not for the living, your stranger said.

The sharp planes of his face morphed into something tangible as he leaned down. Cool breath hitting your face and you felt in a trance as you looked up at him.

His thumb dragged across your bottom lip. Eyes intent as he followed the action.

You knew you were in the presence of something beyond humanity but you couldn't look away. Couldn't back away. The strings all tangled and too tight.

When you woke up the next morning, your room was empty and your cat sat at the end of your bed, staring at the corner of your room.

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Your mind was muddled as the week went on. He had never touched you before in your dreams. Never... he had never been someone. You wondered if your mind was playing tricks on you. Trying to slot a face into the voice and presence you always felt. Deciding to pick that man you had run into.

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Your hand slipped and the knife tore into your hand, the pain quick and sharp but it was a mere echo.

Wrapping some cloth around the wound, you heard the bell above the door chime.

"One moment!" You called, pulling the cotton tight and weaving your way around the tables and boxes. You wished your boss would let you organize properly. But he had everything where he needed and wanted, peering down his hooked nose every time you asked and sneering, It is organized.

You rolled your eyes thinking about it.

Rounding the corner of some shelves, you stopped short at the sight of a man leaning down, hands in pockets as he looked at some of the medicinals the shop sold.

Dark eyes. Sharp cheekbones.

At your presence, his eyes flicked up, down to your hand, then back up again. Pupils blown a little wide.

"You," you breathed the word without realizing it.

He blinked a few times as he straightened, eyes dancing down to your cut hand again, the blood dotting on the fabric. "You're hurt." His tone held nothing. No worry. No concern. Though, he did sound ever so slightly breathless. Just a bit. Or maybe you were imagining things.

His eyes. He looked hungry.

"I'm fine," you managed to get out, walking behind the counter. For safety, perhaps. Some semblance of security. He was even more overwhelming in broad daylight. In person. Your dream now fading into an even more warped fantasy. Right now he was far too real.

His jaw clenched, the muscles working under his skin. Running his tongue along the inside of his cheek as he seemed to force himself to look away from you and to the wall of bottles and dried goods.

You gnawed at your lip, brows furrowing as you watched him. Taking a breath, you all but ground the words out. "Can I help you with something?"

He sighed, eyes slating towards you, nearly looking pained and it made you feel dizzy. Who was this man?

Your boss snapped your name, appearing from what seemed to be thin air and you flinched. The old man was looking at you like you had grown a second head. "Are you just going to stand there or help him? What do I pay you for?"

You opened your mouth to argue but he was already disappearing into the back of the store. Leaving you blushing and a bit embarrassed. But when you turned back around, the stranger was gone.

You let out a breath of air. Equally relieved but disappointed. In what, you weren’t sure. Curiosity, perhaps. Your eyes looked down at your hand but stopped short when you noticed the dried flowers laying on the table, a black ribbon tied around them with a small piece of parchment. Two letters were drawn in ebony ink.

M.J.

You gently picked them up. Red carnations and Fern.

Your eyes danced to where he had stood, wondering if you focused hard enough he'd materialize like he did the other night.

"Who are you?" You whispered.

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Fresh air. You needed fresh air.

Yanking the sheets off of you, your skin was cold but covered in dew drops of sweat. You could feel it. Feel Him. Crawling over your bones and staining them. An insatiable itch you couldn't reach.

You blindly made your way down the stairs and out into the garden. Your feet silent as they padded across the frost crusted grass. Your body was burning up and you wanted to strip yourself from the cotton, desperate and feeling suffocated as the moon stared down at you.

You yanked at your hair. Strands sticking to your skin. Too much. Too sensitive.

Come to me.

You squeezed your eyes shut, a cry almost leaving you as you felt your feet start to move somewhere. North, maybe.

Your conscience took a step back, a door closing, looking at you with knowing eyes. Wait– you called, but the door locked and oil spilled over again.

Who are you? You asked. You’d always ask till you got an answer, your legs carrying you through the bushes and closer and closer to an unknown. The back of your mind whispered that your parents wouldn't like this. This behavior. Your father nearly sent you off after that first night. Nearly sent you off every night you woke the house with your ramblings of a shadow man.

His voice swirled around you, almost teasing in its lilt— You know.

I do not.

A hand wrapped around the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair. It sent chills down your spine, ravishing your skin.

I... you blinked against the dark, your feet suddenly hitting cobblestone. I know you, don't I?

The hand danced down, leash loosening only a bit and you heard that familiar click of expensive shoes as they walked.

You fell in step with the sound, not feeling the bite of snow on your bare feet. Darkness was folding around you, snuffing out the flames of street lamps. You could faintly make out the sway of his shoulders.

Your head was spinning. Spinning and spinning as you turned down an alley, feet faltering and so bitterly numb you fell to your knees, scuffing your shins and you looked down. Blood. So much. It felt like the earth was pulsing around you from an open artery.

There was a body. A man. Lying stiff a few feet away. Eyes blank and empty. Soulless. Blood poured from his neck.

You should scream.

He knelt at your side, head tilting, brushing your hair away. The blood was sticky and warm against the snow.

What is this insufferable darkness? You felt like you couldn't breathe.

His nose brushed yours. Your phantom. Yours. He belonged to you. His hands twined with your own. Fingers long and much larger than yours. Holding you.

Dream of me. Only me. You felt a chaste kiss against your forehead. Swear it.

The blood was getting stickier. Voices. Approaching steps.

The words left you in a puff of air.

"I swear."

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Your nightmare hadn't ended yet. You were sure of it.

You sat dazed in the chair. Your parents sitting nearby. Your mother clutching her rosary like a vice. Your father wouldn't look at you.

"Father," your father's voice shook with conviction. "Is there anything you can do? Anything we can do?"

You felt dizzy as you stared up at the multicoloured windows. Mother Mary gazed down at you, tears in her eyes.

"Someone has offered to take her in."

Your eyes snapped forward, staring at the priest and he averted his eyes. Right now you were the other. The secret. Fallen. Your mind had been tainted for years now. Your mother said so as she cried into her cross.

"Who?"

"A practitioner… a doctor, of sorts. He's known within a small community for handling rare cases such as these with his treatments." The priest paused, shifting in his chair and removing his spectacles. "However–"

"And what were the results?" Your father asked, inching forward in his chair.

