- Hii! I'm Renee also known by Yujisbaby! I'm still a new writer but I'm having so much fun expressing my love for different people and characters on a public platform! Speaking of that, I write for really anything, if you send a request I'll write about it to the best of my abilities and maybe dip for a few days because this requires all my brain power😹 I really don't have my rules other than the most simple.
Rules and Regulations -
No pedophila, no incest, no stepcest even!, race play is not acceptable under any circumstances and no WHITE READERS. And I'm not with all the arguing, if you don't like something I post, block me like it 2026 move tf on 😔
Don't rush me, like it 10,000 other writers out here, I'm only one girl puh-leasee wait on little ole me ☺️
Masterlist Belowww 👇🏾
Run, my precious Run- Vampire Janet x Reader
Sleeping Beauty- Werewolf Michael x Black Plus size reader
Pretty Princess- Werewolf! Thriller era Michael x Black Reader
My Zuzu- Izuku Midoriya x Reader
Allmight Love- Allmight/ Smallmight x Reader
Captain Save a Hoe- Captain Eo x Black! Chubby Reader
I ❤️ Dilfs- Mature! Era Michael x Black Reader
He Loves Me Series: Aang x Reader - Part one. Part Two
Like Nobody's Watching- College AU Michael x Black! Plus Size Reader
𓊆❤︎︎𓊇 : (1/2) — as a fan, you send michael some very seductive pictures and letters, without knowing just how much they really affect him. so what happens when you guys finally meet for the first time... ⋮ 𝓌𝒸﹕ 𝟏𝟓.𝟏𝓀◞
𓊈❤︎︎𓊉 : chubby/curvy reader. fan/celebrity dynamic. [ ❤︎︎ ]— your name. perv reader & perv michael. dirty love letters/pictures. lowkey delusional reader. but it works. michael jerks off to you. michael is so into you. dirty talking through letters. nudes. he literally sends you a whimpering audio. shy michael. then freaky michael. reader has a bush bc it's the late 70s/early 80s. masturbation. dirty talk. desperate michael. desperate reader. michael just wants you.
𓊆ྀི❤︎︎︎𓊇ྀི : based on 🗯️this! lovely request (๑ᵔ⤙ᵔ๑) i'm splitting this into two parts bc i think it would be to long for one
𝓂asterlist || 𝒾ntro || 𝓃avigation || 𝑡aglist
Michael had already answered enough questions about Off the Wall that he was beginning to lose track of how many times he'd been asked what it felt like to have an album that was finally, completely his own.
It wasn't that he minded talking about it. He was proud of the record, perhaps more proud than he knew how to express without sounding too serious, and there was still something exciting about hearing people talk about the songs as though they belonged to a world outside of the studio now.
They had been little pieces of music he'd worked on for months, sometimes obsessing over one part until he was satisfied, and now they were being played on radios and in record stores and people's homes. Sitting beneath the studio lights while another interviewer asked him about it was simply another part of that strange process.
Michael sat comfortably in his chair, one leg crossed loosely over the other, hands resting together in his lap as he waited for the interview to begin. He was dressed simply for the occasion, though there was still something carefully put together about him. Every so often he shifted slightly in his seat whenever the lights seemed a little too warm. He'd grown accustomed to cameras by now, but that didn't mean he ever completely forgot they were there.
There was still something about being watched that made him conscious of every little thing he did—where he put his hands, whether he was speaking too quietly, whether he was looking at the interviewer enough. He'd been doing interviews for years, but there was always that small moment before the cameras started rolling where he wondered what questions they'd ask him this time.
The studio around him was fairly quiet, aside from the occasional movement of someone working just outside the frame. A few people were standing behind the cameras, talking amongst themselves while the crew made the last little adjustments. Michael watched one of the technicians lean forward to fix something near the camera before sitting back again. He glanced down at his hands, rubbing his thumb lightly over one of his knuckles, and then looked up when the interviewer finally took his seat across from him.
"Alright, Michael," the man said, shuffling a few papers together. "We're ready whenever you are."
Michael gave him a small smile.
"Okay."
The interviewer turned towards the camera.
"Today we're very pleased to welcome Michael Jackson, whose latest album, Off the Wall, has been receiving an incredible response since its release. Michael, thank you for joining us."
"Thank you for havin' me."
The camera remained on him for another moment before the interviewer turned his attention back towards Michael.
"So, how are you feeling about everything at the moment?"
Michael gave a small laugh, looking down briefly.
"Good. A little tired."
The interviewer smiled.
"Busy?"
"Very busy."
"I imagine so. You've been doing quite a lot of promotion for the album."
"Yeah. It's been... a lot of interviews." Michael laughed softly. "But it's nice. I like talkin' about the album."
"Do you ever get tired of talking about it?"
Michael thought about it.
"Not really. I mean, sometimes I don't know what else to say about it." He smiled, a little embarrassed. "I've already said everything."
The interviewer laughed.
"I suppose that's the difficult part. You've spent so long making the record, and now everybody wants to know what you think about it."
"Yeah."
"And you've worked with Quincy Jones on this one."
"Mhm."
"How has that experience been for you?"
Michael's expression changed almost immediately at the mention of Quincy. He seemed more comfortable talking about the actual work than talking about himself.
"He's wonderful. Really wonderful. He knows so much about music, and he lets you experiment. He doesn't make you feel like you can't try somethin' just because it might be different."
"Was there anything you learned from him during the recording?"
"Oh, a lot." Michael smiled. "Probably more than I could tell you in one interview."
The interviewer laughed again, and Michael did too, his shoulders relaxing slightly.
They continued like that for a while. They talked about the recording sessions, the different musicians he'd worked with, the process of choosing songs for the album, and how much he enjoyed dancing while performing. Michael became noticeably more animated whenever the conversation turned toward music. His hands moved as he explained things, his voice becoming a little more energetic, and every now and then he'd laugh at himself when he realized he'd been talking for longer than he intended.
"And you've said before that you want people to be able to dance to this album."
"Yeah. I want people to have fun with it."
"That's a big part of your own personality, isn't it?"
Michael smiled.
"Yeah. I like havin' fun."
"Do you dance at home?"
Michael laughed, almost immediately looking embarrassed.
"Sometimes."
"Sometimes?"
"Well, yeah."
"How often is sometimes?"
Michael thought about it, then shrugged.
"I don't know. A lot, probably."
The interviewer smiled knowingly.
"I had a feeling you'd say that."
Michael laughed again and shook his head.
"See, now you're makin' me sound strange."
"I don't think anyone would find that strange."
"I don't know."
He smiled, looking down for a moment before settling back into his chair.
The conversation moved on, and Michael seemed perfectly comfortable again. It was easy enough. Questions about music were familiar. They were safe. He knew what he wanted to say about his work, and he knew how much of himself he wanted to give away.
Then, after another question about the response to Off the Wall, the interviewer paused and glanced down at the papers in front of him.
"There is one thing we haven't talked about yet."
Michael looked up.
"What's that?"
The interviewer smiled.
"Your fans."
Michael's expression softened immediately.
"Oh."
"You've been getting quite a lot of attention from them lately."
"Yeah," Michael said quietly. "They're really sweet."
"I understand you've received a rather impressive amount of fanmail."
Michael gave a small, almost bashful laugh.
"Yeah. There's been a lot."
"Do you read it?"
"I try to."
"Really?"
"Mhm."
"All of it?"
That made Michael laugh.
"Well... I try."
The interviewer reached down beside his chair.
"Then I think you're going to like this."
He lifted a large stack of envelopes into view. Michael stared at it for a second. Then he laughed.
"Oh, my goodness."
The interviewer grinned as he lowered the stack onto the small table between them. It was considerably larger than Michael had expected, envelopes of all different shapes and sizes piled on top of one another. Some plain white, some brightly colored, a few decorated with little drawings and stickers that made it obvious whoever had sent them had put far more effort into the envelope than the post office probably deserved. Michael leaned forward slightly, looking over the collection with an expression somewhere between amusement and disbelief.
"That's a lot of letters."
"It is," the interviewer agreed. "A few weeks ago, we told some of your fans that you were going to be doing an interview with us."
Michael's eyebrows lifted.
"You did?"
"Mhm. We asked them to send in their letters, and we told them there was a chance you'd be reading some of them here today."
Michael looked down at the pile again, his expression softening.
"They sent all these?"
"Apparently, they had quite a lot to say. And these are only a selection."
Michael's eyes widened.
"Only a selection?"
"Mhm."
He laughed again, shaking his head as he settled back into his chair.
"I don't know if I can read all of those."
"You don't have to. We thought we'd pick a few."
Michael glanced at the stack again, and there was something almost childlike about the way his expression softened. For all the attention he'd been receiving since the release of Off the Wall, he still seemed genuinely surprised that so many people had taken the time to sit down and write to him.
It wasn't the kind of attention he could simply hear about in a newspaper or see printed on a chart. These were actual people who had gone home, found a piece of paper, written something to him, put it in an envelope, addressed it, and sent it all the way to wherever he happened to be or so that he would get them.
"That's really sweet," he murmured.
"You want to pick one?"
Michael hesitated.
"Me?"
"Sure."
He looked at the interviewer, then at the stack, before reaching out and carefully taking one from near the top. It was a pale blue envelope with handwriting across the front. Michael turned it over in his hands, examining it for a moment before opening it.
"Dear Michael," he read aloud, his voice becoming softer as he followed the words. "Congratulations on Off the Wall. I've been listening to it every day since I bought it..."
He smiled.
"That's nice."
He continued reading silently for another few seconds before his smile grew. "She says her favorite is 'Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough.'"
"Good choice."
"Yeah." Michael nodded seriously. "Very good choice."
The interviewer laughed. Michael folded the letter neatly along its original crease and placed it beside him.
"Thank you," he said, almost instinctively, as though the person who'd written it were actually sitting somewhere in the room. The interviewer noticed.
"You really do read these, don't you?"
Michael gave him a small smile.
"I try to."
"Even when they're this many?"
Michael looked at the enormous pile.
"Well..."
He laughed.
"Maybe not all at once."
