sagecat

18 | writer love is my message

[sgecat]

☀️ sage's smudge tray ☀️

˚✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚❣⃛☀️☆ﾟ.･｡ﾟ バター ☆ﾟ.･｡ﾟ☀️❣⃛˚✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚

leave your worries in the smoke... ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟabout me

a girl with a writing obsession.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ M.LIST

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ RULES

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ LATEST POST

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ STUDIO SOULMATES ~ WATTPAD

do not copy, translate, plagarize, or input any of my work into AI.

sage loves you...

[sgecat]

☠︎︎ ⋆₊ ♱ SAY CHEESE

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader

synopsis: you're a BAU agent finding yourself the personal obsession of the Ghostface killer terrorizing your current case.

content: (MDNI), descriptions of crime scenes, stabbings, threats, dubcon, stalking, intense psychological manipulation, gaslighting, betrayal, horror (but we are writing about criminal minds here), morally ambiguous characters, psychopathy, smut, rough!dom spencer (ik he wouldn't, let a girl dream a little), fingering, piv, unprotected sex (wrap it 'fore you tap it!), humiliation, strong language, it's a lot

w/c: 4.7k

a/n: probably the craziest shit i've written so far, also my first criminal minds fanfic so please bear with me

dividers by @/horrorhelp | intro | masterlist

The bright lights of the briefing room hummed overhead; it was something you never got used to, especially after all these years. It cast a fluorescent glow on the maps and crime scene photos pinned to the board in front of you as you take your usual seat.

Prentiss stands at the head of the table, her expression grim as she clicks on the remote. "We've been called to Cedar Creek, Virginia. In the last three weeks, there have been three victims. All stabbed multiple times in the chest and abdomen." She points to another photo on the screen. "The unsub's signature is this. A 'Ghostface' mask, identical to the one from the Scream horror films."

Morgan leans forward with his arms crossed. "What, so he's like a copycat? He might be living in a fantasy, getting off on the movie iconography."

"Not necessarily. The mask provides anonymity, but its cultural recognition could be a secondary benefit. His primary drive is likely the control and fear it instills."

JJ leans back against the leather seat, flipping through the case file with a sigh. "All three victims were alone, in their homes, late at night. He's either really good at picking locks, or he's someone they trusted enough to let inside."

Garcia's voice chirps over the speakerphone, her voice as bubbly as it could be. "Or maybe he's an actual ghost! — A digital one, at least. I'm already looking through the city's records, but so far, our unsub has left no electronic trail. He's pretty much analog."

"Which makes him more dangerous." You rest your hands on the cool wooden table, fixing your gaze on the single photo a witness managed to get of the unsub. "It means he's organized about his digital footprint, patient, he could possibly blend in if he's managing to sneak into the victims' houses."

"Reid, I want you and Morgan to canvass the local university campus. Two of the victims were students. See if anyone noticed anything unusual. Since the case is rather local, we won't need our go bags."

_

Cedar Creek is a rather quiet town, but now shaken up by the sudden influx of murders. The local police station is buzzing with anxious officers, previously idle due to a lack of crime. Prentiss then spreads a map across a crowded desk as Hotch checks in with the officers.

"Alright, like I said, Reid and Morgan are on university. JJ, let's speak with the victims' families to see if we can get something from them."

Reid nods, his gaze briefly scanning the room before landing on you. "It would be beneficial to have someone with your observational skills on the campus canvass." He offers a small, familiar smile.

You knew that it was against policy, but neither of you cared. You'd always been close with Reid. You both went out on dates, exchanged too-friendly glances, and even got to the point of staying at each other's places.

So, knowing you, you wouldn't have said no.

Morgan claps Reid on the shoulder, then turns to you with a warm grin. "You good to ride with us?"

"Of course."

The drive to the university campus was rather quiet this time, the usual easy banter between Morgan subdued by the grim nature of the case. The Gothic-style buildings of the small college loom against the grey sky. Morgan glances in the rearview mirror at you.

"So.. what you got so far? You think the mask is a gimmick?"

Reid answers before you can, staring out the window. It made you internally roll your eyes. "The mask is a psychological tool. It dehumanizes him in the eyes of his victims and allows him to shed his own identity; it shouldn't be a gimmick."

"Ever the optimist, Reid. I'm asking her."

...

"Well, I think it's both. It's a mask to us, but it's a uniform to him. Whenever he puts the mask on, he stops being whoever he is and becomes who he sees in the horror films. We just gotta figure out who he is when it takes it off."

-

The day yields little. Interviews blur together — nervous students, frustrated professors, a campus security guard who saw nothing — you were tired and utterly confused.

Morgan rubs the back of his neck, frustrated and exhausted. “Nothing. This guy is a pro. He leaves no trace, no witnesses who can give us anything solid.”

"It's okay," you sigh, adjusting the rolled-up sleeves of your shirt. "'Bout time to reconvene with the others anyway. See if they got anything."

But no.

The families offered no new connections, and Garcia came up empty. The day practically went to waste. Hotch pins a new timeline to the board, his usual frown painting his face.

"We'll start fresh tomorrow. Get some rest, everyone."

The team disperses with weary nods, and you gather your things and head home. You feel entirely, indescribably frustrated.

After the long drive, you finally step into your apartment; the silence is a stark contrast to today's franticism. The lights are dim and comfortable, and you throw your purse on the kitchen counter. You kick off your shoes, the cool hardwood floor a relief against your aching feet.

You take your time as you get situated, taking a much-needed hot shower, putting on an old college shirt and shorts for pajamas. You turn on the TV to an old sitcom, and get up to open your fridge when your personal cell phone vibrates on the countertop. An unknown number flashes on the screen.

You know better than to answer numbers you don't recognize, so you ignore it.

You continue your task as normal, pulling leftovers from your fridge and putting them in the microwave. The sitcom's laugh track fills the quiet apartment, a poor substitute for real company, really. Then the phone vibrates again. Same unknown number. Then, a third time. You had to pick up.

"Hello?"

"You had a long day. All that work for nothing. It must be frustrating."

You stopped dead in your tracks, your back now pressing against the cool surface of the oven. "Who is this?"

There's a low, staticy chuckle on the other end of the line, obviously from the use of a voice changer. "You've been asking that question all day..

Do you feel safe in your little apartment? You're alone, aren't you?"

Your eyes dart to your front door, checking the lock. You hear the microwave beeping loudly, blaring enough for whoever it was to hear it too. Your voice is tighter now, professional, but a tremor betrays you. "This is a federal line. This call is being traced."

"It's not. You're off the clock, warming up leftovers. I'm just checking in anyway. As friends."

"You don't know me."

"I know you more than you think. I know you drink coffee with shortbread creamer. I know you keep your service weapon in the nightstand drawer," he chuckles again. "Along with your little toy, the one I'm sure you were going to use tonight."

"...Nice guess."

"You won't find me."

The line goes dead with a soft click, and the dial tone buzzes in your ear. The silence in your apartment is now deafening, heavy with a new threat. You stand still for a long moment, your appetite now gone. Your hand shakes as you lower the phone, hastily walking to your bedroom, to the said nightstand.

Your gun was still there with, ironically, the vibrator he mentioned sitting next to it. You took a deep breath. It was probably some teenager pulling a prank on you, but you'd assume that if you weren't a federal agent.

You sink onto the edge of your bed, the weight of the day — and the night — pressing down on you.

The next morning felt like hell for you. You couldn't even bring yourself to make your usual coffee. Last night's call lingered in the back of your mind.