The holy man sighed. "His methods are... are arcane, if any, and I can't–"

"Were they successful?"

The priest rolled his jaw at your father, seeing a lost battle in front of him. "To a degree, but I advise you to think on this, the Church can provide perfectly–"

All you did was stare as the whole... transaction unfolded. That's what it felt like. Being handed off in such a way. The priest's warnings fell on deaf ears. Your mother only bowed her head as the carriage door shut on you. Your father did not say a word.

Your eyes slid to the man sitting across from you. He worked for whoever you were being sent off to. This practitioner. You were hopeless. Damned. No one could possibly fix you. You weren’t sure if there even was anything to be fixed.

The man across from you was not phased at your stare. He returned it tenfold. Gray eyes sharp.

Insightful.

"Where am I going?" You eventually asked, watching the city fade as the wheels turned.

"Somewhere where you know how to be handled."

Your eyes narrowed slightly. "I don't need to be handled."

He settled himself in his seat, crossing an ankle over his knee and forcing you to lean back. "I'm the attendant."

You looked away out the window, your breath fogging up the glass. "I don't care."

"Your father said you could be a handful, he didn't say you were rude."

Clenching your jaw, you looked back at him. He was pale. Strikingly so. His greying hair hidden beneath a cap. "Where am I going?" You asked again.

He sighed as he lit a pipe. The fire from the match lit up his eyes and for a moment they gleamed red. He waited to answer you till he held the pipe between his teeth and smoke plummed out.

"The Jackson Estate."

You raised a brow. You’d never heard of it.

"It's the Practitioner's residence."

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Heels clicked against the polished flooring. It was dark. The only light being candles that flickered along the hall. Illuminating the portraits in a macabre sort of beauty.

You held your breath as the attendant— he still had yet to give you his name, escorted you inside. The estate felt heavy. Dense. The air a little suffocating. You felt Him here. Strongly. Concerned that without the bustle of the city to drown him out he'd be more... loud.

His tour was curt and to the point. Telling you what was off limits and what wasn't. Telling you your schedule, though it was vague. Treatment. He wouldn't elaborate.

Everything was very...elaborate. Elegant. Old.

Refined and styled with thought. Every stitch in the carpet intricate. You felt horribly out of place. And too hot. You had passed by numerous hearths, all of them roaring. Flames licking out onto the marble.

He came to a stop in front of a door on the third floor, turning its silver handle and it popped open with a click. "Your quarters."

You didn't know what you were expecting. A small bed with restraints, maybe. Isn't that what mad people get put through? Bars on the windows. Rats in the corners. Scratch marks on the walls.

But as the door creaked open, you were met with an elegant, albeit ordinary room. Your brows furrowed and looked at him. "What is this?"

"Your room." He said flatly, like you were stupid.

Your jaw clenched and you waved an arm out. "No, what is this? Everything. This house. What treatment? What practitioner?"

He bit the inside of his cheek, looking past you into the room. "You can ask all the questions you want at dinner."

He left before you could say anything else, mouth agape like an idiot as another servant brought in your single trunk. He only nodded briefly at you, not sparing you a glance before scuttling from the room.

You huffed. Confused. A little scared, but your curiosity was winning that battle.

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You weren’t even sure where the dining room was.

Come to me.

The rug softened your foot fall as you walked. Your hand trailing along the wood paneling of the wall. Dizzy as you looked at some very old portraits. They looked like Him. Your stranger. Your ghost. He was haunting you, even here.

The practitioner didn't attend dinner that night.

The attendant said he had a mess to clean up.

Your questions went unanswered.

Jackson. The name was heavy on your tongue. Whispers in your sleep. Restless. Your stomach pooling. Melting. Those eyes. You clenched your thighs together and awoke with a start when there was a sharp knock on your door.

Your breath left you in heavy pants. A shadow could be seen beneath the door. Pulsating. Begging to be let in. Fighting against the moonlight that poured through the tall windows.

You bit your lip, fear crackling in your veins. It was Him. It had to be. You could feel it.

Your name was said lowly from the other side of the door.

You froze. Blinked. Hands moving the covers off of your body before you could think better of it.

You creaked the door open.

Dark brown eyes stared down at you, half swathed in shadow.

Your lips parted. You had a feeling, but lately you couldn't trust your own thoughts. You should've known.

His hands were clasped behind him. Still wearing a suit despite the late hour. He smelled faintly of iron and orchids.

"You." Your brows furrowed. A mixture of disbelief and anger. "How–"

"May I come in? I was told you had some questions."

Let me in.

You nearly fell backward with the force of it. Hands trembling as they opened the door further. He didn't spare you another glance as he walked into the room, shutting the door softly behind him.

"You're in my head," the words tumbled out and you pressed your back into the post of the bed.

His hands were in his pockets as he tilted his head at you. Moonlight glinting off his hair. Looking just like he had that first night you saw him in your room.

"It's... it's you." He was your melancholy. Your darkness. It was him.

"What on Earth are you talking about?"

"Don't deny it!" You bit out, your voice nearly a cry.

He sighed, as if you were being unreasonable. "I see treatment needs to start tomorrow–"

"What treatment? Who are you? You're the one who's been haunting me. I'm not mad, it's you."

All he did was stare at you. Patient.

Pupils wide in the dark.

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You couldn't remember falling asleep. Just the heaviness. Dizziness. Your stranger, looking at you as if you were some sylph.

Your neck was sore and you winced as you moved but hands gently caressed your head.

You faintly heard your name.

You blinked. The world a blur and slowly coming into focus.

You were on the ground, someone kneeling over you, cool breath dusting your face. Thumbs swiping gently under your eyes. "Wake up." The voice. So soft. Smooth and like oil. His. A creature comfort.

You tried to take in the feeling of his calloused hands as he held your face. "What..." early morning light was pooling past the curtains. Your eyes finally found his. The closeness of him was more jarring than anything else had been.

Your brows furrowed. He was infuriatingly complicated.

"I'm not mad." Is all you could think to say.

He hummed, dark hair falling over his eyes as he observed you. This time more clinical. Less consuming than last night.

Had he stayed with you?

You became acutely aware you were sprawled out on the carpet in only your nightgown.