They went through another few. One fan had drawn a picture of Michael dancing, complete with a tiny microphone in his hand. Another had written several pages about how much the album had meant to her. One letter was from a young girl who wanted to know what animals Michael had, which led to the interviewer asking him about his pets and Michael immediately becoming far more enthusiastic than he had been about any of the previous questions.
"I love animals," he said, smiling. "They're so sweet. And they're honest."
"More honest than people?"
Michael's eyebrows lifted.
"Sometimes."
The interviewer laughed, and Michael ducked his head, smiling.
Eventually, the interviewer reached for another envelope.
"Alright. Here's one."
He handed it over.
Michael accepted it without looking closely, turning it between his fingers as he had with the others. The envelope was different from the rest, though he didn't seem to notice at first. There was no elaborate drawing on the front, no stickers, nothing particularly eye-catching. Just his name, written in careful handwriting.
"Michael Jackson."
He smiled faintly.
"That's me."
The interviewer chuckled.
Michael opened it.
At first, nothing about his expression changed.
His eyes moved over the first few lines, and he nodded once, as though he'd already settled into the familiar rhythm of reading another compliment about the album. Then he stopped. His eyes flicked back to the beginning. He read the line again. And this time, the faint smile disappeared.
Not because he was upset or something. If anything, he looked startled.
Michael's fingers tightened slightly around the paper. The interviewer noticed immediately.
"Everything alright?"
Michael looked up.
"Yeah."
There was a tiny pause.
"Yeah."
He looked back down at the letter. His cheeks had begun to color. The interviewer leaned forward a little, curious.
"Interesting letter?"
Michael gave a nervous little laugh.
"Uh..."
He folded the paper once. Then again.
"It's... nice."
"Nice?"
"Mhm."
The interviewer smiled.
"That's all you're giving me?"
Michael looked at him, then quickly looked away again.
"Yeah."
There was another little laugh from behind the camera. Michael's cheeks grew warmer. He tried to tuck the letter beneath the others, but the interviewer caught the movement.
"Wait, wait. You can't just hide it."
Michael immediately shook his head.
"No, no."
"Why not?"
"It's just..."
He glanced down at the letter. His mouth twitched with an embarrassed smile.
"It's personal."
That earned a louder laugh from the crew. Michael ducked his head, laughing too, clearly wishing they would all stop looking at him. The interviewer held up his hands.
"Alright. Alright. We won't make you read it."
"Thank you."
"But now I'm curious."
Michael shook his head.
"No."
"Not even a little?"
"No."
The smile was still there, though.
He carefully folded the letter again, much more neatly this time, and placed it beneath the others rather than on top of them.
The interviewer watched him.
So did everyone else in the room.
And, on the other side of the television screen, so did you.
You hadn't moved.
For the last few minutes, you had been sitting exactly where you had been when the interview began, your attention fixed entirely on the television. You had watched the interviewer place that enormous stack of letters in front of him. You had watched Michael smile at the first few. You had listened to him read them, watched the way his expression softened whenever somebody mentioned how much they loved the album, how much his music meant to them.
You'd smiled along with him.
It was sweet.
That was what fanmail was supposed to be, wasn't it? People telling him how much they loved his music, how much they admired him, how excited they were about Off the Wall. Little pieces of affection from people he'd never met.
You had written one of those letters yourself.
Except yours had been sitting on that table.
Your eyes dropped briefly toward the floor before returning to the screen.
You hadn't actually expected him to pick it.
Not really.
You had known there was a possibility, of course. That was why you'd sent it in the first place. But there were so many letters. The stack had looked almost ridiculous when they'd first shown it on camera, and you'd assumed yours would simply disappear somewhere among all the others.
Maybe someone would open it.
Maybe they wouldn't.
You had never seriously imagined that Michael himself would be the one holding it.
And yet there it was.
You recognized the envelope immediately.
The handwriting across the front.
The way you'd written his name so carefully because you'd rewritten it twice before finally deciding it looked right.
"Michael Jackson."
You had heard him say it.
You'd heard that quiet little laugh afterward.
"That's me."
A nervous smile pulled at your lips, you couldn't help it. Then he'd opened the letter, and you'd stopped smiling.
It was one thing to write something down in the privacy of your bedroom. There had been no cameras then. No audience. No interviewer sitting across from him. No Michael Jackson actually holding the paper between his fingers and reading the words you'd spent so much time deciding whether or not you should write.
Now there was.
You leaned a little closer to the television without even realizing you'd done it. His eyes moved across the page. You followed his face. You watched him read.
At first, there was nothing unusual about his expression. He looked the same as he had with the other letters, quietly attentive, occasionally smiling to himself. Then his eyes stopped.
You held your breath. He read that part again. Your fingers curled slightly into the fabric beneath you.
Oh.
He'd reached that part. You hadn't meant for it to sound quite so bold when you'd written it. Well—
❝—Dear Michael,
I've started this letter four times and torn up every one of them, so this is the version I'm letting myself send. If you're reading this, I've either been very brave or very stupid, and I won't know which until the last line.
Everyone writes to you about the music. The records, the dancing, the way you move on stage. I could write that letter too, but you get a thousand of those a week and I don't want to be polite about you. I want to be honest.
I think about your mouth.
Not the smile— everyone gets the smile. I think about the way your lips part right before you sing, that half-second before the note comes out, and I wonder what it would be like to be the reason you made that sound instead.
I think about your hands. The way you curl them when you dance, like you're holding something you won't let go. I've wondered more times than I should admit what they'd feel like. On my hip. On my throat. In my hair, pulling just hard enough that I'd forget my own name.
I think about the rest of it too. The part they never print in the magazines. What you look like when no one's watching, when the shirt's off and the lights are low and there's nobody to perform for. I think about climbing into your lap in the dark and finding out what makes the Michael Jackson go quiet.
And I think about your voice. God, Michael, your voice. The low part. The breathy part you do when you talk instead of sing. I've listened to interviews with my thighs pressed together, and I'm not even sorry. I'd let you talk to me like that for hours. I'd let you talk to me like that with your hand between my legs and your mouth at my ear, telling me exactly what you're going to do to me next.
There. That's the brave part. Or the stupid part. I'll let you decide.
If this reaches you and it doesn't make you smile, you can burn it and I'll never know. But if it does make you smile —
Write me back. I want to hear the breathy part.
Yours, if you'll have me,
The girl who thinks about your mouth — [❤︎︎ ]❞
That was a lie.
You had. You had known exactly what you were doing.
It had seemed easier on paper. Almost harmless, really, sitting alone with a pen in your hand and allowing yourself to write down the things you would never have had the courage to say aloud. You could tease him without having to see his face afterward. You could be a little daring because you would never have to know what he thought of it.
Until now.
Michael's expression had changed.
Only slightly.
But you noticed. You noticed everything. The faint pause. The way his fingers tightened around the paper. The small shift in his posture. And then, slowly, the color beginning to rise into his cheeks.
Your heart gave one hard beat. You stared at him. He looked down at the letter again. Then back at the interviewer.
"Everything alright?"
"Yeah."
You almost smiled.
He sounded nervous.
Your eyes stayed on the screen. You didn't dare look away. Not now. Not when Michael was still sitting there with your letter in his hands. Not when he was trying so hard to pretend there was nothing unusual about it.
The corner of your mouth had started to lift before you even realized it. You tried to stop it, pressing your lips together, but that only seemed to make it worse. There was something about watching him sit there looking so quietly flustered that made it impossible not to smile.
Beside you, your friend shifted against the couch. You ignored her. She watched the television for another few seconds. Then she looked at you, then back at the television, then at you again.
"Girl what are you cheesing about?"
Your eyes immediately flicked toward her.
"'m not."
She gave you a look.
"You are."
You turned your attention back to the television, trying to make your expression neutral.
"I dunno what you're talking about."
"You're smiling."
"I'm not!"
"You are!"
You bit the inside of your cheek. Your friend leaned a little closer, trying to see what had apparently become so fascinating on the screen.
"What happened?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing?"
"Mhm."
She narrowed her eyes at you. You kept looking straight ahead. The television continued to play quietly in front of you, Michael still visible in the frame, the interviewer sitting across from him with the rest of the letters waiting on the table.
Your friend looked at the screen once again. Then at you. Then back at the screen.
"Did he say something?"
"No."
"Then why are you smiling like that?" You shrugged, attempting to look completely uninterested.
"I just like the interview." She stared at you for another second.
"You've been watching this interview for twenty minutes."
"So?"
"So you've barely said anything."
You smiled again. You couldn't help it. Your friend noticed.
"There."
"What?"
"That."
You frowned.
"What "that"?"
"That stupid little smile."
You reached over and nudged her with your elbow.
"Shut up."
She laughed quietly.
"Okay, okay."
You settled back into the couch, pulling one leg beneath you. For a moment, neither of you said anything. You were grateful for that. Your attention returned entirely to the television.
The studio lights were bright enough that they gave everything on the screen a slightly warm appearance. Michael was still sitting with his hands close to his lap, the letter now folded beneath the others. From this distance, it looked like nothing more than another envelope in a pile.
But you knew. You knew exactly which one it was. And knowing that made your stomach flutter all over again. You wondered if he would keep it.
The thought came so suddenly that you almost dismissed it. Of course he wouldn't. It was just a fan letter.
He probably received hundreds. Thousands. Maybe he'd forgotten about it already.
Except he hadn't looked like someone who'd forgotten. You watched him carefully. The interviewer's attention returned to the stack.
"So," he said, "should we try another one?"
Michael looked at the letters. There was the slightest pause. Then he nodded.
"Yeah."
He reached toward the pile. Your heart jumped again. His fingers moved over the envelopes, brushing past one, then another. He picked one up, turned it over, examined the handwriting.
The interviewer smiled.
"Any reason you chose that one?"
Michael shook his head.
"No."
He smiled faintly.
"I just picked it."
The interviewer laughed.
"Fair enough."
Michael began opening the next letter. You exhaled slowly. Only then did you realize you'd been holding your breath.
Your friend glanced at you from the corner of her eye. You pretended not to notice. On the television, Michael unfolded the new letter.
