✨✨cat (this one looks almost identical to mine🥹), rosy maple moth, mouse✨✨
no pressure tags: @cuntbitchandthebottlemen @quietchaosclub @scalpdisease @crowsberries (so sorry for any unwanted/repeat tags, pls ignore if that’s the case!!)
this one was kinda tricky. i lowkey just kinda picked animals i really like :)
i ended up picking 𑁍ࠬܓ𓏲 ๋࣭ a puppy! 𑁍ࠬܓ𓏲 ๋࣭ a elephant! & last but certainly not least... 𑁍ࠬܓ𓏲 ๋࣭ a octopus!!
this was sm fun!! my answers were certainly kind of out there. i plan on tagging (no pressure btw) : @femalekanye @strawberrykittymp3 @3leni @cndybliss
i can't wait to see what you guys come up with!! <3
can we pleaseeeee get more submissive jermajesty like in buzzzz ( it was everything 😣)
Kiss It Better Baby
Content: Jermajesty Jackson x Fem!Reader
Warnings: 18+ minors dni, p in v, dominant!reader, riding, kitchen sex, spit in mouth, freaky shit, talks of fighting, use of n word, black reader.
Wc: 743
You caught the TikTok notification while scrolling through your phone in the kitchen. A fan had spotted Jermajesty out with some random blonde chick. The same one who’d been sliding in his DMs begging to link. The clip showed them walking side by side, her laughing too loud, him looking way too comfortable. Your jaw tightened. You didn’t even think twice before swiping over to start a live.
“Bitches think shit sweet until I drag they ass across concrete,” you said straight into the camera, voice sharp. You replied to messy comments back to back “Bitch I was never pressed over a nigga. Niggas think shit sweet wanna pop out with the bitch you told me not to steal off on? Aii. Wait til that nigga comes home.”
Comments flooded in fast, but you kept going, pacing the kitchen island. The front door clicked open right as you were mid-rant. Jermajesty stepped inside, saw the phone propped up, and his face dropped.
“Mama it wasn’t even like that, turn off the fuckin live,” he pleaded, moving toward you. “Ma you out here embarrassin me and shit in front of thousands of people, turn that shit off.”
You rolled your eyes, ended the stream with one tap, and set the phone down. The kitchen went quiet except for the hum of the fridge.
“Drop ya pants and drawls. Right here.”
Jermajesty didn’t argue. He kicked off his sneakers, shoved his joggers and boxers down in one motion, and stood there half-hard already, eyes on the floor. You stepped in close, bent at the waist, wrapped your fingers around the base of his dick and leaned in. You sniffed along the shaft, slow and deliberate, checking for any trace of another woman. Nothing but his usual scent. Satisfied, you straightened up.
“Get on the island.”
He climbed up without hesitation, back flat against the cool marble. You followed, climbing after him, straddling his hips. You reached between your bodies, lined him up, and sank down in one smooth motion. His cock stretched you open, thick and hot, and you started riding him hard from the jump—no warm-up, no mercy.
Jermajesty’s hands flew to your waist but you slapped them away. “Nah, keep them shits to yourself. You just lay there and take it.”
You rolled your hips in deep, grinding circles, then lifted up and slammed back down, the wet slap of skin echoing off the cabinets. Every time he tried to thrust up you pinned him harder with your thighs. His moans started low and turned into broken whines the longer you rode him.
“Fuck—ma—slow down,” he gasped, but you didn’t. You leaned forward, hands braced on his chest, and bounced faster, the island creaking under both of you.
“You wanted to be seen with that bitch? This what you get.” Your pussy clenched around him on every downstroke, milking him. “Next time you think about poppin out, remember this shit.”
Jermajesty’s eyes squeezed shut. His abs flexed, thighs trembling. “I’m—fuck—I’m finna nut—”
You kept the same brutal pace. He came with a choked cry, hot spurts flooding your pussy, but you didn’t stop. You rode him straight through it, using his cum as extra lube, hips never slowing. Tears slipped from the corners of his eyes and slid down his temples.