The precinct is already busy when you arrive, the energy a contrast to the hollow feeling in your chest. You set your work bag on the desk. Morgan notices your posture as he walks by.

"Rough night? You look like you've seen a ghost." He attempts a weak joke, but his eyes are concerned. You nod, giving him a small smile before Hotch approaches.

"Alright, everyone. We have a potential lead. A security camera a block from the last victim's apartment caught a figure in a dark hoodie. Too grainy for ID, but it's a start."

Reid's eyes linger on the case before he turns to Hotch. "A hoodie suggests he's adapting. He knows we're looking for the mask."

He nods. "Exactly. Which makes him more dangerous. He's not slavish to the fantasy. He only used the mask as a tool."

"But he still uses it — see? Here, you can see the glint of white covering his face." You point at the screen, then grab the remote to zoom in on the photo.

Morgan squints at the screen. "So he wears the hoodie over the mask? He's hiding his iconic part until the last second."

"It means he's blending in until he's ready to strike. He could be anyone walking down that street."

The briefing continues, but your focus is fractured. Because every time Reid opens his mouth, his words about shedding identity and calculated risk echo the cold and distorted voice from last night.

Morgan leans toward you, his voice dropping. "Hey, you okay? You've been quiet. You're usually a chatterbox."

You playfully roll your tired eyes, pulling your jacket tighter around you. "Just tired, hun. Didn't sleep well."

"Sleep deprivation can significantly impair cognitive function. You should consider a twenty-minute power nap during lunch break. The REM cycle —"

"No, thank you, Reid." You keep your eyes on the screen as you cut Reid off gently. Hotch and Prentiss close out and send you all to search the premises to see if anyone has seen anything. You and Morgan head out into the crisp morning air, the normalcy of the town feeling like a thin veneer. The morning sun does little to warm the chill that settled deep in your bones as you walk alongside Morgan.

You scan the street, but every passing face feels like a potential unsub. But part of you had an idea that you knew who it was. Who else could've known about where you kept your gun? Your personal belongings? And Reid sounded like he was narrating his own process.

God, you were going crazy. I mean, absolutely insane.

Spencer Reid? The thought is so alien that it feels like a betrayal in itself. He is your colleague. Your friend.

"Hey. You sure you good? You're scanning everyone like they're about to draw on us."

"Just on high alert. This guy could be anyone." You avert your gaze, keeping your eyes pointed to your shoes momentarily before looking back up.

"I get it, but y'shouldn't let him get in your head. That's what he wants."

You continue down the block, questioning shop owners and pedestrians. The answers are all the same.

No one saw anything unusual.

Morgan checks his watch; it's been two hours since you left. "Alright, let's take a break 'n get a coffee. You look like you need it more than I do."

As you turn toward the small cafe, your personal phone vibrates in your pocket. A cold dread washes over you as you pull it out. You see a new text message.

{ You should smile more. }

Your head spins on a swivel, the blood draining from your face. Morgan stops walking and matches your sudden freeze. "What's wrong? You see something?" You shove the phone back in your pocket. "I don't know."

"What do you mean, 'you don't know'?"

Before you can answer, Garcia calls you on your work phone.

"Bad news, my lovelies. I just got a call from the local PD. There's been another victim. Stabbed in her home two hours ago."

"Damn, two hours ago? While we were in the briefing?"

"And what's crazy was — the responding officers said that the Ghostface mask was left on the victim's chest."

Morgan's jaw tightens; all traces of casual concern vanish. "He's escalating. He's murdering in broad daylight now."

The unsub couldn't have been Spencer, then. He was in the same room as you during the murder.

"The address is 214 Maple Lane. Prentiss and Reid are already on their way. You two should meet them there."

The scene is a study of controlled chaos. Hotch is speaking with the lead detective, his expression grim as he squints. The sun always bothered his eyes.

Prentiss spots you two and approaches. "Uh — The victim's name is Chloe Gardener. She was home for college on the weekend. No type of forced entry."

Reid emerges from the front door, pulling off latex gloves. His face is pale, and his usual analysis is now replaced by a hollow look. "The attack was frenzied. More so than the others." His eyes meet yours, and for a fraction of a second, they seem to have a strange look. "Something set him off."

"You got that from the overkill?"

"The overkill was one indicator, but the mask feels like a message of contempt now. Not a signature or a persona."

"Contempt for who? The victim or for us?"

Reid finally breaks eye contact with you, looking at Prentiss. "For the process and our ability to stop him. He's proving he can operate right under our noses."

The rest of the day is a blur of paperwork and dead ends. It was another day of frustration, a push and pull of finding the unsub and bringing him to justice.

You drove home in a daze; the image of the mask on Chloe Gardener's chest burned into your mind. And your apartment no longer felt safe. You double-check every lock, your service weapon held securely in your hands as you move through your rooms. There was nothing, and exhaustion eventually won out. You fall into a fitful sleep on the couch, the TV playing softly in the background.

A floorboard creaks softly in the hallway, just outside your bedroom door, and your eyes snap open. The TV is now off, and the apartment is pitch black and silent.

The voice is a whisper, but it's his. Undistorted and disgustingly familiar. "You're a light sleeper."

A shadow moves in the doorway, blocking the faint light from the street. The silhouette of the Ghostface mask is unmistakable. You open your mouth, but he immediately cuts you off.

"I'd appreciate it if you didn't scream. I don't want to tape your mouth shut. You know better than that." His voice is calm, almost conversational. "You shouldn't leave your window unlocked either. Even if it's on the second floor. Intruders still see it as an invitation."

"What, intruders like you, Spencer?"

"Yeah, like me."

"Didn't usually think of you as one."

"Then, I guess you're not as good at your job as I thought."

He's standing at the foot of the couch now, the white mask seeming to glow in the darkness. You can see the fabric of his dark hoodie.

"But, wait — the unsub left the mask on the victim." Your voice was a strained whisper, your gun directly in your line of sight as it was visible next to the blanket.

He tilts his head, "What, you think I didn't have more than one? They're just props — don't think about touching that gun."

He takes another silent step closer, the floorboard groaning under his weight. The air is thick with the scent of his familiar cologne. "You know, it's fascinating. The cognitive dissonance you must be experiencing right now. There's a part of your brain that trusts me and another that knows what I am. They're practically warring together."

You slowly begin to shift on the couch, sitting up fully. You swallow. "Why are you here, Spencer?"

He lets out a soft, almost sad sigh. "I told you. I was checking in. As friends."

"You know we aren't just friends, Spence. This isn't funny."

He leans over the couch, his movements fluid and predatory. The glint of a large kitchen knife is visible in his hand. "What did I say about the gun?" He gestures with his chin toward the gun you're clutching under the blanket.

With deliberate slowness, he holds up the knife by the handle, only using his pointer finger and thumb, and places the knife on the coffee table with a soft click, the blade pointing toward you. "Since the knife bothers you so much."

Your breath hitches, and you point the gun at him directly. "Stop fucking with me, Spencer — I know you. Do you really want to lose your job like this? Lose your life?"

He lets out a low, dark chuckle. "You keep saying that. But you have no idea who I am. Not really."

Before you could realize it, he's on the couch, his body pinning yours down, the weight of his body shocking and absolute. "The profile was always the exciting part, having those theories, those questions. But, see, the practice..." He leans close, his masked face inches from yours. "...it's so much more visceral."