And just like that, the interview continued. The subject moved on to something else, and after a while the earlier excitement in the room seemed to settle back into something more ordinary. Michael answered a few more questions about the album, talking about the recording sessions and the people he'd worked with, and then the interviewer asked him about performing and what it was like having people respond so strongly to the new record. Every now and then, they returned to the fanmail, opening another envelope and letting him read a few lines before moving on to the next. Michael seemed much more comfortable now, laughing easily and occasionally ducking his head whenever the interviewer complimented him, and before long, the little moment with your letter seemed to have disappeared beneath everything else.
Except it hadn't for you.
You were still thinking about it.
You tried to pay attention to what he was saying, and for the most part you did, but every so often your eyes wandered toward the stack of envelopes sitting on the table in front of him. Your letter was still somewhere in there. You knew it was. You could picture exactly where it had gone, folded neatly beneath the others after he'd finished reading it, and the thought kept making something warm and restless twist in your stomach. You wondered if he would remember it once the cameras stopped rolling. You wondered if he would keep it with the others or if somebody from the studio would gather everything up afterward and take it away. You wondered, briefly, whether he might read it again when nobody was watching. That last thought made you smile to yourself, and you quickly looked back at the television before your friend could notice.
She noticed anyway.
She had been sitting beside you for most of the interview, occasionally making little comments whenever something caught her attention, but now she stretched her arms above her head and gave a long, exaggerated yawn. You glanced over at her just as she settled back against the couch, looking toward the clock.
"Alright."
You frowned. "Alright what?"
"I'm out."
You blinked at her. "Now?"
She laughed and reached down for her things. "Yes, now."
"But it's not even that late."
"I know." She slipped her shoes on, then stood and brushed her hands down the front of her clothes. "That's why I'm leaving now instead of when it's actually late."
You gave her a look.
"You could stay."
"I could," she agreed, completely unbothered. "But then I'd still have to go home eventually."
You laughed under your breath and shook your head, following her toward the door while the television continued playing behind you. Michael's voice followed faintly through the room, softened by the distance, and you caught a few words without really listening to them. Your friend gathered the last of her things, checking that she hadn't left anything behind, before turning toward you with that same little expression she'd been wearing ever since she'd caught you smiling at the television.
"You're gonna watch the rest?"
"Probably."
She raised an eyebrow. "Probably?"
You shrugged. "Maybe."
"You've already been sitting there forever."
"I know."
"And you're still interested?"
You gave her a small smile. "It's Michael Jackson."
She stared at you for a second before laughing.
"Right. Of course."
You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. She opened the door, then paused with one hand on the frame and looked back at you. "Don't stay up all night."
"I won't."
"You always say that."
"This time I mean it."
"Sure you do."
You laughed, and she stepped out into the hallway.
"Goodnight."
"Goodnight."
The door closed behind her, and for a moment you remained standing there with your hand still resting on the knob. The house felt noticeably quieter without her. The television was still going in the other room, but now the sound seemed distant, almost like it belonged somewhere else. You stood there listening to it for a few seconds before finally turning around and making your way back to the couch.
The interview was almost finished by then. You sat down in the same place you'd been sitting before, pulling one leg beneath yourself again and reaching for the remote to lower the volume. You didn't turn it off. You just let it play quietly while you stared at the screen, watching the last few minutes without really taking in what was being said. Your mind had already drifted away from the interview and back to that one particular moment, replaying it without any help from you. Michael opening the envelope. His eyes moving across the page. The pause. That tiny change in his expression when he'd reached something he clearly hadn't expected. The way he'd looked at the interviewer afterward, suddenly shy and almost embarrassed, before folding the letter and hiding it underneath the others.
You smiled.
Then you caught yourself smiling and looked down at your lap.
It was silly. You knew it was silly. You were sitting alone in your living room, grinning to yourself over a man who didn't even know what you looked like, simply because he'd blushed at something you'd written to him. But that was the part that kept getting to you. He hadn't looked annoyed. He hadn't laughed at you. He hadn't tossed the letter aside like it was something ridiculous. If anything, he had seemed almost... pleased by it. Embarrassed, certainly, but not uncomfortable. And now that you thought about it, you weren't entirely sure whether the little smile he'd tried to hide had been because the letter had embarrassed him or because he'd actually liked what he'd read.
The possibility made your stomach flutter.
You leaned back against the couch and stared at the ceiling for a while, letting the thought settle somewhere in the back of your mind. Then, slowly, your eyes moved across the room.
Toward your desk.
You could see it from where you were sitting. The little pile of stationery you'd bought a few weeks ago was still sitting there, along with the pen you'd been using lately. Nothing about it looked particularly interesting. It was just a desk. Paper. A pen. An ordinary little corner of the room that you'd barely noticed before.
You looked at it for another few seconds. He didn't know what you looked like...
Then you smiled. You could change that.
The television suddenly went quiet as the interview came to an end, and the room fell completely silent. You reached for the remote and switched the screen off, leaving the room dim for a moment before getting to your feet.
You didn't hurry. There was no reason to. You simply walked across the room, pulled out the chair at your desk, and sat down.
Your fingers rested lightly against the edge of the paper. You looked at the blank page. Then at the pen. And, after a moment, you picked it up.
—Even after you switched off the television, Michael still remained in the studio.
The interview was over, but nobody had quite left yet. The cameras were still pointed toward the chairs, though the bright lights had already been switched off, leaving the room noticeably softer than it had been while they were filming. The sudden change was something Michael always noticed. A moment ago, every movement had felt deliberate, every word had been heard by several people at once, and now the room had begun returning to its ordinary state. Crew members moved around him, speaking quietly to one another as they gathered cables and equipment, while the interviewer stood nearby talking with one of the producers about the next part of the day's schedule.
Michael remained in his chair for another few moments.
He hadn't realized how warm the studio lights had made him until they were gone.
He lowered his eyes to the little table beside him. The fanmail was still there. The pile looked different now that the cameras weren't focused on it. During the interview, it had seemed almost enormous, each envelope representing somebody somewhere who had taken the time to write to him. Now it was simply a stack of paper sitting on a table, surrounded by the remnants of the interview—papers, notes, a glass of water he'd barely touched.
Michael reached for the glass and took a small sip.
He glanced at the envelopes again.
His eyes lingered. He wasn't sure why.
He had received fanmail for years. There had always been letters, sometimes more than he could possibly read, and he had always tried to make time for them when he could. Most were sweet. Some were funny. Some were incredibly personal in ways that surprised him. People told him about their lives, their families, their dreams. Sometimes they simply wrote his name over and over because they didn't know what else to say.
He liked that.
He liked knowing that there were people listening.
The interviewer passed behind him, giving his shoulder a light pat.
"Good interview."
Michael looked up and smiled.
"Thank you."
"You alright?"
"Yeah."
"You seemed a little surprised by some of those letters."
Michael's smile became smaller.
"Some of them."
The interviewer laughed.
"I won't ask."
Michael ducked his head, smiling to himself.
"Thank you."
The man moved away again, and Michael looked back toward the table. Your letter was somewhere in that pile. He knew it was. He could still remember the handwriting. More importantly, he could remember the feeling of reading it.
There had been plenty of compliments. He was used to people telling him they liked his voice, his dancing, his songs. He'd heard people say all sorts of wonderful things about him, and although he was grateful for them, there were still moments when he didn't quite know what to do with so much attention.
But that letter had been.... quite different. Michael wasn't entirely sure what he thought about that yet. He knew he'd been embarrassed. He knew he'd wanted the interviewer to stop asking questions. And he knew that, despite all of that, he hadn't wanted to give the letter back.
One of the crew members approached the table and began gathering the papers.
Michael watched absentmindedly at first.
The interviewer was already halfway across the room when another member of the team reached for the stack of envelopes, picking them up together with the loose papers beneath them.
Michael's head lifted.
"Wait."
The man stopped.
Michael stood almost immediately.
"Sorry. Could you—"
He hesitated, glancing at the pile in the man's hands.
"Could you not throw those away yet?"
The crew member looked at him.
"The letters?"
"Yeah."
"Alright."
He set them back down.
Michael nodded.
"Thank you."
The man moved on to something else without questioning it.
Michael stood there for a moment. Then he walked back toward the table. He didn't quite know what he was looking for at first. He simply started going through them, slowly.
One envelope at a time.
He picked up the first, looked at the name on the front, and set it aside. The next one had a little drawing in the corner. Another had handwriting that covered almost the entire front. He remembered some of them from the interview. A few made him smile when he recognized the names.
Then he found it. His fingers stopped.
There was the handwriting. He recognized it immediately. Michael turned the envelope over in his hands, his thumb brushing lightly over the edge. He glanced around the room. Nobody seemed to be watching him. The interviewer was speaking with one of the producers. Someone else was rolling up a cable near the cameras. Another crew member had already begun carrying equipment toward the door.
Michael looked back down at the envelope. He could have put it back.
Instead, he slipped it beneath the other letters he'd decided to keep. Then he hesitated. His eyes moved over the rest of the pile. After a moment, he selected a few more—the ones he'd genuinely enjoyed reading during the interview—and placed them together with his letter. It made the whole thing look less obvious. At least, that was what he told himself.
When he finally gathered the small collection into his hands, he held them against his chest for a moment.
"Michael?"
He looked up. One of the producers was standing nearby.
"You ready?"
Michael nodded.
"Yeah."
He gave the letters one last glance before slipping them carefully into the folder he'd been given for the day.
"Just about."
He followed the others out of the studio a few minutes later, carrying the folder beneath his arm. He didn't mention the letter again. Not to the interviewer. Not to the producer. Not to Bill. Not to anyone.
By the time Michael got home, the sun had already begun to sink lower over the neighborhood, leaving the sky outside the windows washed in the soft colors of early evening. He stepped through the front door with the folder still tucked beneath his arm, closing it quietly behind himself before pausing in the entryway for a moment.
Home always felt different after a day of interviews. There was no studio lighting, no camera pointed at him, no one waiting for him to answer a question. Just the familiar sounds of the house around him—the television somewhere deeper inside, voices drifting in and out of conversation, the faint clatter of something being moved around in the kitchen. His mother was the first person he saw.
"Michael?"
He looked up.
"Hi, Mama."
Katherine smiled as she came toward him, wiping her hands on a dish towel.