“Ma—please—it’s too much—”
“You gon take it,” you told him, voice low and steady. “You gon lay there and let this pussy use you till I say we done.”
His cock stayed hard inside you, overstimulated and twitching. Every drag of your walls made him jerk and whimper. You kept going, sweat beading on your skin, the wet sounds getting louder as his cum leaked out around his shaft and smeared across the counter. Jermajesty was boneless, mouth open, nothing but broken moans and soft cries coming out of him.
Only when your own orgasm built did you finally let up on the pace. You ground down hard, clit rubbing against him, and came with a low groan. Cream spilled out of you, thick and white, dripping down his cock and pooling on his thighs and the marble beneath him.
You stayed seated on him, catching your breath, then reached up and lightly slapped his cheek. Your fingers gripped his jaw, mushing his lips together so his mouth opened. You leaned in and let a slow string of spit fall from your tongue straight onto his. He swallowed without being told.
“Bet you ain’t gone pop out with another bitch again, nigga.”
He looks so juicy in these pics omg I saw these on twt and they been on my mind nonstop. Like just imagine getting a hug from him, you can feel the thickness of his back through his layers. His arms strong arms circle around you while you rest your head on his chest. His big hands completely covering your lower back. What’s in his pants is probably just as thick.
☆ Pairing: offthewall!Michael x black!rockstar!reader
☆ Summary: Michael has artist's block that melts away after he secretly attends your show and finds himself completely enamored with you. After finally going mainstream, your band is invited to appear on a talk show alongside multiple guests, including Michael, whom you admire. One thing leads to the other; you are pushed to reveal who your celebrity crush is (Michael) while he sits a few feet away from you, breaking your badass rockstar image.
A/N: Tom Holland's level of manifestation. Also, this is loosely inspired by @ghoulxeg fic idea post about the talk show.
☆ Content/warnings: fluff, sfw, awkward in love, shy-and-cute-Michael, mention of Diana Ross, pushy/teasing interviewer
☆ Word Count: 4.6k
PART TWO. PART THREE.
•☆•••☆•••☆
March 1981.
Nothing should have brought Michael to you. You were working on two different sides of the industry; your paths were not meant to cross, despite the mutual friends.
He became aware of you on a random Monday. He had been browsing through the classic vinyl records in a music store in Los Angeles, Bill close behind him, per usual. It was then that he heard your voice through the speakers, the volume low not to disturb the customers. The voice of a dark angel, honey to his ears despite the fierceness it carried.
It was when it all began.
Spotting you during events became strangely easy, natural even. Your presence was so imposing that the room would shift as you'd walk in, accompanied by your band, the Lawbreakers. Chin up and perfect posture, it was as if you owned the world, your musicians as your generals. It was intimidating, yet Michael could not bring himself to look away.
He never mustered the courage to approach you or even ask about you. Frozen on the spot, his feet forgot how to function. In reality, he was nervous at the idea of making a fool of himself in front of you. You were overflowing with confidence and charisma, while he was shy and timid--too different to match.
Still, you had an established corner in his mind.
And something shifted on a spring night.
The quiet was usually a relief for Michael, clashing with the loudness and chaos of the show business. Now, at Westlake Studios, it had become unbearable, nearly driving him closer to madness every second more. It was the materialization of the artist's block he was facing, a wall that prevented him from reaching ideas, the perfect idea that even Prince could not come up with.
But nothing. Just silence.
"What about we try again tomorrow, man?" Quincy said. "Sometimes there are days when inspiration just doesn't hit."
Michael was well aware of that, but he refused to accept it. He refused to have this day be wasted with nothingness and no advancement made. If he wanted to make the best album ever that the Grammys could not snub, he had to be at the studio at all times.
But Quincy stood up from the swivel chair and gathered all his notes. Michael sat up, ready to convince him to stay another hour, when his eyes caught sight of a black paper in his folder.
"Wait," he said, leaning forward.