His large hand grips your wrist, forcing you to release the gun; your gasp mingles with the sound of it clattering on the floor. "Shh, I told you I'm not here for that. Not tonight."

His grip on your wrist gentles, but doesn't release. His other hand comes up to the base of the mask. "You know I won't hurt you. Not like that. So stop trembling. The knife is on the table, and the gun is on the floor... Think of it as an interrogation."

He slowly lifts the Ghostface mask just enough to reveal his mouth and jawline. His familiar lips curve into a small, unsettling smile. "We profile people for a living. Profile me. Right now. Who am I?"

Your heart is still racing, but the outright panic recedes slightly after a long beat of silence. "You're... you're in control. You need to be."

He nods, his voice laced with genuine interest. "Good. Very good." He shifts his weight, making himself more comfortable pinning you down, but the immediate threat seems to lessen once he's seen you calm down a bit. "And what does that control give me?"

"Spencer why are you doing this—"

"Answer the question. What does that control give me?"

"...Power. Understanding. I-It's why you're a good agent. And... a good unsub."

He leans closer, his voice dropping to a whisper again. "Exactly. Now, relax. Let's talk. Just us." His thumb strokes a slow circle on the inside of your wrist, feeling your pulse. "See? I can be gentle." His touch is unnervingly soft, a contrast to the violence he's capable of unleashing on you. He gazes down at your blown-out pupils, and he smacks his teeth.

"Your mind's still trying to fit me into a box. But you know people aren't that simple — that's the problem with profiling. We're a series of contradictions. You, for instance, are terrified, but your pulse is slowing. You're assessing the situation."

He tilts his head, studying you. "That's what drew me to you, as a subject."

"What?"

"For my own profile. How long until the agent becomes prey? How does the mind reconcile trust with betrayal?" He smiles again, a flash of teeth in the dark. "It's a fascinating experiment."

The casual, academic tone is more disturbing than any of the threats he gave you, even the ones implied. He enjoyed dissecting you, under the guise of a damn experiment.

"So, let's experiment. Tell me something true. Something you'd never told me before. A secret for a secret."

He can't be serious. Out of his goddamn mind.

The air in the room changed once he finished his proposal. The immediate threat receded, replaced by a psychological game you'd usually refuse to play. But apparently you're out of your goddamn mind too.

Your voice is barely a whisper, the words feeling like a betrayal as they leave your lips. "I... I almost quit after the Mr. Scratch case. I couldn't sleep for weeks."

His expression doesn't change, but his eyes darken with intense focus. "It's understandable. You were having imposter syndrome. Highly common among high-achievers. But statistically, your hunches have a success rate of—"

"Don't. Don't profile me right now. You're the serial killer. You asked for a secret. That's mine."

He nods slowly. "Fair."

"I didn't want to start doing... this... when I put on the mask. I just enjoyed the silence it gave me. I felt like I could finally slow down my thinking." The confession hangs in the air, more intimate and terrifying.

"Your turn again. Why didn't you quit?"

"No. You asked for one secret. You got it."

His smile returns, colder this time. "Negotiation. I like it. But the experiment requires a control variable. One more. Why. Didn't. You. Quit?" His free hand moves from your wrist to grip your jaw, his grip firm enough to make you wince, tilting your face up to his. "Tell the truth."

You hold his gaze, the fight draining out of you as you feel your eyes well up with tears. "B-Because I'm good at it. And I liked that the team — that you... needed me to be.."

He leans in, his lips brushing your ear. "There. Was that so hard?" His voice was a whisper. "You needed to be needed. And I... I need to be in control." He pulls back slightly, his hidden eyes now roaming your face. "Not that we didn't already know that, given our existing dynamics during sex, but..." He shrugs, and there's a pause before he stands up abruptly, releasing you.

"Get up."

You sit up slowly, your body tense. "What are you doing?"

He picks up the knife from the table, but instead of pocketing it, he holds it loosely at his side. "Get. Up. I'm not done."

You slowly stand, your legs feeling unsteady. "What more could you possibly want??"

He closes the distance between you in one swift step, his free hand snaking around your waist to pull you flush against him. "The physiological response to fear is remarkably similar to arousal. Increased heart rate, dilated pupils, shallow breathing."

"Spencer — I can't do this right now —"

His lips find yours in a harsh and claiming kiss, absolutely nothing like the gentle, hesitant kisses you've shared before.

He breaks the kiss, his breathing slightly ragged. "See? There's a line. Your heart is pounding." His hand slides from your waist down to your hip, gripping hard. "Tell me to stop."

Your breath hitches, the words stuck in your throat. He knew you wouldn't. You couldn't. Because you're curious, and part of you feels so impossibly guilty to want to see how far this goes. He kisses you again, more insistent, backing you toward the bedroom.

He pushes you onto the bed, his body following yours, turning into a cage as the knife is placed carefully beside your head, well within his reach just in case you tried something stupid. He pins your wrists above your head with one hand, and you struggle weakly, curse the exhaustion he inflicted upon you. It was probably his plan to begin with, to get you so tired and utterly spent from trying to find him, so he could be entirely in control once he had you to himself.

"This is fucking insane."

He uses his free hand to push up your shirt, his leather-covered fingers splaying across your stomach. "No. It's not. It's called collecting data." His mouth finds the sensitive skin of your neck, biting down just hard enough to make you gasp. "Be good and participate. You wanna feel needed, don't you?"

He releases your wrists only to tear down your work slacks, his movements efficient and rough. He then yanks off his gloves, throwing them mindlessly. "Hm, you've always liked it a little rough, haven't you? When I take charge."

You turn your head away, a feeble attempt to regain some composure in your foggy consciousness. He grips your chin, forcing you to look at him. "Look at me. I want to see your eyes when I break you."

"Please..."

Your eyes reluctantly rise to his, and his fingers trail down your stomach, slipping between the waistband of your underwear.

"Aw, please? Is that a request or a plea? Your pulse is racing here too..."

He presses two fingers against your clit, applying a firm, steady pressure. He watches your face intently as a sharp gasp escapes you, your back arching involuntarily. He begins to move his fingers in small circles before sliding a finger inside you. His touch was clinical and exacting. "There's the arousal. You're soaking my fingers — has it been that long since I finger fucked you?"

A choked moan escapes your lips as your hips buck against his hand. He adds a second finger, curling them inward, his thumb maintaining that relentless pressure on your clit.

"Fuck — Sp– wait —"

"That's it. Let go. For once in your life, just let go."

He increases his pace, his fingers moving with the same rhythm he knew would push you closer to your orgasm. He could feel it. He's coaxing it with his fingers, mindlessly increasing the 'come here' movement of his fingers. His voice is low against your ear, talking you through the silent scream catching in your throat as the orgasm crashes through you, wave after wave of pleasure. He watches, fascinated, as the tension leaves your body.

"Good."

He withdraws his fingers, bringing them to his lips without breaking eye contact.

He unbuttons his pants, freeing his cock before slapping the tip on your sensitive clit.

"Please—"

His voice is dripping with condescension, "Please? Are you begging me to fuck you now? You were just pointing your gun at me not even ten minutes ago. Is that all a little fingering does to you?"

He presses the head of his dick against your entrance, applying just enough pressure to make your eyes roll back. "Such a pathetic contradiction. A trained federal agent, reduced to begging." He pushes into you with one deep thrust, burying himself without giving you any time to adjust, not like how he usually did. He sets a punishing rhythm from the start, each thrust jarring and deliberate. "You feel that? That's the control you're so afraid of. It feels good, doesn't it?"