"How was your interview?"
"Good."
"Just good?"
Michael smiled.
"It was alright."
She reached up and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek before looking at the folder underneath his arm.
"You've been gone all day."
"Yeah. We talked about the album."
"I know." Her smile grew. "I watched some of it."
Michael's expression changed slightly.
"You did?"
"Mhm."
He looked down.
"Was it alright?"
"It was very nice."
"Thank you."
He started toward the hallway, already thinking about getting out of his clothes and disappearing somewhere quiet for a little while, but before he could get very far, a voice came from the living room.
"There he is."
Michael stopped. He slowly turned his head.
Several of his brothers were sprawled across the couches, the television still on in front of them. Randy was sitting near one end, half-slouched into the cushions, while Jackie had one arm stretched along the back of the couch. Jermaine glanced over at Michael with an expression that immediately made him suspicious. Michael narrowed his eyes slightly.
"What?"
Randy grinned.
"Nothin'."
Michael looked between them.
"Why are you lookin' at me like that?"
Jackie laughed.
"We saw your interview."
Michael's shoulders dropped a little.
"Oh."
"Yeah," Randy said. "We saw it."
Michael shifted the folder beneath his arm.
"Okay."
There was a pause. Then Jermaine smiled.
"That one letter."
Michael's eyes immediately dropped.
"What letter?"
Randy laughed.
"Oh, come on."
"I don't know what you're talkin' about."
"The one that made you turn red."
Michael's cheeks immediately warmed.
"I did not turn red."
"You did."
"I didn't."
"You absolutely did," Jackie said, laughing.
Michael shook his head and started toward the hallway again.
"You're all crazy."
Randy leaned forward.
"What'd she write?"
Michael stopped. He turned around slowly.
"Who?"
The room erupted in laughter. Michael's face fell into his hands for half a second before he dragged them down again.
"Nobody."
"Nobody?" Randy repeated.
"Mhm."
"Then why were you blushin'?"
"I wasn't."
"You were."
"I was just hot."
Jackie looked toward the television.
"From the air conditionin'?"
Michael stared at him.
"Yes."
That only made them laugh harder. Michael shook his head, trying not to smile himself.
"Y' guys are ridiculous."
Randy pointed toward the folder.
"Y' kept it, didn't you?"
Michael's eyes flickered toward it. Just for a second. It was enough. Randy's grin widened.
"Ohhh."
"No."
"You did!"
"I ain't say that."
"Y' didn't have to."
Michael tightened his grip around the folder.
"'m tired."
Jackie laughed.
"That's your excuse?"
"Yeah."
He turned toward the hallway again.
"Michael."
He looked back. Jermaine was smiling.
"At least tell us if it was a good letter."
Michael stared at him for a moment. Then a tiny smile appeared despite his best effort.
"It was fine."
"Fine?"
"Mhm."
"That's all?"
Michael nodded.
"That's all."
Randy laughed.
"You're no fun."
Michael smiled faintly and shook his head.
"I'm goin' upstairs."
He didn't wait for another response. He walked down the hallway with the folder still tucked securely beneath his arm, hearing his brothers laughing behind him as he disappeared from view.
Only once he reached his room he closed the door.
Michael stood there for a moment with his back against it, listening to the muffled voices downstairs. Then his eyes dropped to the folder in his hands.
He left the overhead light off. Just the lamp by the bed, the one with the soft shade, throwing warm shadow up the walls. Enough to read by. Not enough to feel watched.
The folder went on the nightstand. He toed off his shoes, shrugged out of the jacket, then the shirt. The air touched his skin and he shivered once, though the room was warm. Downstairs, the house had gone quiet— the television a low murmur through the floor, his brothers' laughter faded into whatever they'd settled on.
He sat on the edge of the bed.
The letter was where he'd left it, folded beneath the others he'd kept. He lifted it out and let the rest slide aside. Just this one. Just the envelope with his name in that careful hand.
He'd read it once already. On camera. With half a room watching. He'd held it together then— barely. Now there was nobody to hold it together for.
He opened it.
Dear Michael,
He read it slow this time. On camera he'd skimmed, caught the shape of it, the heat rising up the back of his neck, and he'd buried it. Now he let each line land.
I've started this letter four times and torn up every one of them.
That got him first—the picture of it, really. Some woman sitting alone at a desk somewhere, probably with a half-finished letter beside her and a little pile of crumpled pages she'd decided weren't good enough. He could almost imagine her writing something, stopping halfway through, staring at the words for a while before tearing the page out and starting again.
Maybe she'd written his name too many times, or crossed something out because it suddenly felt too embarrassing to put into an envelope. Maybe she'd sat there with the finished letter in front of her for several minutes, debating whether she should actually send it at all, before finally deciding that this was the one she'd let go.
The thought made something warm and strangely tender settle in his chest. Out of all the things she could have done with those thoughts, she'd chosen to put them on paper, fold the pages carefully, seal them inside an envelope, and send them all the way to him.
I think about your mouth.
He swallowed hard.
Not the smile — everyone gets the smile. I think about the way your lips part right before you sing, that half-second before the note comes out, and I wonder what it would be like to be the reason you made that sound instead.
His stomach pulled tight. He read on and the warmth climbed into his face, same as in the studio, only now there was no camera to hide behind. She wrote about his hands. On my hip. On my throat. In my hair, pulling just hard enough that I'd forget my own name.
His breath went shallow. He shifted on the mattress, denim dragging, and he was hard.
Already.
Just from words on a page, from a woman whose face he couldn't picture.
That was the strangest part. He had no body to attach to the voice in his head. Not yet. Just the handwriting, careful and deliberate, and the things she'd admitted to. He read the part about his voice twice. Three times.
I've listened to interviews with my thighs pressed together, and I'm not even sorry.
He set the letter down beside him. His hands weren't quite steady. The shame sat hot in his chest and the want sat lower, and he couldn't pull them apart. His pulse beat in his throat and at the base of his cock, which strained against the zipper, and for a long moment he just sat with it.
Then he unbuttoned his jeans.
His fingers fumbled once. The button gave. The zipper came down. He shoved the denim off his hips and his cock sprang free, thick, leaking at the tip. He wrapped a hand around it and hissed through his teeth.
He thought of a woman.
No face. He kept it that way— truer, filthier, to want only the words. He pictured her in a dark room somewhere, thighs pressed together, listening to his voice, slick through her panties because of the way he'd said something on some forgotten interview. The thought made his hips jerk up into his fist.
He stroked slow. He didn't want to rush it. He wanted to stay inside the letter as long as he could, let each line replay behind his eyes.
The part about climbing into his lap. Weight on his thighs, heat through thin fabric, her mouth at his ear asking what made him go quiet.
His grip tightened. His other hand found the letter, held it open against his knee. He read and stroked at the same time, eyes jumping, breath ragged.
"You don't even know," he whispered. "You don't even know what you did."
He thought about her sealing the envelope. Her tongue on the glue. Dropping it into a mailbox and walking away like it was nothing, going back to her life, while he sat here with his cock in his hand reading it over and over.
His hand sped up. The sound of it filled the room— skin, breath, the rustle of paper in his grip.
She'd never know. That was the cruelest part. She'd sent it off and moved on, and he'd be hard for hours thinking about her thighs and her mouth and the breathy voice she'd asked him for.
He imagined giving it to her. Alone in the dark, he let his voice drop low and ruined, the way she'd wanted.
"Tell me what you want, baby."
And he imagined her answering. Her body under his hand, slick and shaking. He imagined being the reason she made a sound like the one she'd written about— lips parted, a half-second before the note.
He came with a muffled groan, teeth in his bottom lip, spilling over his fingers and onto his stomach. The letter was still in his hand, creased at the corner where he'd gripped too hard.
He sat there, breathing. The ceiling above him. His heart loud in his ears. The shame slid back in slow, behind the pleasure, and he let it.
He should burn it. She'd said he could.
He didn't.
He cleaned himself off with the edge of the sheet, taking his time before finally sitting there for a moment, breathing quietly as the last of the heat slowly left him. His eyes drifted toward the letter lying nearby, the pages slightly rumpled now from the way he'd been holding them, and something about seeing it there made him feel almost shy all over again. Carefully, he picked it up and folded it along the creases he'd made earlier, smoothing each fold with his thumb until the pages were neat again, almost absurdly careful with something that had already been read and reread enough times to lose its crispness.
He crossed the room to his dresser and opened the top drawer.
For a second, he simply stood there with the letter in his hand.
Then he placed it inside.
Not thrown in with the rest of his things. Not tucked away carelessly beneath a pile of clothes. He set it down carefully, making sure the pages were flat before closing the drawer.
Michael stood there for another moment, his hand still resting against the wooden handle.
Then he turned away, climbed into bed, and pulled the covers up over himself. The room was quiet now, the only light coming faintly through the curtains, and he lay on his back staring at the ceiling while his mind stubbornly refused to settle. Every time he closed his eyes, he could see the handwriting again. He could hear the words in his own head, remember exactly where he'd stopped reading, exactly when he'd realized what she meant.
He turned onto his side.
Then onto his back again.
A small, embarrassed smile touched his mouth.
He'd read it again.
He knew he would.
Maybe tomorrow, when he had some time alone. Maybe the night after that, too. He'd tell himself it was only because he was curious, because he'd never received a letter quite like it before, because he wanted to understand what had made him react that way.
But even as he thought it, Michael knew better.
There was something about those pages that had gotten under his skin.
And he wasn't quite ready to admit how much he liked that.
Michael didn't sleep much.
He tried.
He turned the pillow over when it became too warm, pulled the covers higher when he felt cold, then kicked them down again a few minutes later. At some point during the night he'd gotten up for a glass of water, standing barefoot in the dark kitchen while the house remained completely still around him. When he finally went back upstairs, he told himself he was going to stop thinking about it.
Of course he didn't.
Every time he closed his eyes, the letter seemed to come back to him. Not even the entire thing at first. Just little pieces. A sentence here. A phrase there. The way she'd written his name. The particular choice of words that had caught him so completely off guard.
And then, inevitably, the thought of her. He didn't know what she looked like.