A blush reddened your cheeks and you tried to move but you winced again with the turn of your neck.

"Careful now." He helped ease you up. One hand on the back of your neck, the other around your waist. You were on fire again.

"What happened?"

"You fainted."

"I gathered that much, thank you."

His eyes twitched slightly. You weren’t sure if it was in amusement or not.

Before anything else could cross your mind, such as to push him away, his large hands found your elbows and he hauled you up.

"I'll see you after breakfast."

"What for?"

His hands dropped from you as he walked to the door.

"Our first session."

He left without saying anything else. And if you hadn't been so overwhelmed, you would've noticed the blood on his collar.

Would've noticed the blood on you.

You sat for some time after he'd gone, the faint imprint of his hands still warm against your skin. Your fingers brushed your neck again, wincing but you chalked it up to the faint, perhaps you’d twisted it in the fall. That must be it. You told yourself so twice.

When you did rise, the room seemed too quiet, as if it had been holding its breath. You wrapped your arms around you and padded barefoot in circles around your room, the silence of the house only broken by the occasional tick of the grandfather clock below.

Your eyes then caught on a tray. Not sure when it had gotten there. Maybe he brought it. Though the gesture seemed too...kind.

Toast. A soft boiled egg. Tea that had already begun to cool. You sat, stared at it, then lifted the cup with trembling hands. The tea had a strange aftertaste to it. Iron, maybe? Or the remnants of your own unsettled stomach, but you drank it anyway. You needed something solid in you, or you feared you might float away altogether.

A light knock came at the door, too soft to startle.

The attendant’s voice called your name through the door.

"Yes," you replied, brushing some hair from your face.

He stood just beyond the threshold as he opened it, dressed in proper attire while you were still in your nightgown.

"Your first session," he said. "Mr. Jackson is ready, if you are."

You hesitated only for a moment before nodding.

The disquiet in your chest was not fear, it was something stranger. Curiosity. Longing. Like a moth pressing against a glass. You grabbed a robe hanging off a hook and tied it tightly around you, the softness of it only easing you slightly.

He led you through the house without speaking. The halls were long, lined with portraits you didn't recognize, faces that all seemed to follow you with their eyes. You tried not to stare too long.

The door to the study opened before you’d realized you arrived, the attendant excused himself while Mr. Jackson smiled at you.

The study was warm, fire lit though it was barely past dawn. Curtains drawn tight. A chaise lounge by the hearth and a high backed chair beside it. He gestured for you to lie down.

You obeyed. You didn't know why.

He took his seat, crossed one long leg over the other, folded his hands.

"Tell me about the voice."

So much for easing into things.

You stared at the ceiling, trying to get comfortable if even possible. "I don't remember much. Only that it was... kind. Gentle."

His head tilted. "And familiar?"

"Yes. I think so."

He said nothing. The fire cracked and hissed.

Your eyes fluttered closed for a moment. You could still feel his fingers against your face from earlier, the way he held you like you might vanish.

"It led me to the body, didn't it?"

"That depends. Do you think it did?"

You opened your eyes again. "I thought we were discussing memory, not madness."

He smiled at that, though not unkindly. "And what if they're the same?"

You looked away.

"I didn't hurt anyone," you whispered. "I couldn't have."

"No," he said softly. "You couldn't have."

It was the gentleness that undid you. That and the quiet assurance in his voice. A sudden ache pressed behind your ribs and your breath hitched, though you didn't know why. Not a person, you reminded yourself. A rabbit.

Perhaps you only wanted to believe him.

There was a rustle of paper shortly followed by his voice. "When did this start?"

Your mind wandered back. That night. Your loneliness had swallowed you whole. "Months ago. Dreams."

"Dreams?"

You nodded, twisting your fingers till they hurt. Not wanting him to ask but you knew he would.

"And what happened?"

You couldn't help the blush. The shame. How badly you had wanted comfort that night. "I don't know, it was..." you shut your eyes briefly. "They grew darker. My dreams. The first night felt like the first act. But the rest," you turned her head, neck still aching. "Tell me, does evil come from within us or beyond?"

There was a long pause. The kind that hung in the air like fog, wrapping cold fingers around your throat.

He didn't answer at once. He stood, slowly, the firelight casting long shadows across his face.

He moved toward the window, though the curtains remained drawn. One hand rested lightly on the sill, the other behind his back. He looked like a man waiting for something. Or someone.

"Tell me," he said at last, voice low, smooth as silk but sharp beneath it, "if a wolf kills a rabbit, is the wolf evil for wanting food?"

You blinked. The question struck you oddly, given the allusion he landed on was painfully familiar.

"No," you said carefully. "Of course not. It's the circle of life. The wolf survives. The rabbit... doesn't."

He turned his head, just enough for you to catch a glimpse of him over his shoulder. His eyes were unreadable, but there was a glint there. Not of mischief. Not quite of hunger. Something older. Deeper. You couldn't place it, and it unsettled you more than you liked.

"And what if the wolf enjoys it?" he asked.

You frowned. "Enjoys what?"

"The hunt."

Your mouth went dry. Your tongue felt too large for your mouth.

"I suppose that's natural too," you said, after a pause. "Isn't it?"

He smiled, slow and fleeting. "Natural," he echoed, as if tasting the word.

You drew the robe tighter around you. Your neck still ached, a dull throb now, pulsing with each beat of your heart.

He turned fully then, his expression polite once more, hands folded neatly before him.

"You've done very well," he said. "It takes courage to speak so openly. Especially when the truth feels... inconvenient."

You looked up at him, eyes narrowing slightly.

"Truth is only inconvenient when it frightens us."

A beat.

"Agreed.”

There was something in his tone, just for a moment, something that sounded oddly like admiration.

"I'll leave you to rest. You've earned it."

He moved toward the door, and again, you caught that strange sensation as he passed, like the air folded around him. Like the shadows themselves knew to step aside.

You waited until the door clicked shut before you exhaled.

You hadn't answered his question properly. Not really. Nor had he answered yours.

And you couldn't shake the feeling that he already knew exactly what you were going to say.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

It had been eleven days since your arrival.

Or perhaps twelve.

The house made time feel elastic, stretching and snapping without rhythm. Mornings bled into evenings. Meals arrived without clocks. Mr. Jackson, for all his precision, never gave you a fixed schedule.