Your nails dig into his shoulders, a desperate effort to ground yourself as he makes it impossible to form words. He grabs your hips, angling them to hit that good spot, the one that makes your vision white and your mind go blank. But then he suddenly slows, pulling almost all of the way out, hovering there. With his free hand, he pulls a small, black camera from his hoodie pocket. The lens glints in the dark. He thrusts back in deeply.

"Smile for me,

Say cheese."

Your eyes widen at the sight of the camera, a fresh wave of humiliation and arousal washing over you. "No... don't, please."

He captures the image, the shutter click unnaturally loud in the quiet room. "Too late." He begins moving again, his pace relentless. "Not that you mind, though. Don't you want this, sweetheart?"

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to lift your hips to meet his thrusts. "Yes... god, yes..."

He lets out a satisfied chuckle, "I know, baby. The data is irrefutable." He leans forward, bracing himself with one arm, the camera still in his hand as he drives into you. "You wanna cum for me?"

You bite your lip, nodding frantically as the pressure builds again, your resolve completely shattered. "Please..."

"Then do it. Cum for the camera, let me see it — shit."

He angles the lens down, focusing on your face as his thumb draws circles on your clit. His orgasm triggers yours, a second, more shattering wave that leaves you breathless beneath him. For a moment, the only sound is your ragged breathing mingling in the dark. He collapses beside you, pulling the mask off completely. His face is slick with sweat, his expression unreadable.

He lies beside you, staring at the ceiling, his breathing slowly returning to normal. He turns his head to look at you, his eyes eerily calm.

"The post-coital drop in oxytocin will be significant. You'll feel the fear again soon."

[sgecat]

oh! so we’re calling me slurs in my inbox now??

can’t say I’m surprised. yall need to get your shit together.

[sgecat]

would yall be down if I wrote a Janet Jackson x reader?

.

YESSSS UGHHHH

no thx!

Voting ended onJul 14

[prettyangeliczz]

i need to have a long day, come home to michael waiting for me on the edge of the bed, and watch me ramble while i do my night routine, admiring me ‘cause he loves his girlfriend. a little bit of making out before cuddling to sleep, i need that.

[sgecat]

im back again OKAY SO yk I love the way you write so why not ask? I've been foaming at the mouth to the thought of michael being a vampire soooo can you make a story of like a twlight them? like y/n has always been curious of vampires but she's never seen one so when she stumbles over like idk a big ass house and when she sees that tall build she's weak in the knees. I imagine this Michael to kinda be flirty and cold very confident tho....that's all I got but I'ma leave the rest to you. THANK YAA- yooni out xx.

hear you go, sweetness, i went loosely based off the plot of castlevania bc i havent seen twilight (dont beat me)

i hope you enjoy lovebug!

[sgecat]

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶ♱ ྀིྀ DANGEROUS

pairing: vampire!michael jackson x reader

summary: you're a curious scholar who desires information about the vampire outside of town. who would've thought it would've led to something like this?

content: MDNI, smut, vampiric themes, lonely vampire trope (i know), blood drinking, intimate porn w/ plot, oral (f!receiving), pinning, very very gothic environment but i love it

w/c: 3.1k

taglist | requested | masterlist

The rain tapped a steady rhythm against your bedroom window, a comforting pitter-patter as you continued another night of research.

Your desk was littered with open books, their pages filled with detailed illustrations of fangs and accounts of nocturnal beings. A half-finished cup of tea sat cooling next to a notebook filled with your own gruesome imagined theories and illustrations.

But this particular book you were reading — borrowed from the dusty back shelves of the town's tiny library — spoke of a being not just from myth, but one that supposedly resided just outside town.

The book called him "The Lord of Blackwood", a vampire of immense age and power, who had withdrawn from the world centuries ago. The description was vague, but it mentioned something about eyes that held the weight of eternity.

So, you decided to test the waters the next morning. Approaching an old woman who ran an antique shop, her knowledge of the town's history was as vast as you could dream of. You walked into the shop under the guise of 'shopping'.

She looks up from polishing a silver locket. "Can I help you, dear?"

"I was wondering if you knew anything about Blackwood Manor just outside of town? The history seems so fascinating."

Her friendly demeanor vanishes instantly, putting down the locket so sharply you were afraid she might've broken it.

"We don't ask questions like that here."

Over the next week, you ask others — the postman, the baker, the farmer on the edge of town — and their answers were always the same. A nervous glance, a hurried change of subject with intelligible mumbling, or a warning not to speak his name here.

But of course, you didn't listen. They knew you wouldn't. They even started planning a funeral in your name without your knowledge.

You decided to pack a small bag that weekend, full of a change of clothes, a lantern, a notebook, and some fruit. You take the old path leading out of town, the dirt road almost completely covered by long-term abandonment. The woods are dense and quiet, the canopy thick enough to block out most of the moonlight, and the air grows colder.

After an hour of aching steps, you push aside a final, low-hanging branch. And there it stood before you. A monolith of dark stone against the dark blue sky, all sharp angles and towering spires. It wasn't as ominous and scary-looking as you thought.

No light shone against the windows, and the path to the front door was overgrown with thorny vines that snagged your clothes as you pushed forward. The massive, iron-branded door looked like it hadn't been opened in forever.

You take a deep breath and raise your hand, your knuckles hesitating for just a second before connecting to the metal. The knock echoed into the silence behind the door, and for a long moment, there was nothing. You hoped you didn't walk all this way for nothing.

But then the door groaned inward on its own, the sound a deep, weary sigh. It hadn't been locked. You then pushed with all your might, the heavy door moving inch by agonizing inch until there was just enough space for you to slip through.

The air inside was still and cold, carrying the scent of old dust, dried herbs, and something metallic, maybe blood or iron.

The grand foyer was vast, and the moonlight from the open door sliced through the darkness. It fell across portraits in gilded frames — faces from centuries past; their eyes seemed to follow you as you descended into the castle. Your lantern aids your vision, glinting off a suit of armor as you pass by, a marble statue, then a collection of ancient-looking urns.

"Hello? I'm looking for the one they call... Michael?"

Your voice doesn't echo, but is swallowed by the immense silence. You take another few cautious steps forward, your heart beating loudly in your eardrums.

A shadow detached itself from the deeper darkness near the grand staircase. It was tall, impossibly so, and moved with a silence that was more unnerving than any kind of footstep. His voice is smooth as velvet, yet cold as it suddenly spoke from behind you. "You have a great deal of nerve coming here. Or a death wish. Which is it?"

You spin around quickly, the fire in your lantern highlighting his features, sharp and pale. You nearly drop the damn thing. "I was looking for you—"

"Why?" His voice sounded more like an order than a question as he took a step closer. You felt your blood run cold, and your voice trembled slightly.

"Because... the books. The stories. They couldn't all be wrong. I had to see for myself."

A faint, cold smile touches his lips. "See what? If the monster under the bed is real? You risk your life for a child's curiosity."

"Not exactly from a child's curiosity, but a scholar's. I've studied your kind, and I believe there's more to you than the stories of monsters."

He lets out a soft, humorless laugh that doesn't reach his eyes; his voice is full of mockery. "A scholar. How quaint. And what do your 'studies' tell you I am?" He circles you slowly, and the air grows colder with his proximity. He smelled faintly of wine and old wood, acquainted by faint ash.