Eventually, sometime in the early hours of the morning, exhaustion won. When Michael finally woke again, the sunlight had already begun slipping through the curtains. After getting dressed, he made his way downstairs, one hand sliding lightly along the banister as he descended. The house was already awake. He could hear voices coming from the kitchen and the faint clatter of dishes being moved around. Someone had the radio on somewhere, low enough that he could barely make out the song.
He was still rubbing one eye when Janet appeared around the corner.
"Michael!"
He looked up.
"Hi, Janet."
She smiled brightly.
"You got mail."
Michael paused halfway down the stairs.
"Mail?"
"Yeah."
She came a little closer, holding a small handful of envelopes.
"I got it from the box this morning."
Michael glanced at the envelopes.
"Okay."
He continued down the stairs. Janet followed him.
"There was one for you that looked different."
Michael stopped.
"Different how?"
She shrugged.
"I don't know. It just did."
He looked at her. Janet held the envelopes out toward him.
"And it says your name."
Michael took them. His eyes moved over the little collection. Bills. A couple of envelopes from work. Something from the record company.
Then— He stopped. His fingers tightened slightly.
No.
There was no way.
He looked at the envelope again. The handwriting. His heart gave a strange little jump.
"Janet..."
She looked up at him.
"What?"
Michael turned the envelope over in his hands.
"Where'd you get this?"
"In the mailbox."
He stared at it. Janet watched his face.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"You look funny."
Michael shook his head quickly.
"I don't."
"You do."
He gave her a small smile.
"It's just..."
He looked back down. Could it be?
He almost laughed at himself.
No way.
There were thousands of people who wrote to him. It could be anyone. There was no reason for him to assume it was her. In fact, it was ridiculous to assume it was you. And yet he was still standing there staring at the handwriting. Janet leaned closer.
"Is it important?"
"I don't know."
"You know who it's from?"
Michael hesitated.
"No."
It wasn't exactly a lie. Not yet. Janet studied him for another second before smiling mischievously.
"Maybe it's a secret admirer."
Michael's head snapped up.
"Janet."
She laughed.
"What?"
"Don't."
"I'm just saying."
Michael shook his head, trying not to smile.
"You're silly."
"So are you."
She reached for one of the other envelopes.
"Well, I'm hungry. You coming?"
Michael looked down at the letter again.
"In a minute."
Janet gave him a suspicious look.
"You sure?"
"Yeah."
"You don't wanna eat?"
"I'll come down."
She shrugged.
"Okay." She started toward the kitchen, then glanced back, "don't read all your mail without me."
Michael laughed softly.
"I won't."
Janet disappeared around the corner. Michael waited until he could no longer hear her footsteps. Then he looked at the envelope again. His thumb moved slowly over the edge. His heart was beating a little faster now. Because suddenly, he wasn't nearly as tired anymore.
He carries the envelope back to his room before opening it, almost without thinking about it. It's an old habit, one he has never really had to question. Some things are better opened somewhere private, away from curious eyes and the possibility of Janet wandering past or Mama calling his name from down the hallway. He doesn't want anybody asking what he's reading, or seeing his face before he's even had a chance to decide what he thinks about it himself. So he keeps the envelope tucked carefully in his hand as he makes his way upstairs, closing his bedroom door behind him with a quiet click.
For a moment, he simply stands there, looking down at it.
Then he crosses the room and sits on the edge of his bed, almost in exactly the same place he'd been sitting the night before. The familiarity of it makes something in his chest flutter, and he tries not to think too much about why. He turns the envelope over once in his hands, looking at the handwriting again, before finally slipping his thumb beneath the flap and carefully easing it open.
There is a letter inside, folded neatly once.
And behind it, something stiffer catches against the paper.
Michael pauses.
His fingers move a little more carefully as he reaches inside, feeling the edge of something thicker beneath the letter. Cardboard, perhaps. Or—
Photographs.
He reads the letter first.
It's shorter than the other one. No page of wanting, no question about the breathy part of his voice. Just a few lines in that same careful hand, and they hit him in the chest before they land lower.
You don't know what I look like.
Now you do.
So you'll know who's thinking about you when you read the next one.
He stops breathing for a second.
The words sit there in front of him, simple and almost innocent compared to the first letter, but somehow they leave him just as unsettled. Michael reads them once more, slower this time, his eyes lingering over the handwriting as though there might be something hidden between the lines that he missed the first time. A quiet, disbelieving laugh slips out of him, and he shakes his head, glancing down at the page with a smile he can't quite seem to get rid of.
Then his attention shifts to the photographs.
He hesitates before reaching for them.
His fingers catch the edge of the first one and carefully slide it free from behind the letter. He turns it over in his hand for a moment, seeing only the blank white back, and suddenly he feels strangely nervous. It is almost easier when she is only words on paper. Words can be folded away. Words can be reread without having to imagine the person who wrote them.
A photograph is different.
Michael turns it over. And the first thing he sees takes his voice clean out of his throat. For a long moment, he doesn't move at all. He simply stares at it, his fingers tightening slightly around the edge as his eyes slowly take in the image.
It's her. You.
A lace set— dark, cheap-looking, the kind of thing that photographs slightly wrong, and that wrongness is the best part of it. The picture is grainy, soft at the edges, overexposed where the flash caught. Somebody took this alone, fumbling with a camera in a bedroom, and that's what makes it obscene in a way no magazine spread could touch.
His eyes move over you slowly.
Your tits sit full and heavy in the lace, spilling a little at the cups, and the lace doesn't hide the shape of your pretty nipples through it. You're curvy. Big in the hips, thick in the thighs— the kind of woman he's pictured in half his fantasies and never admitted out loud. Soft all over. Made to be held.
And your tongue. You've got the tip of it stuck out, playful, like you know exactly what you're doing. Like you knew he'd be sitting alone in a dark room with this in his hands.
He swallows. His mouth has gone dry.
The next one is worse. Or better? He doesn't know which.
You're on your stomach on the bed. The same lace, but from behind— and the angle is lower, the camera propped somewhere, so it's all ass and the long curve of your back. Your hips are wide. Your ass is round and full, the lace cutting across it, and the pose is casual in a way that isn't casual at all. Like you just happened to be lying there. Like you didn't arch your back just a little for the lens. And you're looking back at the lens.
He stares. His cock is already half-hard, again. pressing against his jeans, and he hasn't touched himself. Hasn't done anything but look.
"Jesus," he whispers.
His thumb drifts over the edge of the photograph, near the curve of your hip. The paper is glossy. Slick under his finger.
He looks from the photos to the letter. Back again. The same handwriting. The same girl. The one who wrote about her thighs pressed together, about climbing into his lap, about his hands in her hair.
Now he has a face. A body. Soft hips and full tits and a little pink tongue caught between your teeth.
He sets the photographs down on the bed beside him, careful, like they might tear. Then he drags a hand over his mouth.
This is real. You're real. And you want him to know it.
His hand drops to his lap. He cups himself through the denim, just pressure, just to feel how hard he's gotten, and a breath shudders out of him.
The lamp burns warm against the photographs. He picks up the one of you on your stomach and looks at it again, longer this time.
He can almost feel the weight of you. The give of your hips under his hands. The heat where your thighs meet.
"Now I know what you look like," he murmurs, low, to no one but himself.
He lies back against the mattress, the photos fanned beside him, and lets his hand find its way back to the button of his jeans.
He doesn't take his jeans off. Not yet. He lies there with the photo of you on your stomach in one hand and lets the other press flat over his fly.
Just pressure. His palm rides the hard line of his cock through the denim, and he grinds up into it once, slow, the friction dulled by two layers. Not enough. That's the point.
The lamp throws light across the glossy paper. He holds the picture above him, arm bent, and looks at your ass, the lace, the arch of your back. Your thighs, thick and soft where they press together.
"God," he breathes.
He rubs himself through the jeans. Slow circles with the heel of his hand. His hips roll up on their own. The denim drags, and the dull ache of being restrained makes it better somehow— him, Michael Jackson, lying fully dressed in a dark room, getting himself off to a grainy photograph like some teenager. The picture shakes a little in his grip. He doesn't stop.
He shifts, shoves the jeans down just past his hips with his free hand. The button's already open. The zipper gives. He pushes the denim off and now he's in his boxers, the thin cotton doing nothing to hide the shape of him, a damp spot already darkening the front.
He presses his palm down and hisses through his teeth.
The fabric between them is maddening. He strokes himself through it, up and down, eyes still on the photograph. Your hips. The weight of you. How you'd feel under him.
He can't take it anymore. He lifts the waistband, ready to get his hand inside—
The door bangs open.
Michael's whole body locks. Marlon is already halfway through the doorway before he sees him.
"Mike, Mama said—"
He stops. For one long, horrible second, neither of them says anything. Marlon's eyes drop. First to the photograph in Michael's hand. Then, almost involuntarily, lower.
Then back to the photograph. Michael follows his gaze and seems to realize all at once what Marlon has just seen. His face goes hot.
He moves so quickly that the photograph nearly slips from his fingers, crushing it instinctively against his stomach as his other hand grabs for the nearest pillow and yanks it across his lap. The movement is rushed and awkward, far too late to disguise anything, and somehow that only makes the entire situation worse.
"Get out," he chokes.
Marlon doesn't move. His mouth opens. Closes. His eyebrows lift slowly as the realization settles in. Michael's grip tightens around the pillow.
"Get out, Marlon!"
"Whoa. Okay." Marlon finally takes a step backward, both hands coming up in surrender. "I didn't—"
He stops. His mouth twitches. Michael sees it.
"No."
Marlon's grin breaks through.
"I didn't see nothin'."
"You saw everything."
"I saw some things."
Michael stares at him in horror.
"Marlon!"
Michael throws the nearest object at him— a sock. It misses. Marlon's already in the hall, cackling.
"Whose picture was that, Mike?"
"Nobody!"
"That wasn't no nobody."
Michael lunges and slams the door in his face, breathing hard, the pillow still clutched over his lap. Through the wood he can hear Marlon's laughter fading down the stairs. He stays against the door. Heart hammering. His forehead drops against the door.
The pillow is still crushed over his lap. Under it, he's still hard — stubbornly, idiotically hard, like his body hasn't gotten the message that the moment's over.