Under Quincy's curious eyes, probably thinking his mind had finally unlocked some ideas to explore, Michael took the paper. A flyer with a five-person rock band.
You posed in the middle, silver jewelry hanging from your neck, contrasting with the beautiful brown of your complexion that seemed to contain gold dust. An oversized leather jacket resting on your shoulders, you held a mic, hand decorated with many rings matching your necklaces.
But it was your eyes that caught Michael's attention. The sharpness of them, like a feline ready to pounce on its prey. The black eyeshadow deepened your gaze, only reinforcing its strength. Like the Medusa, it stilled him on the spot each time he'd look at them, a sweet shiver tickling his spine. Like a sailor to a mermaid, he was drawn to your eyes so mesmerising, rendering him unable to look away.
"They're in town?" Michael asked.
"Yeah, they end their world tour tonight."
Michael's eyes went wide. "Tonight? Their last date is tonight?"
Quincy chortled. "What? You wanted to go?"
"Well..."
Michael's eyes moved back to the flyer. He was a lover of music, though rock was not the genre he listened to the most. He was quite selective with the songs that he enjoyed. But there was something about you, the energy that you conveyed through your music, but also the versatility of the atmospheres, while not losing your identity. You could express pure anger and vulnerability while still having an electric guitar going off in the background.
So naturally, Michael was looking forward to seeing you perform at the American Music Awards as you were a contender (and winner) for Favorite Rock Band and Favorite Rock Album. But you and the Lawbreakers did not attend any award ceremony because you were still touring. So instead, he resolved himself to attend one of your shows. That is, until he got carried away with his own projects. Now seeing how late it was, the concert had already begun. There goes his dream.
"I think we can still make it," Quincy said. "I know the bassist, Jace. Security will let me through."
Michael's head snapped up. "You kiddin'?"
"C'mon, Mike. Or we'll miss half of it."
Michael rushed to gather all his stuff and got Bill to drop them at the Forum. The show had already begun, but just as Quincy promised, there was not much of an issue getting in. All he had to do was show his ID. Apparently, Jace had put him on a special guest list.
The venue was shaking when they entered a VIP lounge. Fans were going mad, the music booming, each strain in the bass sending waves of vibration through their bodies. The night was cool, yet the heat was turning the venue into a furnace, though no one seemed to be affected by it.
And he could understand why.
His feet moved on their own, bringing him to the balustrade as his eyes remained fixed on you.
You stood at the center of the stage, your jacket hanging from your elbows, showcasing your crystal-lined bralet, matching your signature black and thick platform boots. Your voluminous curls whipped, your head banging, as the music possessed you. Resonating throughout the venue, your voice reached him. Michael could feel the vibration of your vocal cords, a subtle growl in it, belting and singing the lyrics as if your life depended on it.
It was nearly frightening, the ease with which you commanded the stage, attracting all the eyes with your every move, enchanting every soul like a siren. It was almost paradoxical. There was no grace, only strength and fierceness that was so controlled it was bewitchingly beautiful. A dark beauty; Nyx, a respected goddess even Zeus himself feared.
"Alright," you said, breathless.
A chill tickled him. Michael had never heard your speaking voice, which was surprisingly softer, yet still assured.
Pacing around the stage as the music slowly came to a stop, you looked at the crowd.
"We've reached the fun part of the show." The corner of your tainted lips curled up. "You know, the part where you chose what I sing."
The crowd erupted into an excited roar of cheer, clapping and jumping.
"You can choose whatever." You stopped in the middle. "A song of our catalogue that didn't make the setlist, or a song from any artist of your choice. Doesn't have to be rock, can be pop or a ballad, you choose."
The fans hurried to recommend songs from all kinds of artists; Prince, Cher, Chaka Khan, and someone even threw out Frank Sinatra's name. All voices overlapping each other, it was impossible for you to discern any proposition.
You leaned forward, a hand behind your ear. "What? Wait, lemme get closer."
You jogged to the very edge, kneeling, and handed your mic to the closest fan who was bent over the barricade.