You found yourself waiting for him anyway.

You stood now before the long mirror in your room, studying the hollowness beneath your eyes. You weren’t sleeping well. Or you were, but it was the wrong sort of sleep. You would wake with the taste of earth and copper on your tongue, your limbs heavy, tangled in sheets as though you’d been dancing with something in the dark.

He called it suggestion. A method of drawing the subconscious forward.

You called it dreams. Vivid, sickly sweet things that left your skin in a sweat and your mind fogged.

Still, you attended each session.

You told yourself it was part of the process. That the warmth in your chest when he looked at you was merely the result of trust. That the way your skin remembered his fingers long after they'd left was simply... psychological. A trick of the treatment.

Today, the parlour was darker than usual. Curtains half-drawn, the fire low. He waited, standing rather than seated, large hands clasped behind his back. His coat was red today. Velvet, or something like it. It made his eyes almost luminous.

He said your name with the faintest nod. “You're late."

"I wasn't told a time," you replied, chin lifting slightly.

"Even so." His eyes glinted. "You're slipping."

You opened your mouth to protest, then closed it again. He gestured to the chaise.

You lay down without being asked twice.

"You're tense," he murmured. He always knew.

"Let's begin."

He never touched you during these moments. Not really. Sometimes his voice alone felt like a hand resting lightly on your temple. Sometimes you swore you could feel his breath on your throat when he spoke low and close, but when you opened her eyes, he'd be across the room.

"Close your eyes," he said now. "Breathe in. Slowly. Hold it. Good. Again."

You obeyed.

The room dulled. Colours softened. His voice moved through you like music, smooth and lulling.

"You're walking through a garden," he murmured. "Stone underfoot. A chill in the air. You're not afraid. You are guided. Can you see it?"

"Yes," you whispered. And you could, wisteria hanging in curtains, fog coiling at your ankles. And a figure. Tall, blurred at the edges. Watching you.

"Describe him," he said.

"I... I can't."

"Try."

"He's... not a man. Not really. He's shaped like one. But..." Your brow furrowed. "There's something in his eyes. A hunger. He's—"

You jerked as though touched. Your eyes flew open.

The fire was brighter now. Your hands trembled.

Mr. Jackson regarded you with his usual calm. One eyebrow arched slightly. "Interesting."

"What was that?" you asked, breath catching in your throat.

"Your mind," he said softly. "It speaks, if you listen."

You sat up slowly, arms curling round yourself. "I don't like that garden."

"Few like the place where the truth begins."

You looked at him then, properly. The angle of his jaw, the stillness of him. Not a muscle twitched. Not even his breath.

"Do you ever sleep?" you asked suddenly.

He smiled without showing his teeth. "What would I dream of?"

You pondered it, rolling on your side and perching yourself up on one arm. Allowing yourself to really look at him. You knew absolutely nothing about him. He was poised. In control of himself. Calm. At least on the surface. But this estate... this house. It was far too big and too lonely. Daunting. Sometimes you felt like you could hear the portraits whisper at night. There was one in particular you always stopped by. So very old but better maintained than the rest. A woman with eyes like his but warmer. Fresh flowers were always underneath it. A loved one, you could only assume. The rest of the portraits were left to rot.

"The past, maybe."

His fingers tapped a rhythm into his thigh as he watched you. "You think of me as nostalgic?"

You laid back down again, eyes tracing the pattern in the carved ceiling. Thinking back to your childhood. How bright it all felt. The flowers smelled better and the sun shone more. You remembered laughing more, as a girl. Of running down side streets with your friends before they went off to university. Abandoning you.

"Aren't we all?"

It was quiet for a moment. The only sound was your beating heart and the crackle of the hearth before you heard him stand.

Your breath caught at his retreat. The sudden panic alarming but unavoidable.

"Mr. Jackson," you started. His footsteps paused. "Why is it they think you can... fix me. Find answers that others cannot?"

You didn't look at him. Couldn't. Waited for the sound of his shoes to click again with bated breath. A beat of your heart passed before you felt him shift closer to you.

"My reputation, perhaps."

You raised a brow, finally turning. Catching his eyes. Glowing. "Reputation?"

He observed you another moment before bowing his head slightly. "I'll see you tomorrow." And he left without another word.

More of your questions going unanswered.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

You felt rigid that morning as you sat down for breakfast. A maid had come to grab you instead of leaving a tray like usual.

Your appetite was scarce and a trembling hand reached for your tea, the porcelain rattling against the saucer but you paused as soon as he entered the room.

Morning light made everything look hazy. Filtering in through the high windows and catching in the curtains that always remained half drawn.

In the time you had been there, you two had never eaten a meal together. Not even the attendant, technically. That first dinner he just sat there, drinking wine and being infuriatingly unhelpful.

Mr. Jackson sat, though he touched nothing laid out on the table.

"Good morning."

You clenched your trembling hand into a fist as you pulled it away from your tea, deciding it was best to clutch it beneath the table.

You dreamed about him last night. Again. Sinful and wrong. Wretched.

Lovely.

He didn't miss your silence and he looked at you with a brow barely raised.

Time ticked by. You could hear it on the clock.

He leaned back in his seat, adorning it like a throne.

"You don't seem to like practitioners very much."

Your jaw ticked and you looked down.

"Or do you just not like me?"

His question took you off guard and your usual attempt at being polite rushed forth. "No, I—" you bit your tongue. You shouldn't find excuses. Reasons.

You swallowed dryly and tried to focus on your food as you spoke. You couldn't look at him. "I've just had bad experiences, is all. Bags filled with knives. Strange things to measure my skull." All things considered you could at least admit to yourself the relief you felt when you realized all you two would be doing is talking. At least for now.

His fingers thrummed on the table and you finally took note of the ring he was wearing.

"I'm not that kind of doctor."

Your jaw ached as you clenched it. Watching him lean forward on the table by his elbows. His expression unreadable as he spoke.

"Are you afraid of me?"

"I don't know." You didn't. You hadn't the faintest idea how you felt about him. A thousand things. Perhaps nothing. A few. It felt complicated.

The thrumming stopped and he dug into his coat pocket before pulling out a moderately small package and holding it out for you. "This is for you."