The photograph is crumpled against his stomach, warm from his skin. He peels it off carefully, like it might burn him, and looks at it. A crease cuts across the corner of the bed now. Right across your hip.
"Shit," he whispers.
He smooths it flat against his thigh, thumb pressing the crease out, over and over. It won't go away. Neither will the look on Marlon's face.
He pushes off the door and sits heavy on the edge of the bed. His hands are shaking a little. Not fear. Something tighter, more exposed — being seen like that, caught with his jeans around his hips and a stranger's body in his hand. He doesn't finish. Can't. The heat's gone sour, and what's left is just him in a dim room with a ruined picture and his brother's voice in his head.
He pulls his boxers up, kicks the jeans the rest of the way off, and sits there. After a long while he stands, crosses to the dresser, opens a little box. He lays the photo inside, on top of the letter. Closes it. Locks it with the small brass key he keeps on a chain, and slips the chain around his neck. He'll deal with Marlon later.
The next evening, he tries to write you back.
He sits at the desk by the window with the good pen between his fingers and a clean sheet of paper placed carefully in front of him. The first letter is open beside his elbow, its creases softened now from being folded and unfolded more times than he would ever admit. He has already read it again. twice today. Once when he first sat down, and then again after he'd spent several minutes staring at the blank page without writing a single word.
Write me back. I want to hear the breathy part.
His eyes catch on the sentence again.
Michael looks away.
He rubs his thumb slowly over the side of the pen, staring through the window at the fading light outside. He'd thought this would be easy.
He writes,
'Dear friend—'
He stares at the word.
Friend.
It sits there on the page, perfectly harmless, perfectly appropriate, and somehow completely wrong. Michael's mouth pulls into a small, embarrassed frown. He taps the pen once against the desk before dragging it through the word, one thick black line becoming two, then three, until friend is almost completely buried beneath the ink.
He looks at it.
"No."
The next attempt is worse.
'Dear [❤︎︎ ]—'
He gets as far as the little heart before his ears begin to burn.
Michael stares at what he's written, then immediately folds forward, covering his face with one hand.
"Oh, no."
The paper is crumpled before he can change his mind. He tosses it toward the wastebasket. It lands beside it. He doesn't bother picking it up. The next draft begins with simply—
Dear—
He stops there That somehow feels even more intimate. He scratches it out. Another sheet.
Hello,
Too formal! Another.
Hi,
Too casual!
He sighs and leans back in his chair, rubbing his forehead with the heel of his hand. There are already three crumpled sheets on the floor around his shoes, and he's beginning to feel ridiculous. He has performed in front of thousands of people. He's stood on stages with cameras pointed directly at him, walked into rooms full of strangers, answered questions about his music for hours without running out of things to say.
And somehow one woman with a sheet of paper has managed to make him forget how to write his own name. Then he begins once again.
'I got your letter. And the pictures. You shouldn't have—'
No. You should have. That's the whole problem. He tries again. 'I can't stop looking.'
He writes it and his face goes hot. It's true. It's also not enough. you'd sent him a full page of wanting, fearless and specific, and he can't string together a single sentence that matches it.
The pile of crumpled pages grows beside the desk. Every attempt too careful, too stiff, too him. He can hear the cameras in his own handwriting. Thank you for your letter. I appreciate your kindness. He wants to tell you what he did the first night, what he has been doing since that night, but it won't come out of the pen.
He pushes back from the desk. The chair scrapes loud in the quiet room. He looks at the mess and thinks, not for the first time, that paper might not be the way.
—
Two days.
You hadn't meant to count them. The first morning, you'd told yourself there was no reason to expect anything so soon. Mail took time. Letters had to be sorted, opened, read, passed through however many hands they passed through before they ever reached the person they were meant for. And Michael was busy. He had an album to promote, interviews to give, rehearsals and meetings and probably a hundred other things you couldn't even imagine. A man who received thousands of letters couldn't possibly sit down and answer every single one, especially not some girl he'd never met who had been bold enough to send him something that had probably made him blush on national television.
You'd believed all of that.
At least, you had when you first woke up. By the time you found yourself standing in front of the mailbox that morning, you weren't quite as convincing anymore.
You'd tried not to make it obvious, even to yourself. You'd gone outside for something else, you told yourself. You happened to be walking past it. There was no reason not to check while you were there. It wasn't as though you'd been thinking about it since you'd opened your eyes.
You lifted the little metal door.
Nothing.
Well—almost nothing.
A bill.
A flyer folded in half.
And a postcard from your aunt that you nearly tossed aside before you recognized her handwriting.
You stood there for another moment anyway, staring down into the empty mailbox as though something might magically appear if you waited long enough.
Nothing.
You closed it.
You checked again that evening.
There was no particular reason to. Mail had already come that morning, and you knew perfectly well there wasn't supposed to be another delivery. Still, sometime after dinner, you found yourself wandering down the driveway anyway, slippers scuffing lightly against the pavement as you told yourself you were only going outside for some air.
The mailbox was empty. You stared inside it for a second longer than necessary before closing the little metal door with a quiet click. Then you stood there. Just stood there, looking back toward the house.
You felt ridiculous. So you laughed softly to yourself, shook your head, and walked back inside.
The next morning, you checked again. This time you didn't even bother making up an excuse.
You went straight to the mailbox after breakfast, still in whatever you'd thrown on without thinking, a mug of coffee warming your hand. You opened it with far more hope than you wanted to admit.
Nothing from him. Another bill. Another piece of junk mail.
You sighed, gathered everything into your arms, and shut the mailbox. You'd stopped pretending it was about anything else.
You knew exactly what you were doing now. You were waiting for him. And somehow, admitting that to yourself made the empty mailbox feel a little more disappointing.
It was foolish. You knew it was foolish. Some part of you had known from the start that this was a letter sent into the dark— that he might never open it, might never see the photographs, might have dropped them in the studio trash before he ever made it home. The first letter had been written expecting nothing. That was the whole point. The thrill was in the sending.
Except now you wanted a reply.
You wanted it in a way that embarrassed you. You caught yourself imagining his handwriting— whether it would be careful or hurried, whether he pressed hard enough to leave grooves in the paper. You imagined the envelope with your name on it, the sound it would make landing in the box. Every time the mail came up empty, something in your chest dropped a little.
It wasn't disappointment exactly. It was the slow, sinking confirmation that you were sitting around, waiting for a stranger to want you back.
By the second afternoon, the waiting had curdled into something restless. You did the dishes, folded laundry, ran an errand you didn't need just to have somewhere to be. Your mind kept circling the same place anyway. The photographs. The silence. What he might have thought of you.
Worst case, he'd laughed. Passed the pictures around to his brothers, let them have their fun, tossed the whole thing in the garbage. You could almost hear it— the easy, dismissive laughter of men who'd seen prettier girls send bolder things.
The thought sat cold in your stomach.
But there was another possibility, and it was worse in its own way: that he'd looked and said nothing at all. That he'd folded your letter away and forgotten it, and you'd never know one way or the other.
If he wasn't going to answer, you'd give him more to answer to.
The idea arrived quietly, almost as a joke, and then it settled in and refused to leave. You could let it fizzle. Chalk the whole thing up to a silly impulse and never think about Michael Jackson's mouth again.
Or you could be bolder.
You sat down at the desk. The same desk, the same lamp, the stationery still stacked where you'd left it, the good pen resting on top. You looked at the blank page for a long moment. Then you pushed it aside and reached for the camera again instead.
It was old— your father's, bought years ago and barely used, with a timer dial that clicked and a flash that washed everything too bright. You knew its quirks by now. Your hands moved through the ritual without thinking: load it, wind it, prop it on the stack of books at the foot of the bed, angled up.
The first photograph was the easiest, because you were still half-dressed for it.
You kept the panties on. Lace, black, the same cheap pair from before, the ones that bit into your hips just slightly when you moved. You lay back, knees bent, and hooked two fingers into the fabric at the side. The flash caught the shine of your inner thigh, the dark of the lace against your skin, and there—slick and already dripping—here your fingers pulled the fabric aside just enough to show him what was waiting.
That was the first one.
The second took longer.
Nude meant everything. No lace to hide behind, no angle that let you keep some part of yourself out of frame. You stood in front of the mirror first, not out of vanity but because you needed to see what the camera would see. The softness of your stomach. The weight of your breasts. And the little trail of dark hair between your legs, softly curling against the inside of your thighs.
You'd never thought much about it before. Now you wanted him to see it. You wanted him to know you hadn't waxed yourself smooth like the women in the magazines, that you'd kept this part of yourself, and you wanted him to like it.
The wanting left you wet. You could feel it, a warm slick press against the lace as you moved. Somewhere behind your ribs your heart beat too hard. You lay back on the bed and let the timer run. The flash went white for a second, and you just lay there, breathing, the camera ticking beside you.
The photographs developed in the dark of the bathroom, and you spread them out on the bed to look. One of you pulling the lace aside, one of you bare and soft, legs parted, the dark hair at the center of it. The flash had been kind to you. Or maybe you'd stopped caring about it.
You sat down with the pen, and the first line came before you'd even decided to write it.
❝—You're quiet.
That's okay. I can be loud enough for both of us.
I've been thinking about you every night since I sent that first letter. Not politely. I've thought about your mouth, your hands, that half-second before you sing. And I've thought about what I'd let you do to me if I ever had you alone in the dark.
I want to be under you. I want your weight on me, your hands pinning mine down. I want you to take what you want from me— and I want you to know I'm giving it to you gladly. Nothing about me is a surrender you'd have to win. It's a gift, offered on purpose.
I'd kneel for you. I'd do it without being asked, and I'd stay there, looking up, until you decided what to do with me. Put your hands in my hair. Pull. I'll take it. I want to take it. I want to be good for you.
I think about your mouth between my legs. I've decided you take your time there. I've decided you'd hold my hips down and make me wait, make me beg— and I would, Michael. I'd beg so pretty for you. Not because you'd force it out of me. Because I'd want to give you that.
And when you finally push inside me, I want it slow. Your weight on me. Your mouth at my ear, that low voice gone rough, telling me I'm yours. Telling me how good I take you. I want to come with my legs around you and your name in my mouth, and I want you to feel exactly how much I wanted it.