"Rock With You!" The fan exclaimed. "Sing Rock With You by Michael Jackson!"
His heart missed a bit. Quincy playfully nudged him.
You stood back up. "What do you think, people? Want us to perform Rock With You by Michael Jackson?"
The crowd answered with a loud 'yes', which earned them laughter from you.
"Alright." You turned to your bandmates, who all nodded. "Just hope we won't get in trouble with Epic, though. The things I do for you guys."
As the fans amusement in your words, you motioned to your drummer to start the music.
It was hard for Michael to put words to what he was feeling. Hidden from the world, he had secretly attended your show, for he had been harboring a concealed crush on you for months. And now you were singing his song. And it baffled him how much your voice changed to fit the music. Your entire demeanor shifted, a radiant smile on your lips, accompanied by smooth dance moves. There were a lot more skills and techniques you had never shared with the world, facets of your personality hidden that he craved so much to discover.
Your band did not make a rock rendition of his song, and you did not try to modify the melody to suit you. You sang the song exactly the way it should be sung, exactly how he imagined it.
And it made his stomach pleasantly twist.
There was something in hearing you sing his song so faithfully that made his heart flutter.
What a pretty young thing, Michael thought.
Inspiration found him again, at last, and he spent the next few days locked in his home studio in Hayvenhurst to work on demos. His new album was slowly coming to life, and he owed it all to you.
It was silly, he thought. You were not even aware of the aid you had provided him, that you had dissipated his artist's block with such ease. Yet he still wished he could thank you properly. But as soon as the idea crossed his mind, he chickened out. Why would you hang out with him?
But it was then that life decided to hear his wish.
Michael did not like doing interviews, nor attending talk shows. Any offer he would receive would be immediately turned down by his manager. And this one had, too, until LaToya went to him.
"They want us both on a multi-guest show," she had said with her high-pitched voice.
Michael's nose crunched, not looking away from the Peter Pan book on his lap. "I don't want to. I'm working on my album, I'm busy."
"It's a friendly show, Mike," she insisted.
"I said I'm busy."
"You're reading a book."
"I'll be busy when that talk show happens."
"I was told the Lawbreakers will be there--"
Michael's head snapped up, his eyes wide. "The Lawbreakers?"
LaToyal nodded. "Yes. They're confirmed to be part of the guest list."
Michael snapped his book shut and stood up.
"Lemme call my manager."
She laughed. "Oh, so now you're free for the talk show?"
He didn't respond and grabbed the phone's receiver instead.
•☆•••☆•••☆•••☆•••☆•••☆•••☆•••☆•••☆•
The set's curtains were the only barrier between you and the live audience, barely doing anything to cover their excited cheers. Rubbing your sweaty palms against your black pants, you attempted to ease yourself with breathing exercises as Jace patted your back in support.
Talk shows were not your thing. Singing on a stage in front of thousands of people, yeah, you loved it. Sitting down to talk about you, not so much. Entertaining people with your personality was not something you were comfortable doing. You felt like a court jester amusing nobles.
Having a clear line between your persona on stage and who you truly were off-stage was more than practicality; it was a need. Because the difference was too striking, and you did not wish to disappoint people. You did not wish to end the myth of the cool rockstar. At least, that was what you told yourself.
But it was part of the job, so you obliged.
Especially now, as the tour ended. The Lawbreakers could finally focus on making new music. It was a good opportunity to utilize the momentum and ride the new wave of fame you gained. After nearly ten years of hard work and performing in pizza restaurants at fifteen, you had finally made a name for yourself, and the Lawbreaker was recognized around the world. And you were not ready to let it go.
The host introduced your band, and light struck you when the curtains were pulled open, the loud screams deafening your ears. With an assured grin, you lead your band to the set, occasionally waving at the live audience. Several signs were dedicated to the Lawbreakers.
As you neared the couch on which the other guests were, your gaze locked with a pair of big, shimmering doe eyes. You flashed a smile, but quickly looked away, feeling your face already heating up.