You eyed it for a long moment. Taking note of his slender hands. The bones and muscle that made him up. A gift?

With furrowed brows and a cautious hand, you gently took it from his hold and peeled back the wrappings.

Your shaking hands suddenly stilled.

"What?" He asked, voice even, as ever.

You lightly ran your fingers down the cover, over the ridges of the title. It was the first edition of your favorite novel. "Nothing, just...a book?" You looked at him, brows furrowed. Trying to read him but he was written in a foreign language.

He nodded, resting his chin in his palm.

Was this a session?

"And what does it remind you of?"

Your lips parted to ask him how he even knew but the memory from your childhood outshone the rest of your thoughts.

It was Christmas morning when you were a child and your mother had grown tired of you stealing the papers from the neighbors despite them all saying the same thing. You were convinced you’d find something new in them and your father no longer had time to take you to the library.

It had been the first book you were ever gifted. Your own. The first thing you felt like you could truly call yours.

You blinked away tears and set the book down. "I'm sorry, I don't understand—"

"I think you understand me well enough."

So this was a session. He took you off guard. No warning. A change of scenery. You couldn't prepare. You hated it.

"A bookshop." The lie slipped out.

He hummed. He knew.

You thrummed your own fingers now on the table. This whole thing was off kilter. Not right. Your mind trailing back to the hesitancy of the priest.

"Are you a clergyman?"

He blinked. "No."

"Do you have any affiliation with the church?"

There was a moment, brief reluctance. “No.”

Your brows furrowed. Not understanding how your mother would have agreed to this. Not understanding the priest's suggestion even though he did try to warn.

Which brought you to your next question.

Why the warning?

"I'm a practitioner. I work with the mind. Diseases of the mind. I don't deal with fantasies of demons lurking in the shadows or behind closed eyelids."

Science. A man of science. Perhaps that was the reason for caution given the two tended to clash heads. But you still felt like that wasn't enough. Not to mention you weren’t diseased. You weren’t.

You were not mad.

He said your name in a lull, dancing around your throat and tilting your head up. "I'm here to listen to you. To reason." He paused and seemed to consider his next words. "I don't think you're mad. We just need to prove to everyone else that you're not. And that only begins once we stop your... night terrors."

"They're not night terrors." Your stubbornness was still intact, apparently.

He sighed, looking at you through long lashes. "I would like to help you. If you talk to me, I will listen. But—"

"I don't want to go back to the garden."

The words were out and you were holding onto your dress so tight you were sure the threads would rip. Thinking about that night is one thing. Actually reliving it, that was not something you wanted anyone else to witness.

All he did was hum and tap your book with a finger as he stood.

"Until tomorrow."

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

You felt heavy. Caressed. Something soft grazing the side of your face.

The pain was sharp and sudden but melted into something alien and blissful. A silent gasp left you and your pulse thrummed. Skipped.

Hazy and opium filled the air.

You looked up through heavy eyes, spotting the now familiar darkness of his hair.

Part of you wanted to touch it. Touch him.

But your limbs were too heavy.

Only as you went to the bathroom later that morning did you finally take notice of the bruising.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

Eyes bore into each other. The tick of the clock matched your heart.

He was so patient.

You were sitting today. Not laying. Not wanting to be that vulnerable, yet.

There was the rustle of fabric as you shifted. Watching him watch you.

"I'm not sure what you want me to tell you."

He shook his head, chin tilting down. "I don't want anything. It's what you want to say that's of interest to me."

You looked down. Your fingers tapped a light rhythm into the book you held in your hands. Since he'd given it to you, you were already about a quarter way in.

Silence stretched and pulsed.

"How's the book?"

You pressed your tongue behind your teeth. "It's fine."

"What do you think?"

Your eye twitched. "Are you laughing at me?"

"No." He leaned forward, elbows on knees. Keen.

"I'm just curious. The book seemed to mean a lot to you."

You shook your head, looking away again. "It's just a book."

"Does it remind you of anything?" That head tilt of his had a habit of slowly unraveling you. "Your childhood, perhaps? If we are to circle back to the topic of nostalgia."

Your skin felt too tight. He somehow knew. Knew too much. Too little. "Not quite. Lots of children want books—"

"And did you? Want books? Want that one?"

"To say so is bad luck."

"Bad luck?"

You hummed. Tracing the letters. "To say what you want does the opposite. It's best to keep it to yourself. Be careful of wanting anything." Your mind trailed to that night. Your desperate prayer. "You may be punished for it."

You hadn't realized he stood, now in front of you. Hands in pockets and staring down. A god deciding to observe mere mortals.

"Do you think you're being punished?"

His eyes. So stunning in their appearance. Their depth. Flickering red for a moment in the firelight.

You were breathless as you spoke. "I think so, yes."

You felt like you were being torn open.

Not like flesh. Not the gruesome tears.

Softly, like fruit. Too ripe and splitting with barely a tug.

Abrasive.

That's what he was. That's what this was.

"Have you had any dreams since being here?"

You paused as you messed with the hem of your sleeve. "I suppose." You didn't dare look at him. The room dark, as always. You debated on running to the window and tearing open the blinds just to see what he would do. "Not that I can remember them, though."

You couldn't help it.

A peek, that's it.

He looked... disappointed.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

You were brought down for dinner.

Snow was coating every window and you couldn't help it as your mind wandered. Watching the gardens from each window you passed. That's the only time the curtains were pulled back. Swathing the estate in moonlight and candles. Fires roaring.

Christmas was nearing. Your first without your family. Your mother.

Every year you were gifted a book.

You wondered what this year would've been.

Your knife slipped at the thought and crimson bled onto your plate.

However, you were distracted from the pain by the sudden intake of breath from someone else at the table.

Your eyes danced up.

The attendant looked... well it was rather concerning.

He looked as if he were about to lunge at something—you, before Mr. Jackson’s sharp tone cut through the air.

"Take your leave." he practically snapped. A warning.

"Michael—"

"Now."

You’d never heard him sound like that.

Michael... so that was his name.

The scrape of wood met your ears as the man left and you looked at the head of the table.

He was sitting perfectly still. Not even blinking.

Pupils wide.

You bit the inside of your cheek. Grabbed your napkin and pressed it to the cut. "Rude not to offer a wounded lady help."