I've done it alone, thinking about you. My fingers, your voice in the room, the picture of you above me. It's good. It's never going to be enough— and I'm not sorry about that. I like wanting you this way.
So write me back, Michael. Or don't. I'm not asking your permission to want you— I'm telling you I do. And I'm telling you what I want is to be yours.
Yours, whether you answer or not,
The girl who thinks about your mouth — [❤︎︎ ]❞
You read it over twice. Once for mistakes. Once because you couldn't quite believe you'd written it.
It was bolder than the first. Wilder. The kind of letter you'd never say out loud, the kind you'd fold in half and press into a stranger's hands and then run. And maybe that was the point. You'd already sent him your body. Now you were sending him the truth of what he did to it.
The photographs went in behind the letter. You slid them carefully into the envelope, spine against spine, and sealed it.
Your name went on the back. His on the front, in that same careful hand you'd practiced twice before.
You didn't let yourself think. You pulled on your shoes, walked to the corner in the fading light, and dropped it into the box before the part of you that was still sane could catch up.
The metal mouth swallowed it. Gone.
For a long moment you stood there with your hand still resting on the cold side of the box, listening to the street settle into evening around you. The wind picked up. Somewhere a car turned over. Then you walked home, and you didn't look back once.
You didn't know— couldn't know— that Michael Jackson was lying in his dark room with your last photograph in his hand and his own name halfway down his throat.
You'd find out soon enough.
—
Three days later, your second mail arrives.
He sees it on the entry table with the rest of the mail.
At first, it's only the handwriting that catches his eye. The familiar slant of the letters, the way his name has been written across the front with that same careful attention he'd noticed before. Michael slows as he walks past, then stops altogether. He looks at the envelope for a moment without touching it, his eyes moving over the handwriting as though he needs to make absolutely certain before he lets himself believe it.
It is.
His pulse kicks up into his throat.
For a second, he simply stands there, staring.
Then he reaches down and picks it up, careful not to bend the envelope as he tucks it against his side. He doesn't open it there. He doesn't even turn it over. The possibility of somebody seeing it, of somebody asking who it's from or why he's suddenly so interested in one particular piece of mail, is enough to make him start toward the stairs almost immediately.
He carries it to his room.
The door clicks shut behind him.
Michael turns the lock.
Then, after a moment's hesitation, he checks it again.
Once.
Twice.
He glances toward the hallway before dragging the chair over and wedging it carefully beneath the door handle. He learned his lesson the other day. He is not going to be caught off guard again, not when he has no idea what might be waiting inside this envelope.
Only then does he finally turn back toward the room. The envelope is still in his hand. Michael looks down at it. A small smile pulls at his mouth. He sits on the edge of his bed, turning it over once between his fingers, feeling that familiar mixture of anticipation and nerves settle over him. Then his thumb slips beneath the flap.
Inside there's a letter. One sheet, folded around two photographs, and a note. He catches a glimpse of the first two lines.
'You're quiet.
That's okay. I can be loud enough for both of us.'
Then he unfolds the photos before reading the rest of the latter
The first one takes the air out of the room.
Your fingers. Black lace pulled aside, and there— slick, already shining for him. The flash caught the shine of your inner thigh. It's the most obscene thing he's ever held, and the obscenity of it is that it's real. A woman alone in her bedroom, fumbling with a camera, showing him exactly where she wants him.
His mouth drops open. He makes a sound he doesn't recognize.
The second one. He forgets to breathe. You're holding the with one hand camera. And bare. Not posed like a magazine— just bare, soft, legs parted, and the camera caught all of you. The weight of your breasts. The round of your hips. Thighs, thick and open. And between them, a thatch of hair, curling against your skin. He stares at it like he's never seen anything in his life.
Completely stripped of any clothing. One hand covering a breast, the other bare, your nipple dark against the white flash. Your lips parted. Something glossy smeared high on your thigh.
His thumb drifts over the glossy paper, over the dark of it.
He really likes it. God, he love it. This is just filthily raw.
"Jesus," he breathes.
Then the letter. He reads it slow, the way he's learned to read you— because your words are like your photographs. Everything on purpose.
'I've been thinking about you every night since I sent that first letter. Not politely...'
His palm presses flat over his fly instantly. Just pressure. Denim and cotton between his hand and the heat of himself. He doesn't undo the button. Not yet.
'I want to be under you. I want your weight on me, your hands pinning mine down. I want you to take what you want from me— and I want you to know I'm giving it to you gladly. Nothing about me is a surrender you'd have to win. It's a gift, offered on purpose.'
His hand stops. He reads that part again.
Nobody's ever handed him the wanting like that. Wrapped. Offered. Take it, it's yours, I chose this.
I'd kneel for you. I'd do it without being asked, and I'd stay there, looking up, until you decided what to do with me.
He pictures it. You on the floor in front of him, face tilted up, patient. Waiting. His hands gently in your hair. Pulling. And you taking it — wanting to take it.
His hips roll up into his palm once, slow, through the denim. He bites his lip.
I want to be good for you.
That's the line that breaks something in him. Not the dirty part. The soft part. The part where you hand him more than her body. Good for you. Like it's something you want to be. Like he's worth being good for.
I think about your mouth between my legs. I've decided you take your time there.
He breathes out through his teeth, forehead dropping.
I've decided you'd hold my hips down and make me wait, make me be— and I would, Michael. I'd beg so pretty for you. Not because you'd force it out of me. Because I'd want to give you that.
His palm rides the hard line of him through the jeans, slow circles, the friction dulled by two layers. Not enough. He keeps it that way. He's not done reading.
And when you finally push inside me, I want it slow. Your weight on me. Your mouth at my ear, that low voice gone rough, telling me I'm yours.
"Tellin' me I'm yours," he whispered to himself.
He reads the rest with his teeth in his lip and his hand pressed flat against himself, hard and aching and held back. He finishes the letter. Then he starts it again, from the top, slower.
The lamp burns warm on the photographs. He looks at you and keeps his hand where it is— pressing, grinding, biting his lip hard enough to hurt.
I can be loud enough for both of us.
For a moment, he thinks about the crumpled drafts still sitting in the wastebasket beside his desk. All those attempts at finding the right words, each one abandoned because it sounded too formal, too distant, too much like the kind of answer he would give to any other fan. He remembers the first one most clearly—the word friend sitting there at the top of the page, perfectly polite and completely wrong. He'd stared at it until he couldn't stand the sight of it anymore, then crossed it out so hard the pen nearly tore through the paper.
Paper wasn't going to do it. Not this time.
He looks down at your letter again, at the careful handwriting running across the page, and the thought comes to him so naturally that he doesn't even argue with it.
He needs his voice.
Michael sits there for another moment, letting that idea settle.
Then he gets up.
He finds the recorder in the music room, a small portable thing with a blank cassette already sitting inside it. He picks it up and checks the buttons before carrying it back toward his room, turning it over once in his hands as though he might somehow change his mind along the way.
He doesn't ask.
Nobody stops him.
It's also his house, his equipment, and he's been quiet and strange for several days now. His family has gotten used to him disappearing into his room with a notebook or a tape recorder, especially when he's working on music. As far as anyone downstairs knows, that's probably all this is.
He waited past midnight. Television off. His brothers' doors shut. Mama asleep. The hallway still. He locks his door and wedges the chair under the handle again, because he is not getting walked in on. Not for this.
He sets the recorder on the nightstand. Lays the photos out on the bed in front of him, arranged like a hand of cards. The letter. The lace. The one of you spread open.
The lamp burns low. He takes a breath. His hands are already unsteady.
Then he presses record.
The little red light blinks.
For a long second he says nothing. The tape hisses. He's too aware of his own breathing, too close to the mic. Then he leans in, and his voice drops into that soft, low place you had asked for.
"I got your letter."
A pause. The hiss.
"And the pictures."
He swallows. The mic picks it up— the click of his throat.
"I been tryin' to write you back. I wrote y' hundred letters 'nd I threw every one of 'em away." A shaky little laugh. "Y' said you wanted the breathy part. So I thought maybe I'd just... let y' hear it."
He shifts on the bed. The denim drags. He's been hard since he laid the photos out.
"'m lookin' at you right now. The one where you're on your back."
He picks up the photograph, holds it to the light. His voice roughens.
"Y' spread yourself open for me. I can see everythin'." He exhales, slow. "Y' got... a real pretty pussy."
The word drops out of him like a stone into still water. It lands somewhere in his own chest first.
"I didn't know you'd be so wet." His thumb traces the edge of the photo. "Is that for me? Did y' think about me when you took it?"
He sets the photo down and works at his belt. Leather through the loops. The button. The zipper. It's all on the tape, unmistakable.
"You don't know what y' did t' me." His voice dips. "I read your letter 'nd I couldn't sleep. I couldn't think. I got so hard in the middle of an interview I thought I was gonna die."
He shoves the jeans down. Boxers too. His cock springs free, thick and leaking, and he wraps a hand around it with a low, broken sound that goes straight onto the tape.
"There it is." His breath stutters. "That's what you do to me."
He strokes slow. The slick sound fills the quiet room, wet and obscene, and the mic catches all of it.
"I keep your pictures and letters in a box. In my dresser." A breathless laugh. "I can't stop lookin'. Every night. Your pretty hips. Your pretty thighs." He pauses, voice gone soft and ragged. "'nd that pretty lil pussy. I keep thinkin' about puttin' my mouth there."
He strokes faster. His head falls back against the headboard.
"I wanna taste you," he whispers. "Wanna spread you open 'nd lick you 'til you're beggin' me to stop. 'Til you're cryin' on my tongue."
His hand moves in a steady rhythm now. The wet sound is loud, unashamed.
"I think about your clit." The word comes out strangled. "How it'd feel under my tongue. Swollen. Slick. I'd suck on it 'til y' can't talk."
A whimper escapes him. High and unguarded. He doesn't cut it off. It goes on the tape, and he doesn't care anymore.
"I think about bein' inside you." His voice is wrecked. "Your pussy around my cock. So tight and warm. I'd fill you up so slow you'd feel every inch of me."