Let's just blame it on stage fright.
You knew Michael would be attending, and you had believed you had mentally prepared yourself for it. Clearly, you had not. Heart mad, sweaty palms, temperature rising; you were flustered.
Nothing should have brought you to him. You worked in two very different genres and had two very distinct styles of performing. So you would always stand on a different side of the room. He, with soul and R&B icons, and you with rock figures. Sometimes, both sides would merge because he was Michael Jackson.
But you would remain where you stood, watching him converse with the Bee Gees. Watching him giggle with a smile that could light up the world. Watching him look away so shyly as if he were unaware of his genius. Watching him help his female friends down the stairs so they wouldn't trip over their own gowns. Such a gentleman, something so rare in an industry so extravagant. Or a little puppy that was excited about life, just happy to be here.
Jace had tried to get you to talk with him. He was a friend of Quincy Jones, Michael's producer, so it would be rather easy to link you up to him. But you declined, each time. You didn't want him to think you were an opportunist, chasing him for increased fame. You were too different, anyway. What if he found you 'too much'?
You sat at the end of the couch, nearest to the host's desk, as your bandmates filled the remaining space.
"I gotta say," the host began, tuning to you as he leaned on his secretaire. "You are told to be intimidating, and I'll have to agree. I'm quite shy to ask you anything."
"Yeah, I get that a lot." You chuckled, with a one-shoulder shrug. "I have a very mean resting face, and people often tell me I look like Imma cuss them out. Which, if you don't irritate me, will not happen."
Laughter arose from across the room.
"So, I think it is the first time we've had such a disordered cast of people," the host continued. "It is the first time you all are in the same room, right?"
"Well, we've seen each other in passing," LaToya replied, looking at all your band. "At award shows and after parties."
"But it is the first time we actually stand so close to one another," Jace joked.
"Well, there's a beginning to everything," the host replied. "The Lawbreakers have been on top of the rock 'n roll world for the past two years. So, Hollywood is a brand new thing to you, right?"
You glanced at your bandmates, silently asking if they wanted to take the question, but they motioned to you.
"Hollywood, yes. Music, not so much," you replied. "We've been a band since we were fifteen, performing in local restaurants and school sporting events. So we were already kinda used to the stage when Mick Jagger asked us to open for the Rolling Stones. But, yeah, talk shows and interviews, I guess we're still getting the hang of it."
"It's quite baffling." He turned to Michael. "You've been through that, too, Michael, when you debuted with the Jackson 5. You know Hollywood, you have experience, what advice would you give them?"
Despite being the same age, Michael had the experience of a veteran, which broke your heart to think about it. It was hard to wrap your head around the fact that when you were playing tag outside with the neighborhood's kids, he was already an employee of Motown. It didn't feel right.
"Um, I'd say to have some fun," Michael replied. You had to stop yourself from grinning at his so soft-spoken voice, sweeter than honey. "We have the chance to create art that makes people happy, so we should not forget how lucky we are to live from it. We shouldn't lose sight of why we do what we do."
The interview continued smoothly for a while, sometimes slowing down with laughter as your bandmates would crack jokes. But Michael's eyes would often flicker back to you; to your sharp gaze, to the way the corner of your lips curled in that so attractive smirk, the way you leaned against the armrest, your legs crossed, and your head tilted, your curls gracefully falling on one side--so magnetic.
It was the closest he ever got to you, even though there were five people in between. And any Billboard or flyer truly did not do justice to your beauty. He wished he could be closer, though.
"Michael, you were recently featured on a Diana Ross TV special," the host said. "You were often seen with her this year. You once said she was your celebrity crush. Has it changed since?"
Michael let out a nervous chuckle, fidgeting with his hands as his eyes briefly darted to you for a split second.
"Um, I guess so, yeah," he replied, hoping the subject would change soon.
"Do you have any celebrity crushes?" the host asked the rest.
Everyone answered truthfully, sometimes receiving teasing, until it got to you. Michael was quite curious to hear your answer and, quite honestly, already envious of the person you would cite.