A beat.

"I was under the impression you didn't want my help."

You took a drink of your wine. Annoyed. At him. Yourself. Your life.

"And I was under the impression you were going to give it anyway."

He smiled slightly, into his own glass.

You shouldn't have felt pleased.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

You laid awake as the night droned on. Staring at the ceiling and seeing red carnations in your minds eye.

M.J.

"So that's who..."

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

You didn't remember falling asleep.

It was a craving. To know him.

Forbidden.

Insatiable. A lurid glare to it as you tried to claw your way toward it.

Down down down into the pit. Persephone stumbling after Hades.

You wanted to go where you knew you couldn't. Not that you weren’t allowed... it wasn't possible. Shouldn't be.

You shouldn't want to descend.

You shouldn't want to tear into his body like he did yours and look inside.

But you did.

You wanted to claw your way through shadows and flesh and hold the heart of your shadow.

Your affliction.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

It felt as if your skeleton had shifted inside of you.

Evolved.

Adapted.

You watched him more closely.

You knew he was familiar. Knew something wasn't right.

Come to me.

It didn't scare you anymore.

There was no fright.

Just fuel to the fire that was your curiosity.

You remembered all your dreams. You always had.

You wanted to know him.

Whatever the cost.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

The bruises bloomed like lilacs, soft-edged and dusky, nestled in the hollow of your throat and curling faintly at your jaw. They didn't ache like bruises should. They pulsed.

You stood at the washbasin, fingertips hovering above the discolouration. You didn't dare touch them. The skin there felt different, as though it didn't belong to you.

Sleepwalking, you thought. A fall, perhaps. A bedpost knocked in the night. You had no memory of it. Only of... warmth. A heaviness. A dream that left you breathless, as though you’d run from something and forgotten why.

And always, always his voice. Somewhere between a lullaby and command.

You dressed high-necked that day.

Michael— Mr. Jackson, didn't remark on it, though he watched your collar with pointed interest.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

That night, you dreamt of teeth.

Not fangs, not the obvious kind, but rows of them.

Clean, white, perfect. Smiling. Too wide. Set in a face you almost recognized, but the name felt wrong on your tongue.

When you awoke, your bed was cold. You had no memory of leaving it.

The bruises were darker now. Deeper. Like ink stains pressed just beneath the skin.

You no longer believed you’d walked into a bedpost— never believed it in the first place.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

You stopped a maid that afternoon. A girl no older than twenty two, with flaxen braids and red-raw hands.

"Where is Mr. Jackson sleeping?" you asked.

The girl blinked, confused. "He doesn't, miss."

You tilted your head. "Doesn't?"

"Not since I've been here."

You left the conversation colder than you entered it.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

The next evening, you didn't sleep.

You waited.

You left the lamps unlit and the windows cracked to let the night in. Bitter cold with yule on the heels. You let the estate settle into silence, that old, heavy silence peculiar to large houses built to hold the dead. And then you crept from your room, barefoot on the carpet. Soft. Cautious.

Drawn.

The air grew colder the further you wandered. Corridors unfamiliar. Doors you hadn't seen. The paintings on the wall were more distorted here, melted faces, hands too long, eyes that followed.

And then you heard it.

Music.

Low. Disjointed. Like a lullaby played backwards.

It drew you to a door at the end of the hallway, grand, arched, carved with something that might have once been ivy. It was ajar.

You pushed.

Inside was not a room.

It was a chapel. Barely lit. The walls were stone, the air damp. An altar stood at its centre, not with a cross, but with something old, older than the Church, older than scripture. A symbol you couldn't place, carved in ash and bone.

And him.

Not standing. Kneeling.

Michael Jackson, his head bowed, dark curls catching the candlelight. His lips moved. Singing? Praying? You couldn't hear.

You took a step back. The floor creaked.

His head turned.

He said your name plainly. Gaze knowing. His voice was calm. Almost warm. "You ought to be in bed."

You didn't answer. Couldn't.

"Curiosity," he murmured, finally rising to his full height, "is a strange sort of affliction, isn't it?"

You swallowed. Your mouth was dry.

"I heard music."

"Did you?" He approached you slowly, like one might approach a skittish doe. "What did it sound like?"

You stepped back, suddenly afraid you wouldn't remember how to run if you needed to.

"What is this place?"

"A room for reflection," he said. "Or confession. Depending on what you bring to it."

"And what do you bring?"

His eyes glinted. That unreadable thing.

"Hunger."

"Hunger," you echoed, and your voice sounded thin, like stretched glass. "For what?"

He stopped just shy of you. Too close. His shoes almost scuffing against your slippers. Taunting.

"Truth," he said softly, tilting his head. "Is that not what you want as well?"

Your pulse was a staccato drumbeat in your throat. "You don't pray," you whispered. "You said so. You don't believe in demons."

"I don't," he agreed. "But belief is not a requirement for truth."

Your spine pressed against the cool stone of the doorway. He hadn't touched you, not really. Not with his hands. But you felt surrounded all the same.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

You couldn't remember how you got back to bed.

"This isn't treatment," you breathed.

"No," he admitted.

A candle flickered beside you and in that small movement of flame, something shifted in his face. A flash, not anger, not cruelty. A melancholy.

He looked lonely.

He took your hand, gently, like you were spun sugar, and placed something cold in your palm.

A key.

"Next time you walk the halls," he murmured, "don't wait for music. Choose a door."

And then he turned from you, his coat whispering behind him like wings. The candlelight dimmed as he passed, and when you looked down at the key, you swore you felt it hum.

That night, your sleep was not your own.

When was it ever?

You stood in your dream, or in something like it, in the same chapel. Barefoot. There was no roof, only a black sky, the stars like puncture wounds.

Something brushed your collar. Breath, maybe. Wind. Or worse.

When you awoke, your feet were dirty. The key still clutched in your hand.

And the bruises had bloomed again.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

At breakfast, you wore a scarf.

He made no remark — only poured your tea, and added a drop of something from a dark bottle you hadn't seen before.

You didn't stop him.

Treatment, maybe.

"Tell me," he said after a long pause, "has the voice grown louder?"

You froze.

You hadn't mentioned Him in a while.

Had you?

You met his eyes across the table. Something within you said: ask. Ask the thing you don't want to know.