You swallow hard as you try to keep your head upright, keeping eye contact as he passes by. "They tell me you value truth, given your own collections and studies. I thought maybe you'd appreciate someone who actually wants to learn, rather than just scream and run at the sight of you."

He stops his circling, now standing directly in front of you. "Appreciate? You think I crave the company of morals?"

"No, but I'd assume a life without interaction would be rather lonely." You try to shrug and laugh, but he continues to stare at you with an unreadable expression. Only continuing the conversation when you fixed your face. He reaches out to touch you, but gently taps at the cover of the notebook sticking out of your bag.

"Your book is full of little fairytales."

You lift your chin, "It's not a book of fairytales. It's full of records with history you left behind. I know you're not the mindless beasts people make you out to be."

"You think you can trace all my steps through history?"

"No, but I could with your firsthand account."

He turns and walks toward the grand staircase, his back to you. "Firsthand account?" He glances over his shoulder. "You want an interview with a vampire?" (haha get it?)

You stay in the same spot, but your voice elevates slightly. "I told you. I'm a scholar. I want to understand."

He turns around and moves back towards you. A slight, genuine smile — the first one you've seen — curves his lips. He stops an arm's length away, his head tilted. "Understanding is a dangerous thing to seek from you. Knowledge has a price."

"I'm willing to pay it."

The weeks turned into months, and your visits to Blackwood Manor became a nightly ritual. The intimidating foyer soon felt familiar, the shadows less threatening, and they were now clean from age and dust, thanks to you.

Michael's library became your home. Floor-to-ceiling shelves held books you were sure existed in places you couldn't bear to think of, and he would watch you — sometimes for hours — as you pored over ancient texts you could barely read yet.

He leaned against the bookshelf, using his nail to pick the human flesh from his teeth, clothes still slightly blood-stained from his hunting. But he did clean up the best that he could, out of respect for you. He didn't want to scare you away just yet.

"Your fascination with the Venetian plague is... odd."

"It's all the eyewitness accounts." You mutter, not looking up from the fragile pages. "I mean, you lived through it. What was it really like?"

"Messy. You humans are so terribly fragile."

"You were a human once. Weren't you?" The silence that followed your question was deafening, aside from the soft crackle of the grand fireplace.

He pushed off the bookshelf, his movements slower than usual.

He walked to the fireplace, staring into the flames before resting his back against the stone. "Yes. I was. A very, very long time ago." He paused for a moment, as if it was difficult to remember how life was before his transformation.

You closed the book fully in your lap, giving him your full attention. "Do you miss it?"

He lets out a short, sharp breath, almost a laugh. "The sickness, the fragility, the inevitable decay? No."

He pauses, his gaze now at the expensive rug beneath him. "But.. I do miss the sun. Cherishing the days well-lived. I used to get the best sleep.

And I do miss the family I had."

He pushed away from the mantle, turning to face you fully, but the vulnerability in his voice was now gone. "But don't romanticize it. What I am now," he gestures vaguely around the vast library. "This is freedom. Of a sort."

You stand up, taking a tentative step toward him. "Sounds lonely."

His eyes narrow, but there's no real anger to them. "Lonely is a human concept. I would say that we're patient."

"You've been patient for centuries. That's a long time to be alone."

"Who said I was alone?"

You give him a knowing look, your arms crossing over your chest, and he chuckles. "You ask a lot of questions under the ruse of a 'scholar'."

"You keep inviting me back. So you must not mind them too much."

A slow smile finally touches his lips. "I don't." He glances toward the tall library windows. "It's nearly dawn. You should stay. The spare room is yours, as always."

He turns and walks toward the door, his cape whispering against the cold stone floor. He pauses at the threshold for a moment, bidding you goodnight before the heavy door clicks shut.

The next few nights progressed this way. Your conversations linger later, the topics drifting from history to philosophy, and then to the small absurd details of your moral life that seem to fascinate him somehow.

Tonight, you find him not in the library, but in a solarium you'd never noticed before, full of meticulously preserved plants that should've died a long time ago. You never thought of him as having a green thumb. "A habit from another life," he says. Some routines were harder to shed than others, but it didn't make him any less admirable. You reach out to touch one of the leaves he was catering to, your fingers brushing against his as your thumb traces over the petal.

He doesn't pull his hand away; instead, he turns his hand, his cool fingers lightly tracing the line of your wrist. "Your pulse is fast. Even after all these months, are you still afraid of me?"

"No. Not afraid."

"Then what is it?"

His dark eyes hold yours, and you could feel your breath catch. You couldn't find the words to describe how you felt. Let alone a vampire. But you knew that wasn't how you saw him anymore. He wasn't dangerous, nor a monster. He's gentle, kind, more than any human could be.

He leans closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I can hear it, you know. The shift in your heartbeat."

"Does it bother you, Michael?"

The space between you vanishes, and he closes the distance, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that's so soft, it almost feels airy. His lips were curious against yours, a taste so sweet, you could easily fall addicted to the drug of him.

His hand comes up to cradle your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheek with a tenderness that contradicts his cold skin. His breath ghosts against your lips before deepening the kiss. His other hand slides to the small of your back, pressing you flush against the unyielding coolness of his body, which never seemed to warm against yours. He didn't mind your warmth, though. You felt like sunshine against his skin, inviting him with want and endless curiosity.

In a fluid motion, he lifts you into his arms, and the castle blurs for a moment as he carries you from the solarium through the corridors.

He lays you down upon the vast expanse of his bed, the black silk sheets slippery beneath you as they ground you from your slight dizziness. The room is lit only by the faint glow of moonlight filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows on the left side of his bedroom.

He kneels over, caging you in, his dark eyes burning with undeniable hunger and desire. A look both thrilling and terrifying.

"Are you sure you want this with me? Truly."

You reach up, your fingers tracing over the sharp line of his jaw, tucking stray strands of hair behind his ear. "I've never wanted anything more."

A low groan rumbles in his chest as he lowers himself to kiss you again, peppering soft kisses downward as his lips find the sensitive skin of your neck. His breath catches as he sucks on the dip of your collarbone. A soft moan escapes you as his mouth finds a sensitive spot against your sternum, your back arching off the silk sheets.

He pulls back slightly, his breathing unsteady — something you thought was impossible with him. And you could feel the tension coiled in his body. His fangs, which you've only seen in glimpses, are a subtle pressure against the skin of your stomach as he kisses his way lower.

His hands slide up your thighs, pushing the simple fabric of your dress higher, exposing you to the room's chilling air. He moves down your body with a reverence that steals your breath more than you thought. His lips brush against the inside of your thigh as your fingers tangle in the smooth sheets.

It seems like forever before his tongue dances on the fabric over your clit, clear with intention as you feel his fingers hesitantly pulling against the waistband over your panties.

You become breathless, your hips lifting in silent invitation. "Michael, you're teasing. Please."

He hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties and slowly, deliberately, slides them down your legs. The air feels sharp against your core, now soaked with arousal. He lowers his head again, his tongue tracing wet circles against your slit. The sensation was almost too much. You could feel his teeth as he suckled and kissed on your bundle of nerves, and his cold breath ghosts over you, making you shudder slightly.

You cry out as his slender tongue slowly fucks your entrance, tasting you with the focus of a connoisseur, each thrust and flick and kiss a slow, aching torture. A string of pleas falls from your lips as he groans against you, the vibration sending shockwaves of pleasure through you.