While you, on the other hand, were trying your best not to freak out. The moment the question was asked, your gaze had briefly moved to Michael before averting your eyes, all the while Jace stiffled his laugh, sensing your growing nervousness. Of all the questions the host could ask, it had to be this one. What should you do? Should you lie? Say a random name? But what if it follows you for years, and you have to keep the lie up for the rest of your life? Should you be honest? Hell nah. Never.
"What about you?" The host turned to you.
You controlled your face as all eyes turned to you. You had performed in arenas, in front of dozens of thousands of people, and delivered a stellar performance each time, yet here, under the scrutiny of the person you were attracted to, it was the most nerve-wracking thing you had ever gone through.
But you kept your composure, "I don't have any celebrity crush."
Your bandmates nearly burst into laughter. You did not react.
The host's eyes widened. "Really?"
"Yeah. No one."
"There has to be someone. Anyone you've ever admired."
You feigned thinking, then shook your head. "Mhm, no. No, no one."
"Well." He looked at you suspiciously, then at your friends. "Your bandmates clearly seem to know who it is."
You mentally cursed as Jace and the others were basically wheezing, trying to hold their laughter. Their faces red and tears in their eyes.
Jace coughed, trying to calm himself down. "She's too shy to admit it here."
Fucking traitor, you thought.
"Well, we're not going to judge," the host reassured.
"It's not the judging I'm worried about, honestly," you admitted.
You kept your eyes on the interviewer, your leg bouncing up and down as you felt his eyes on you. It only rendered you all the more nervous, your heart beating madly and resonating in your head.
"Come on, the audience is dying to know." The crowd screamed to second his statement. "Is it an unattractive man?"
You frowned. "What? No, he's--"
At this point, your bandmates were openly laughing. You nudged Jace, the closest to you, which only increased his amusement. You were truly contemplating airing all his business on live television as vengeance.
You cleared your throat. "I'm not gonna say who it is."
As much as Michael wanted to know who your ideal type was, he was feeling bad at how uncomfortable you were, and did not want you to be forced into something you did not want to do or say.
So he stepped in. "I think we shouldn't press further."
But the crowd shouted a loud 'no'.
"Well, it seems the people won't leave it alone," the host said, then turned to you again, eyes glimmering with mischief. "The only way to end this is to say who your celebrity crush is."
The audience encouraged you to speak, and it was clear that the host would not move on from the topic until you said a name. So you sighed, sinking into your seat, bracing yourself for the incoming endless teasing you were about to receive.
"Oh my God... okay." You cleared your throat, fidgeting with the zipper of your jacket. "Michael Jackson...," you muttered, but too low for anyone to hear.
The host frowned, leaning forward, "What?"
Your bandmates were left in a fit of dying laughter, while you, eyes closed, having lost all resolve, hid your already red face, "Michael Jackson...," you repeated, louder.
In an instant, the audience gave the loudest, most deafening screams of excitement ever as Michael stilled, his mouth agape as he stared at you. LaToya, beside him, giggled and nudged him, but he was too stunned to react. For a second, he thought perhaps he had heard wrong, or that it was a joke, but the way you hid your face behind both your hands, wishing the earth would swallow you, he knew it was real.
It was then that his heart began acting up, picking up in pace as his cheeks grew red. He was your celebrity crush. You had a crush on him. Him.
"Oh. I see now why you didn't want to say it here." The host said, enjoying a little too much seeing you completely and utterly flustered. "What's your favorite song of his?"
"Come on, please--"
"What attracts you to him?"
"Can we drop the--"
"Oh my, wait!" He held his hand, eyes twinkling as he remembered something. "When I asked about your crush's looks, were you about to say he was handsome? When did you fall for him exactly?"
Your face was so hot you thought you had been rendered a cartoon character with steam coming off your head. You completely hid behind your hands, unable to look at anyone and certainly not wishing to meet his eyes, for you knew it would only worsen your state. You could barely align a thought or utter a word.