So you did.

"Am I sleepwalking?"

He took a slow sip from his glass, and when he set it down, the reflection in it wasn't quite his.

"No," he said evenly.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

The key was warm in your palm that evening.

It shouldn't have been.

You sat on the edge of the bed, the curtains drawn against the dusk. There was a hush to the estate that night, not silence, not quite, but the sense that everything was listening. The house breathed.

You held the key between your thumb and forefinger, turning it, studying the tiny sigils carved into the metal. Not letters. Not anything you knew. But the more you looked, the more they started to seem... familiar. Like the curl of smoke. Like the bone-white markings you'd once seen drawn in salt outside a chapel. A priest who spoke in tongues. A body buried without eyes.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

You didn't remember leaving your room, only that you were suddenly in the east wing — the one the staff never went near. The corridor stretched long and crooked like a spine. Doors lined either side, tall and narrow, all unmarked. Some had handles. Some didn't.

One door breathed when you passed.

Another sighed.

The third... sang.

A low note. Barely audible. A single violin string beneath the floorboards. A tone that rang behind your teeth and in the base of your spine.

Your key fit that lock.

Of course it did.

Your fingers trembled as you turned it. The door creaked inward and a cold breath of air curled out, kissing your neck.

The room inside was, impossibly, a replica of your childhood bedroom.

Down to the crooked bookshelf. The lavender candle. The missing curtain hook. A pair of scuffed shoes too small to wear now, placed beside the bed.

You stepped in. The air was stale with memory.

"Clever," you murmured. To yourself. Or maybe not.

The candle lit on its own.

There, on the nightstand, was your old hairbrush. The one your mother had broken in half in a fit of frustration the year your hair refused to be tamed.

You lifted it — not a crack to be found.

Something in the mirror moved.

You turned. Nothing there. But your reflection lingered a moment longer than it should have.

You left quickly after that.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

You didn't sleep. Not really. You floated. Drowned, more like.

The next morning, he greeted you with soft eyes and a darker waistcoat. You noticed his cuff was stained with something that looked like wine. But wasn't.

"Shall we begin again?" he asked, voice smooth as ever.

You didn't respond.

He gestured to the settee. You sat, heart stammering, mind fractured from the night before.

"I want to try something," he said. "Nothing frightening. Just... deeper. A guided state. The mind is like a room. Sometimes we must rearrange the furniture."

You blinked. "You mean hypnosis."

He smiled, but not unkindly. "I mean honesty."

Your fingers twitched.

"You're safe," he said, and for one treacherous second, you almost believed it.

His voice dropped into that lulling cadence you now recognized, the one that threaded through your dreams. The one that made the air feel thick and sweet.

"Close your eyes."

You didn't want to.

You did.

He was in the garden again. You could smell roses.

There was blood beneath your fingernails.

And in the trees, something watching. Breathing. Waiting.

He knelt before you.

Not the practitioner. The other him. The version with no shadow. With too-sharp eyes and a mouth that had forgotten how to be kind.

"Do you know my name yet?" he asked.

You tried to speak.

Couldn't.

He leaned closer, whispering into your throat.

"Say it, and I will set you free."

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

Something was wrong.

You stared down at your hands as you sat in bed, watching the bones shift as you moved your fingers.

Something was missing. Fading.

But what?

Everything felt as if it were breathing. Too sharp. Too colourful. Too aromatic.

You crawled to the window, desperate for something fresh in this house.

The pane of glass creaked as it slid open and you inhaled winter sharply.

Not enough. Not nearly enough.

You didn't even think to grab your robe or shoes before you slipped out the door.

The gardens greeted you with open arms as if they'd been waiting for you. Lush despite the season. White roses gleaming with ice as they caught in the moonlight.

You felt faint needle pricks in your feet as they crunched through the snow. Your head pounding, a sharpness behind your eyes that made the stars a bit blinding.

Your breath came out in puffs and your skin was riddled in goosebumps but you didn't mind. It was a nice distraction. A needed one.

You did not want to sleep.

Your mind raced as your fingers brushed along the roses.

This treatment didn't seem to be going anywhere. You still had dreams. It felt as if it were getting worse now that you were covered in bruises.

You weren’t sure what was real or not in this place. That chapel, your childhood bedroom... being outside helped ground yourself a little bit.

"Taking a late night stroll?"

You spun around at the voice, your flesh snagging on thorns and blood began to drip into the snow.

The attendant went deathly still and you watched as his carefree smile grew tense. His eyes trained on your hand, the slickness of crimson and how it glinted in the moonlight.

"Sir—"

You weren’t quite sure how it happened. It felt like you had only blinked before you found herself on your back and blinking up at the stars, a silent sort of pained sound leaving you as something burrowed its way through your skin. Your cut opened up even more.

Blood terribly warm against the cool night air.

Someone was on top of you. Pinning you to the earth and snow soaked through your nightgown but you couldn't focus on the cold as hands gripped you tight, securing you in place.

You felt light headed, back arching slightly at the pain and you forced yourself to look down. At what was happening to you.

Your mind couldn't keep up or perhaps it simply couldn't understand.

It looked as if he was kissing you. The visual rather romantic. His mouth open and his tongue sliding against your skin, but his teeth–

They were in your flesh. Buried deep and you felt the pull.

He was there one moment and gone the next.

Ripped from you and only then did you scream as his teeth tore jagged lines from being forced away.

Everything was spinning but you faintly registered shouting.

Your head rolled to the side, trying to make sense of the blurry figures a few feet away from you.

Focus, your mind begged.

It was Michael and the attendant. Fighting. The latter looked like an enraged animal and the former attempted to restrain him.

It didn't take long.

A fist went flying in the air, knocking the attendant right in the temple and he crumbled, not getting back up.

You caught sight of dark eyes gleaming as footsteps crunched through the snow, approaching you.

Michael might've fallen to his knees at your side, but you weren’t sure.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

Dim lighting flickered across the ceiling and you felt strange. Cold despite the fire. Despite being swathed beneath thick blankets.

Your eyes slated to the side, half surprised to see him there. A chair drawn close to the side of the bed, elbows perched on his knees and chin resting in his hands as he watched you.

There was something different.

Either regarding him, or yourself. You weren’t sure.