His fingers join his mouth, a finger sliding inside you in a way that brings spots to your vision, the dual sensation overwhelming the heat building in your stomach. He looks up to watch your sweet reactions, his eyes glowing faintly in the dark. "Is this what you thought would happen when you knocked on my door, scholar? To come apart on my tongue? Is this what you wanted?"

You can only manage a frantic nod, your hands fisting in his dark hair. "D-Don't stop."

His pace quickens, his tongue circling your clit relentlessly while his fingers curl inside you. Your orgasm washes over you unbearably fast, and you feel his fangs brush against your inner thigh, a sharp threat amidst the bliss. Your vision grows white, and your body trembles uncontrollably against the silk.

He gentles his movements, drawing out the last shudders of your release with a soft, lingering kiss over the same spot as your inner thigh.

He moves back up your body and hovers above you, his gaze dark as he brushes a damp curl from your forehead. His touch is tender as he kisses you, the taste of your orgasm still fresh on his tongue. His bulge presses against your thigh, so undeniably hard and prominent, even through his trousers.

You reach between you, your fingers fumbling with the fastenings of his pants.

He guides himself to your entrance once you free him, the tip of his dick a slick, hot pressure against you. You wrap your legs around his hips, pulling him closer, deeper as his slow thrust steals the air from your lungs. He stills, buried deep inside you, his forehead pressed against yours. You couldn't contain the small pants falling from your lips; it felt like he was splitting you open, and he hadn't even moved yet.

He begins to move, each thrust a rolling movement that pulls your mouth agape, a silent scream as he kisses your cervix. His lips find your neck again, his tongue tracing the frantic pulse there. "You smell so sweet. Practically screaming for me, sweetheart."

You tilt your head back, baring your throat to him in absolute surrender, and it seemed like all of his control frayed at the edges, deteriorating with every moan against his ear.

Then a sharp, sudden pain of his fangs piercing your skin is eclipsed instantly by a wave of euphoria. It became a pleasure so intense it borders on pain, a dizzying rush that syncs perfectly with the fast rhythm of his hips. His mouth is sealed against your throat, a low, continuous moan vibrating through you as he drinks you in.

Your body instinctively jerks against him, your hands flying to his abdomen, but he captures your wrists, pinning them to your chest as he fucks you senseless.

"It's okay, sweetheart. Just relax and take what I give you."

The dual sensations of the intimate fullness of his dick moving within yours and the deep, pulling ecstasy of the bite bring you to your orgasm simultaneously. It is a silent, yet hot convulsion of pleasure, lasting longer than usual as he follows closely behind you.

He holds you there for a moment, his body draped over yours before letting your wrists go, lapping gently at the small wounds on your neck. You drift into an exhausted sleep as you wrap your arms around him, the taste of metal and dizziness on your tongue.

You wake to the soft kisses on your cheek, the curtains now closed as they concealed the grey light of pre-dawn light filtering slightly at the edges. His voice is a low murmur next to your ear, his arm a heavy weight across your waist. "Good morning. Or what passes for morning here."

"Did I pass out?"

A soft chuckle rumbles through his chest. "You did. I may have done too much."

You shift slightly, feeling a pleasant ache in your muscles and the faint mark on your neck. "It's okay. I don't mind. It's the price I'm willing to pay."

taglist: @smoothcriminalgf @michaeljacksonfanfictions @yoonitoocutie @miradeezy @mal3volentr0se @solelypyt @jacksonluvrr

[theghostwife]

All I'm going to say about ebonymuse/michaelmuse is that I'm disappointed but not surprised. I fully believe she knew exactly what she was doing. It's the same song and dance and the same recycled bullshit excuses, citing ignorance and not being educated as a reason for how they portrayed themselves. It's annoying to see different versions of the same apology regurgitated over and over again.

This unfortunately happens in a lot of fandoms where blackfishing or blatant racism/anti-blackness/micro agressions are common against black fans, but to use it in a community for a Black artist???

Insane.

I maintain that Michael's vitiligo has white folk forgetting he's a black man and that, for some reason, has enabled some of y'all to act out the side of y'alls asses.

Ebony is for your hair, my ass.

[sgecat]

This is why we create black spaces. It’s not to be weird or shady; it’s because we genuinely don’t know who’s in our corner or rather taking advantage of our creativity and profiting from it.

This is my very important reminder to PLEASE support our black writers. We’ve been marginalized enough. We love to share with the world, but it’s hard when writers like these take from us without giving any kind of consideration and recognition.

That is all we ask.

[plumppies]

I’m going to say this once and never again. If you don’t agree with me, you’re more than welcome to unfollow and block me. I’m also not a chicken and will be tagging exactly who I’m talking about because this is honestly ridiculous.

I’m going to preface this by saying this isn’t to cause drama or get likes. My account is garnering plenty of engagement from my writing and my personal posts already. This is merely for educational purposes and to shed light on an issue that’s infested the internet for years. This is also NOT just about the MJ fandom but I’m using it as an example because it’s happened here. Again, if you don’t agree with me, unfollow or block me!

I recently followed an account under the impression that they were a black owned blog. Their layout, use of AAVE and black oriented reaction pictures made me believe that I found another black writer to support. But I learned that the owner is a white women.

I want to follow more black writers here to uplift them in a space that is heavily biased against black fans. Situations surrounding belittling black writers in the MJ community have been rampant for a while now so I take it upon myself to support and follow fellow black writers who represent me and many black MJ fans who have felt underrepresented in the fandom.

Back to the issue. Finding out that this account is a white woman behind the scenes upset me quite a bit. I genuinely believed she was one of us and was combating the racial problem within the fandom. That being said, I’d like to point out why this is more than just a ‘I feel scammed’ situation and more about digital dishonesty.

Digital blackface is a massive issues in online communities across the internet. It’s a conversation that has been ongoing for years now, even before I was on the internet. Many people outside of the black diaspora have downplayed it as a problem, stating that free speech shouldn’t be considered black fishing or harmful towards black communities. However, I would like to point out that Digital Blackface is more than just using ‘black media’ to express yourself, it directly impacts how the world views black peoples as a whole.

Accounts on Tumblr and other platforms have popped up pretending to be black people since conception of social media. They use Ebonics and black reaction pictures/gifs as a means of communication which often time leads to real black-owned accounts believing that they are interacting with black people. In hindsight, one would merely say “well it’s not their fault you thought they were black,” and that is exactly the problem.

As I said before, I follow black blogs to uplift my people. The internet is riddled with racism directly impacting black communities. We get called the hard r, monkeys, ghetto, nasty, undesirable etc and platforms don’t bat an eye. Racism towards us is so normalised that it’s bled into every internet fandom. So you see why black people online gravitate towards each other? Because we want a safe space for ourselves. We want to appreciate each other, dote on each other, love, respect and support each other’s art.

How do black folk know that an account is black owned? We use Ebonics, black media and black phrases that only we would know. So you can imagine how disheartening it is to find out that an account using such media would be a white woman behind it.

Nonblack POC or white person reading this might not understand the gravity of this situation but I implore you to read up on it and take time to fully understand why it’s upsetting.

Terms like ‘the saxophones are getting louder” “goofy ahh” “I’m crine” “unc” “Deadass” are AAVE/Ebonics. Finding them on TikTok and incorporating them into your online vocabulary when you’re not apart of that community is a form of digital blackface and cultural appropriation. It’s not Gen Z slang or TikTok slang and it’s not a funny audio just for vibes. It’s BLSCK AMERICAN language.