So you could not see Michael biting his whole bottom lip, trying hard to control his wide smile.
The host chuckled at you state, then looked at him. "Michael, any comments?"
You sank even further into the couch as if trying to force it to absorb you. As the seconds passed, your confidence and cool image you had created melted away and disappeared into oblivion, turning you into a blushing mess. To admit this in front of the person, in front of a live audience, on national TV--if only you could just vanish already.
Michael giggled, scratching his arm. "Well, um, er, it's very nice to hear." He could barely hear the crowd losing its mind, the high of the moment clouding his head. His eyes moved to you, who could not look his way, which made him both pleased and flustered. "Um, if I'm honest..." he cleared his throat, fidgeting with his hands. "If I'm honest, she's my celebrity crush too, but I was too shy to admit it here."
You stilled, and it was only then that you moved your hands away, the crowd losing their voices once more. He was already looking at you, though he averted his eyes when he met yours. Jace gently shook your shoulder, as if to hype you up, saying, 'Heard that?'
"Oh, really?" The host asked, interested.
Michael nodded, a smile on his face. "I think she's a very beautiful girl with lots of talent. Her voice is amazing, too."
And you could have died just there.
"Would you like to sit together?" Jace teased, asking Michael, earning a sharp nudge from you.
Still, your entire band scooted away from you to give Michael enough space to sit next to you. He was hesitant; he, too, was a blushing mess, as his sister was encouraging him to take action.
And he did.
Under the cheers of the entire set, Michael stood up and shyly took the seat beside you. You sat up properly, moving the curls out of your face. The most you could do was look at his feet so close to yours. There was a little gap between the two of you, him not wanting to invade your space. But your mind had already short-circuited.
You were so used to watching him from afar, and now he was just a centimeter away from you. You could smell his perfume, so sweet just like him.
You finally mustered the courage to gaze up at him, but when your eyes locked with his, the two of you looked away. And just like that, the woman who was so fierce on stage was rendered shy and speechless by him.
Jace became the spokesperson for the rest of the interview, with occasional interventions from you. Most of the time, you were too focused on Michael's presence to listen to anything that was being said. Whenever his gentle voice reached you, a smile stretched on your lips. Whenever his hand would graze yours, your heart would nearly stop.
The awkwardness never disappeared until the ad break was called in.
"I'm sorry," he said. You looked at him, confused. "If I made you uncomfortable."
"No, no, you didn't," you reassured. "I should be the one to say sorry, I put you on the spot like that."
"No, it's fine. It's, uh, I was surprised, but I was happy." He looked down, timid. "Um, can I ask you why me?"
You scratched the nape of your neck, pursing your lips. "Um, well, obviously you're an amazing artist, and I really love what you do. But, er, really, it's your kindness."
He tilted his head, surprised. "My kindness?"
You smiled. "Yeah. You're always so polite and respectful to everyone. I've seen crazy things these past few years. It's easy to get carried away by fame and money. But you stayed... You. You're never rude to anyone, and you're so benevolent. And, I don't know, there's something reassuring in that."
All Michael could do was stare at you, at a loss for words. It had never occurred to him that you could be so aware of him. He expected, perhaps feared even, that you would bring up his career. That you would find him boring. Instead, it was his personality that caught your eye. It was his personality that attracted you. And there was no greater compliment.
"I feel a little dumb now," he admitted.
You tilted your head to the side. "Why?"
"Well, you have such a great answer, and I, um, well, I find you really cool."
You had to bit you lip to prevent yourself from smiling too hard. He's so cute.
"It makes me very happy to hear that," you said.
"Really?"
You gave an excited nod, your eyes twinkling with joy.
He could have just melted right there.
You were so different than when you were on stage. So much more approachable. So much more radiant. So damn adorable.
He absolutely loved it.
"I also think--" He got interrupted by the producer, who warned the crew that the ad break was coming to an end. Michael turned back to you, "Would you agree to dinner with me?"
You blinked. "What?"
"Dinner with me? After the show?" He repeated, hopeful.
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