Something was missing.

“How do you feel?”

You felt… fine. Serene. Grounded in a way that didn’t feel correct.

“Am I dreaming?”

His hand reached out, tentative and slow as if he were approaching a wounded animal and your breath hitched as his thumb dragged lightly along your cheekbone.

“I didn’t think I would have to do this so soon.”

Your brows furrowed, your question dying on your tongue as Michael leaned forward, dark eyes drifting from your mouth to your neck.

The gasp that left you was a soft exhale as you felt something prick, too distracted by the softness of his lips against your throat to take hold of the concern that should’ve been paralyzing you.

You felt a pull, almost as if your soul was being unspooled by the fates and you felt so dazed as you gazed up at the ceiling. Your fingers burying themselves in his hair without thought, his own hand coming up to cradle the other side of your neck while his other arm wrapped around your waist, practically pulling you into his lap.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

You felt him everywhere. The gentle touch of his fingers drifted over your sensitive skin like leaves dancing over flagstone, mere whispers but enough to entrance.

You couldn’t stop staring at him. Finding a different footing on a new sense of madness and yes… yes, you knew him. Knew who he was.

You had known all along.

He was your ghost. Your shadow. All those months… praying to him through the messenger of the moon.

The garden that night…

“It’s you.” Your voice cracked, the realization settling in the cavity of your chest like a revelation worthy enough to be slotted into scripture.

His mouth tugged up at the side, being pulled by an invisible string and you could finally see them— fangs, the tips pressing into his bottom lip like a promise.

Michael’s hand cupped your throat, thumb pressing up beneath your jaw to tilt your head back while his other hand wound in your hair. “Look at you,” he spoke quietly, a dazed expression woven into his features.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

You weren't used to them.

They itched. The kind of itch that was maddening and made your head swim— a lick of hunger curling around your stomach violently as you sat on the ground in front of the hearth, head resting against Michael’s knee as he ran fingers through your hair.

“It’ll pass,” he muttered, voice hiding beneath the crack of fire.

You were half tempted to sink them into his thigh, your eyes slating to the side as you looked at the muscle of his leg—

Michael’s hand tightened in your hair. “Don’t.”

Your eyes flicked up. He wasn’t looking at you.

Jaw tight as he gazed at the fire and eased his hold on your hair. “Once that line is crossed, I can’t—“ he shut his eyes and took a breath. “Just, don’t. Not yet.”

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

Your dreams had stopped since then, or perhaps they’d become your reality— your own version of Alice slipping through the cracks of the soil after failing to follow the rabbit.

He had fixed you, his reputation not failing him.

You stood in the gardens. Slippers wet with blue snow and you stared at the frozen body of the attendant. Still crumbled up on the ground like a discarded newspaper.

It had been weeks. Days. Months?

You didn’t know.

Your eyes danced up to the moon. Please, you prayed.

A ravenous hunger hollowed you out and then you finally realized what had been wrong. What had been creeping up your mind like a spider.

You hadn’t heard your heartbeat in a while.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

Your eyes met his in the dark. Breath still as your nail traced a line down his cheek to the corner of his mouth, thumb coming up to press against the tip of his fangs.

A breath passed as you waited for him to pull away. To grab your wrist. Not yet— his two favorite words lately.

Michael didn’t say a thing.

You barely had to try, not a moment later your flesh was pierced like it was ripened fruit. A spot of crimson dewing up and before it could drip, Michael’s lips wrapped around your thumb. Gaze locked on yours and you watched as his eyes flashed red at the taste of you.

You’d never known such longing.

The rawness of it as it consumed you, feeling on fire as he slowly dragged you towards him, pulling your strings because your limbs were suddenly useless.

Say it.

You shut your eyes as his voice blanketed your mind, his soul consuming yours as you straddled his hips.

His grip tightened on your waist, “please.”

Your hands came up to cup his face, taking in the beauty of him. He was sculpted of sharp lines, his creator clearly obsessed with perfection and his eyes— Christ, looking at him felt like damnation. Like Orpheus turning to glance at Eurydice because he just couldn’t help himself.

“Michael.”

His mouth met yours and you saw a burst of multicolored lights dance behind your eyes as they slid shut, melting into him as your hands greedily pulled him close.

He stood up, carrying you easily as you wrapped your arms and legs around him, hardly paying any mind as your back settled on the bed. You couldn’t feel anything but his soul and yours.

Michael’s hips settling between your own and his hand was in your hair again, pulling taught and guiding your mouth lower— “Now.”

One word. That one word sounded like Gabriel’s trumpet— heaven reigning down in a blinding cascade of fire and finally…

Your teeth sank into the side of his throat and the sound that left you wasn’t human.

He shuddered violently, holding you close and chanting your name like a hymn he’d known for thousands of years. A millennia passing before he finally got to taste the sweetness of it on his tongue.

Michael held you close, hips pressing into yours and when you felt him thrust inside— the drag of it felt like a hit of opium.

He pulled your hair, dragging your mouth to his, hot and open— tongue dancing with yours and he groaned at the taste of your blood.

Michael’s arms held himself up just enough not to crush you as he thrusted forward, pushing you further into the mattress and your mouth gaped open at the force of it.

He was dancing on the edge of violence and it was lovely. A macabre beauty to the way his hips rolled and then his teeth dragged along your throat, drawing blood and his tongue flattened over the fresh wound moments later.

Then he was saying your name again— the cadence an ancient lilt as his cock dragged out and back in, hitting something inside of you that teased the entrance to the Elysian Fields.

The orgasm hit you hard and you choked out a cry, legs trembling but Michael kept going, his mouth and teeth digging into your throat so deep you thought he might get carried away and actually start eating you.

“Michael.”

He forced his head back, mouth and chin and teeth covered in crimson and he looked so unraveled— hips slamming into yours and pelvis grinding against your clit.

Michael was kissing you again, the action a complete mess. Wet and tasting of iron and something else a bit sweeter. Dancing between the notes of orchids and ichor.

His thrusts became erratic, the bed slamming into the wall so hard the old oak frame cracked down the middle and the mattress collapsed to the floor like the earth had opened up beneath you.

When he came and your name dripped off his tongue, you knew you’d found it. What you’d been praying for.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

michael jackson masterlist

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