I’m not BA and I do use Ebonics here and there but I avoid incorporating it into my speech when I don’t understand how to use it properly. And I don’t use much of it because, again, I’m NOT black American. Black Americans have been kind enough to even let black people outside of the United States use their language and I don’t even want them to think that I’m being irresponsible with that privilege.

Now in regards to this situation. I don’t want to hear things like “Michael was for everyone.” Although that was true, you would be really stupid to believe that Michael didn’t understand that black people were/are the most marginalised and racially abused people on the planet. This man grew up in undoubtedly the most racially divided time in USA history. He even spoke out about the industry steals from “especially black artists”. He was aware that black art is abused for white financial and political gain. Black media (whether it be music or simply reaction photos) is art.

So why position yourself in a way that make you appear to us as a black woman @michaelmuse ? Your entire aesthetic is based in a way that draws in a black audience. You use black faces as reaction pics and Ebonics but you draw the line at reblogging black fanfics when you know that this site favours reblogs over comments and likes.

Your previous username (ebonymuse) in itself is indicative of the issue I’m discussing here. ‘Ebony’ is a term primarily used to describe black people. Urban dictionary defines it as “the essence of dark skin that is enriched and plentiful with melanin. greatness. beauty”. It’s even a common term used to define a porn category for to black people. Now the term itself is constantly being critiqued for bordering on being a fetish term, however, you see how it’s for black people? Dark skin people to be exact?

So why is a white woman with white ass skin using that term in their username? I’m a black woman with albinism and even I wouldn’t use that term. Why? Because it isn’t not for my pasty self.

I’ve read some of your fics and this has nothing to do with me wanting diversity or inclusion from you, nor is it to hate on your work. You do use Ebonics in your work so I’m sure you knew that your fics would attract black readers to your blog. Your behaviour (whether you did it intentionally or not) was deceptive and potentially harmful to my community. You need to educate yourself on the contents of this conversation to fully understand how bad this situation actually is. There’s no way you’ve been on the internet and didn’t know that black Americans have been begging nonblack (especially white) folk to stop using their media as your own or as ‘a silly tend’ or to be relatable.

I’ve seen a few black British blogs come to your defence and I’m bewildered to see them pandering for a white woman about something that affects black people as a whole. I myself am not Black American but I will stand by them when their culture and language is diluted and turned into a ‘trend’ for everyone else to steal and appropriate. It’s wrong and it impacts us all. White people (even other POC) don’t separate us. They see one fake black account say stupid things and assume that’s how all of us feel/act. I understand that the UK is differently set up but your low racial self esteem is affecting us all. You let white Brits walk all over you and your culture and you just laugh along like it’s funny. This is why racism there will never end. You let white footballer wear braids, let white folk use AAVE and flat out call your Afros messy and you think it’s not that serious. Stand up. Immediately.

You guys really need to do better. Stop misconstruing Michael’s words to get away with disrespecting black people. You’re becoming just as bad as those who racially attacked him.

With love.

[michaelcurls]

i wish y’all would stop mentioning how michael’s music is for everyone and how he loves everyone regardless of races whenever us black people mention non black fans stepping over boundaries. this kinda feels like a form of manipulation having to constantly hear something like that, especially when your favorite writer is being called out. i’m seeing LOTS of y’all defend it and it’s okay to call out your friends/favorite writers, i promise you you don’t need to hold their hand, they’re grown and need to take accountability for themselves. and you should also educate them if they’re not understanding anything in regards to black fans. everybody is human and makes mistakes, but if you’re coddling and babying them, they will not learn and will only hide behind you whenever they get called out. do better.

sincerely, a tired black woman.

[plan3tch1ld]

There is nothing wrong with holding someone accountable when they’re wrong regardless if they’re your favorite. It is a form of manipulation because the same way we have to address certain things in the black community Michael who is a black man had to address racism as well so please stop throwing that in our faces. Yes we know Mike loved everyone but if he didn’t stand for discrimination why do you think he would be okay with you dismissing how black fans feel if a serious issue is trying to being addressed! If you coddle them and try to excuse what they’re doing then how will they learn that what they were doing was a mistake or offensive to people!!

[sgecat]

oh so I completely lost the plot. THIS IS ABT EBONYMUSE???

SHES A WHITE WOMAN?????

[sgecat]

Michael Jackson is a BLACK MAN.

Regardless of how you may perceive him, he has consistently made it clear that he had no desire to change his skin or “bleach it.” He was a proud black man who remained deeply connected to the BLACK community.

Liking Michael Jackson when his skin tone appeared lighter only to justify overlooking his blackness is absurd. I’m not aware of all the specific incidents that caused such a disturbance today, but accusing Michael of denying his blackness and using that to justify your concealed racism is incredibly insulting. As a black woman, to Michael, and to every other black person who has faced similar challenges, I find this accusation deeply hurtful.

[mikaylajacksonnn]

how it feels to be one of the few people who like when a fic says ‘mama’ or ‘mami’ when everyone else says it’s corny

[sgecat]

˚˖𓍢ִ໋`🌿:✧˚ climbing trees with michael !

fluffy drabble | not proofread | masterlist

YOU AND MICHAEL always had a soft spot for nature. it was one of the first things you had in common.

some days, you'd lie in the soft summer grass behind his house, the blades tickling your warm skin as you both watched the stars. and you talked about everything. your dreams, his dreams, your shared fears, silly things that didn't matter, or the serious things that mattered too much.

on other days, you'd spend hours with his animals, pampering them, brushing their fur, and decorating them with flowers in pink, yellow, and blue hues. michael would laugh, peppering them with sweet kisses.

but your favorite days were the tree-climbing ones, where the sun was as high as you could make it, the air blazing with heat, with the smell of warm bark. michael would always pick the tallest one he could find; it was ridiculous. he'd point at it and look back at you with a wide smile.

and today was one of those days.

"you ready?"

"absolutely not."

but — amused as you were — you stood there and watched, waiting to see if he'd actually climb the damn thing. michael placed his hands on the trunk, feeling the grooves of the bark before lifting himself up by his forearms. his long limbs were careful, but his excitement got the best of him, grabbing onto each branch as he trusted the wood to hold him up. he'd glanced down at you every few seconds to make sure you were at least reconsidering.

"girl, come on." he laughed. "it's not as high as it looks. unless you're scared."

you smack your teeth. "ain't nobody scared."

your pride got the best of you, and you followed him. your shoes scraped against the trunk as you climbed behind him.

michael reached a thick branch and settled onto it, legs dangling, back pressed against the trunk. and he waited for you to come closer before he stretched out his hand. and when you took it and sat in front of him, he gave you the smile he always did. "see? wasn't so bad."

"i guess so." you shrug.

the breeze ruffled the leaves around you, sunlight flickering through the branches in patches. he nudged your foot with his, maybe it was accidental, but he liked it when your eyes were on his. it felt isolated here, intimate and private, and he preferred it that way, especially with someone as beautiful as you.

taglist: @smoothcriminalgf @michaeljacksonfanfictions @yoonitoocutie @miradeezy @mal3volentr0se @solelypyt

[sgecat]

⋆˚࿔ MY PRINCE

pairing: prince!michael jackson x siren/mermaid!fem reader

era: off the wall

summary: Michael has been oddly obsessed with the ocean after having a beach day with his brothers. When he almost drowns accidentally, he is awakened by a beautiful girl who saves his life.

contents: no warnings, maybe a bit of language, some fluff, some angst, The Little Mermaid inspo

a/n: writing fantasy is very new for me, can you tell?

w/c: 1.3k (pretty short, i know. but i can always make a part two)

dividers by @angeliicide | masterlist

The hot sun blazed and bounced off the white sand of the secluded Mediterranean beach. His brothers were letting off some steam, playing volleyball, playing music on their radios, but Michael sat apart.

His gaze was stuck on the deep blue hues of the ocean, where a faint, melodic humming rose from those same blue depths. He tilted his head, listening to the sound that danced just at the edge of his ears. "You guys hear that?" He calls out, his eyes squinting from the bright rays.

Jackie tossed a football to Marlon, half-listening to him, and half to the radio. "Hear what, man? The music?"

"No, no, it's like a voice. Like singing."

Randy laughs, walking over to the cooler stationed by Michael, opening it, then tossing him a drink. "It's the heat, Mike. You're hearing things. C'mon 'n play some ball, alright?"

He did end up playing with his brothers, but he couldn't shake it. The melody was haunting him, a song so beautiful and meant for him and him alone. It practically pulled at his soul.

Days later, he returned to the same spot, under the guise of needing some time to himself.

He took a small boat into the gentle surf, the mysterious song growing clearer, more compelling with every stroke away from the large castle in the distance. The gleam of gold and marble became faint to his vision.

It was only a matter of time before he was far enough to hear the mysterious song grow clearer, more compelling.

He stands up in the unsteady boat — dumbass — and peers into the clear water, trying to find the source of the music. Suddenly, the boat rocked violently from the push of the waves; he didn't know. But a misplaced step, a surprised gasp, and he plunged into the shockingly cold water.

Panic seeped into his lungs, trembling as the cold water covered his scalp. The waves fought against him, tugging and pulling him into an abyss he couldn't see from. His arms flailed, the weight of his waterlogged clothes dragging him further, and the sunlight above the surface grew dim.

Just as his struggles began to weaken, a figure shot through the water with impossible speed. A pair of strong arms wrapped around his chest.

Your arms.

Your voice was clear and calm in his ear, making him wonder about the fundamentals of your distinct voice, even as you were surrounded by the ocean. It was a smooth whisper, soft and sensual as your song. Even in his time of panic, he thought it was beautiful.

I've got you. Don't fight.

You propelled both of you towards the surface with powerful strokes, your shimmering, scaled tail working effortlessly against the current.

You broke the surface. Michael coughed and sputtered, clinging to you as you hauled him towards the safety of the shore, his rowboat long lost and forgotten. You drag him onto the wet sand, your tail patting softly against the ground. He rolled onto his side, coughing up seawater. When he finally looked up, his wide eyes met yours. You were the most breathtaking woman he had ever seen.

He stared, speechless. Your skin seemed to glow with an otherworldly light, and your eyes held an ancient mystery of the very ocean itself. His gaze drifts downward, taking in the iridescent scales of your tail. He couldn't believe his eyes. You were probably a dream, one he didn't want to wake up from. "Are you even real?"

You offer a small, cautious smile, pulling yourself a little further onto the sand. "As real as you are."

His brown skin was soft against your palm, coated with remnants of sand and salt water. He was absolutely gorgeous, coils sticking to his forehead and eyelashes batting in surprise. "It was you. The singing..."

Your smile falters slightly, a shadow of sadness crossing your features. "You shouldn't have been able to hear that."

He reaches a trembling hand out to touch your face; your skin is as smooth as porcelain. You were real.

"Who are you?"

You look down at your tail, then back to him. You begin to pull yourself back toward the water, your movements graceful even on land. "Someone who can't stay. You should go. Forget this ever happened."

He scrambles forward, his hand stopping just short of your arm. "Wait! Please — I can't just forget this."

With a final, sorrowful look, you slipped beneath the surface, disappearing into the deep blue, and Michael was left alone in the sand. The only evidence of your visit is the wet imprint of your form.

The next day, he was back at the same secluded cove at dawn, a small hopeful figure against the vastness of the deep blue ocean. He sat on the sand, his voice barely a whisper carried in the wind. "Are you there?"

For a long time, there was only the sound of the waves. He started to feel stupid for coming back, calling out for someone who may not even hear. Then, a familiar head broke the surface a few yards out. Your eyes met his across the water. Your expression is pained. "I thought I told you to forget."

He stands, his toe drawing mindless patterns in the sand. "I know. I just had to. You were in my dreams last night." He takes a step into the surf, and you swim away, further into the tide.

"This can't happen. We're different. There's no way." You knew what this was moving towards, and you shook your head. You knew you didn't belong here. Your clan would kill you if they found out you went this close to the surface. His beautiful face fell, and he now stood knee-deep in the cold water. His heart ached as he searched for a solution. He had to see more of you.

"I'll find a way."

He returned every day after that, at the same time, bringing little trinkets — a smooth sea glass, a conch, gold from his castle — and he wondered how he didn't get caught by his brothers by now. He'd stray away from important conferences with kings from different nations, family dinners, and he didn't even care.

He'd leave the trinkets on a specific rock at the water's edge, and you'd watch him from a distance, your heart sinking.

"Why do you persist, Michael?"

"Because I've fallen in love with you."

One afternoon, a particularly rough wave knocked the gold bracelet he'd left from his perch we went into the ocean to retrieve it, his trousers soaked. "I know you're there."

Your head emerges from a nearby rock, and he holds up the bracelet. "We can't do this. You're risking too much. I'm risking too much."

He shakes his head, walking towards you, his pants now soaked. "None of what I'm risking means anything to me. What matters is what you feel."

You look away, "It doesn't matter what I feel. My world is the ocean."

He reaches out, his fingers gently brushing a stray drop of water from your cheek. "Then I'll swim. I'll build as many boats as I have to."

You lean into his touch for a fleeting moment before pulling back. "You say that now. But your kingdom needs you. You could eventually grow to resent me."

"I could never resent you."

Days turned into weeks. Michael's absences became more noticeable, the excuses thinner, and his brothers began to exchange worried glances. The royal summons kept coming, delivered by his advisor on the sun-drenched palace terrace as his father barked orders with his arms crossed. His voice boomed, echoing off the marble. And Michael stood silently, his gaze fixed on the distant ocean visible between the white columns.

Michael didn't go to the beach that evening. Instead, he found himself on the balcony outside his chambers, the salty air doing little to nothing to calm his heartbeat. He still heard your song; however, it grew with sorrow and departure.

The next morning, before the palace woke up, Michael was rowing a sturdy boat further out to sea than ever before. He called out to the water, desperate to see your face again, knowing that he couldn't give up on your shared boundary.

The water ahead of him began to swirl, bubbles rising to the surface as you emerged. You had shells decorating your beautiful curls, your skin painted with ancient markings he'd never seen before. You had a strange, determined look in your eyes.

"There might be a way."

"Tell me. Anything."

The water around the boat grew unnaturally still, and you placed a hand on the hull of the boat, your webbed fingers splayed against the wood.

"There is a place where the old songs speak of. Where the sea kisses the land in a way that is impossible. Finding it requires a leap of faith that could come with a cost." You take his hand; your touch is cool against his warm fingers.

"If you truly mean anything, you have to be ready to leave your world behind, Michael."

taglist: @smoothcriminalgf @michaeljacksonfanfictions @yoonitoocutie @miradeezy @mal3volentr0se @solelypyt

[wild-honey143]

i-

i can’t he looks so good here

the hair!!?