He pictures it — you under him, thick thighs spread wide, the dark hair pressing against his skin. His hips jerk up into his fist.
"You'd take all of me, wouldn't you?" He's panting now. "You'd be so good for me. So fuckin' wet. I'd slide right into that little hole and you'd squeeze me so tight."
He squeezes the base of his cock, staving it off, a strained sound caught in his chest.
"I wanna hear you." His voice drops again, intimate, ruined. "Wanna hear the sounds you'd make. Wanna make you come on my fingers first. Get you all messy and soaked before I put my dick in you."
He's close. It's in his voice— the strain, the way the words come apart at the edges.
"Then I'd make love to you." He breathes it out, low and shaking. "Slow at first. Then hard. 'Til the bed's hittin' the wall 'nd you're screamin' my name."
His hand speeds. The wet sound fills the room, loud and relentless.
"'m gonna come thinkin' about you," he gasps. "Thinkin' about your pussy. Your pretty face. The way you stuck your tongue out at me."
A broken whimper. Then another.
"God— I'm gonna—"
He comes with a strangled moan, the mic catching the whole ragged shape of it. Hot over his fist, spilling onto his stomach. He strokes himself through it, shivering, making small helpless sounds until it's too much and he has to let go.
For a long moment there's only his breathing on the tape. Harsh. Then slowing.
He lifts his head. The red light still blinks.
"Now you know." His voice is soft, barely there. "You know what I sound like."
A pause.
"Please keep writing."
He reaches over and presses stop.
The room goes silent. The hiss cuts to nothing. He sits there, spent and sticky, the photos fanned around him like evidence.
╋━ "the kind of girl you like is right here with me."
𓉸 contents / trigger warnings ⸝⸝ stalking, themes of mansl**ghter, knives, dacryphilia, dry humping, age gap (bey is overly desperate), etc.♡
yandere!beyoncé... who you've known ever since middle school. now you're in your early 20s and everything seems to be falling apart so abruptly. the few people left in your life essentially vanish in thin air. almost like a clock ticking down; except the hours were loved ones of yours. relatives, family friends, and now your romantic life. and yet one person had been left untouched. beyoncé knowles.
yandere!beyoncé... who tracks your every move, keeping tabs on the people you've talked to. recently, you've gotten more anonymous phone calls and whenever you'd pick up, the line would be radio silent, only for the person to hang up whenever you spoke. almost like they needed to hear your voice..
yandere!beyoncé... who stands outside your window from time to time, mentally taking note of your routines. whenever you woke up and made breakfast― you'd slightly crack your kitchen window. through that window, you saw your older sister's childhood friend and neighbor, beyoncé. she gives you a gentle smile and wave, you simply return the gesture. as the days go by, you notice that she starts to do this..often. you finally speak up, leaning against your front door frame "you doin' this everyday now, miss bey?" you joked. she stared at you with a blank, robotic-like expression before tilting her head slightly with a friendly chuckle. "just.. tryna' put myself out there. step out of my comfort zone, y'know?"
surely that was the case. she's just a bit awkward.
yandere!beyoncé... who grinds against her pillow, tearing up, dreaming about riding your face. gripping the soft cotton tight, pretending it's her fingers tangled in your hair. that familiar warmth began to take over beyoncé's body. she felt her clit twitch from the sensation, causing her to speed up, embarrassingly finishing out her orgasm to the thought of your face.
yandere!beyoncé... who leaves little hints around your house of her presence. things like camera film, rose petals, a makeup item that you don't own. one time, you even found a pair of expensive-looking dark red lingerie made with delicate, lace stitches. still packaged.
yandere!beyoncé... who keeps every single picture, every fact, any object or article on a bulletin board right above the headboard of her bed. images taken on a polaroid-like camera with your curly hair flowing in the wind. with the trace of a finger, she wanders over sight of your photographed, half-naked body in your room. her stomach twists and turns. "my girl...just imagine. us, living together. not being able to take our hands off of each other. right here. with me, and only me." bey whispered to herself, unconsciously sliding her fingers straight over the slit of her pussy. her whine was needy but hushed. "...god, i fucking need you. so bad, honey."
yandere!beyoncé... the woman who'd constantly fantasize about you, her hazy, chestnut-colored eyes moved gracefully along your figure as you worked on your yard. you glanced over your shoulder, quietly expecting her to be looking, since you always got a slight, creepy neighbor vibe from her.
sitting on a lawn chair, legs spread apart far enough for you to notice. she twirled a small pocket knife in her hand. staring directly at you. you pause, getting ready to stand. "bey? everything alright?.." you ask out of innocent curiosity. the older woman stood from the chair, now getting a clear view of her tall, slim figure. it seemed fine from afar. but then, your head snaps back, doing a double take.
"is that my shirt?" you asked. it's stained. with blood. her blood.
yandere!beyoncé... who watched you begin to slowly step back and end up tripped, your ass instantly hitting the pavement. pulling yourself back up with a grunt, within the blink of an eye― beyoncé leaned over with the purest smile on her face, holding out a helping hand. as if nothing happened. as if she weren't crying, bleeding out the night before because she couldn't have what she wanted. you.
"oh, you sweet girl. grab my hand, baby. let me help you."
there's some songs that i took inspo from. listed down below!
never gonna love again - beyoncé
in my mouth - black dresses
an eater - matt martians
only Ʊ - summer of haze
send the pain below - chevelle
why don't you love me - beyoncé
joyfulthought - mom (aka devi mccallion)
𓉸 moon has returned. this one has been in the drafts for a long while! i love love loooove writing tropes like these, also if u wanna be tagged in any new writings i publish, feel free to comment. pleeeeaaassseee share any ideas that you'd like me to write on, i have too much time on my hands. hope u enjoyed cuties, thenks for readingggg. chao! •ᴗ• ♡
͟͟͞͞꒰➳ pairing: Michael jackson x chubbyfem!reader
͟͟͞͞꒰➳ warning: smut, rough Mikey
͟͟͞͞꒰➳ a/n: did this for my plus size queenssss
The roar of the crowd was a distant hum, a wave of sound that crashed against the walls of the Shrine Auditorium and then receded, leaving behind only the electric buzz of anticipation.
The air was thick with perfume and hairspray, the glitter of sequins and diamonds catching the stage lights from every corner of the room.
Through it all, you sat beside the man who had been yours since before either of you understood what forever meant.
Michael Jackson. His sequined jacket caught the light like scattered stars, his dark curls falling artfully across his forehead, one glove catching the gleam of the overhead chandeliers.
But his eyes, those dark, soulful eyes, were fixed on you with an intensity that made your breath catch.
"Why do you keep staring," you murmured, your lips curving into a smile as you leaned closer to him, your voice barely audible over the applause for the presenter on stage.
"I can't help it," he replied, his voice that soft, breathy tenor that still made your heart flutter after all these years.
His hand found yours, his fingers intertwining with your own, his thumb tracing slow circles on your skin. "You're the most beautiful woman in this whole room. In the whole world."
You squeezed his hand, a warmth spreading through your chest that had nothing to do with the heat of the crowded auditorium.
Your body was soft, curvaceous, a fact that the media had been both cruel and kind about since your relationship had gone public.
Michael had never once made you feel anything less than adored. His love was a constant, a steady flame that had burned since you were children playing in the streets of Gary, Indiana, long before the world knew his name.
"You're biased," you teased, your free hand smoothing down the front of your F/C gown.
"I'm honest," he corrected, leaning in to press a kiss to your temple, his lips lingering against your skin. "There's a difference."
The ceremony wore on, a blur of performances and speeches and awards that you tried to follow but found yourself distracted by the warmth of his body beside you, the way his thigh pressed against yours, the occasional brush of his gloved hand against your bare arm.
He was restless, you could tell. His leg bounced slightly, his eyes darting to you more often than the stage.
When they called his name, Michael Jackson, Album of the Year for Thriller, he didn't move.
He was too busy watching you, a soft, dreamy smile on his face, his fingers tracing patterns on the back of your hand.
"Michael," you whispered, nudging him with your elbow. "That's you. Go."
His eyes widened, a flush creeping up his cheeks as he realized the entire auditorium was waiting for him.
He stood, but instead of walking to the stage, he turned to you, his hand extended.
"Come with me."
"Michael, I—"
"Please," he said, his eyes earnest, his voice soft. "I don't want to do this without you."
The audience cooed, cameras flashing, and you felt your cheeks warm as you took his hand, letting him pull you to your feet.
He kept your hand in his as you walked up the steps together, his palm warm and slightly damp with nervous energy.
His speech was heartfelt, his voice trembling with emotion as he thanked God, Quincy, his family, his fans. And then he turned to you, his eyes glistening under the stage lights.
"And to my beautiful fiancée," he said, his voice dropping to something softer, more intimate, as if the two of you were alone in the room. "My best friend. You've seen me at my worst and loved me at my best. You make every song sweeter, every night warmer, every dream worth chasing. I love you."
The crowd erupted, and you felt tears prick at your eyes as he leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips, soft and sweet and full of promise.
Backstage was a whirlwind of congratulations, handlers, and flashing cameras.
Bill Bray, Michael's head of security, approached with his usual stoic demeanor, his voice low and professional.
"After party's at the Beverly Hills Hotel. You want me to have the car ready?"
Michael shook his head, his hand resting on the small of your back, a possessive, gentle pressure. "No. We're going home."
Bill raised an eyebrow but said nothing, simply nodding and moving to clear a path through the chaos.
You looked up at Michael, a teasing smile playing on your lips. "You don't want to go celebrate? Mingle with the other winners?"
He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his voice dropping to a register that sent a shiver down your spine. "The only thing I want to mingle tonight is you. And I don't want to share you with anyone."
The limousine was a cocoon of leather and tinted glass, the sounds of the city muffled and distant. The moment the door closed, Michael was on you.
His mouth found yours with a hunger that surprised you, his gloved hands cupping your face, tilting your head back as he deepened the kiss.
He tasted like champagne and something sweeter, his tongue sliding against yours in a rhythm that was both familiar and urgent.
You gasped against his lips, your hands finding his shoulders, gripping the sequined fabric of his jacket. "Michael—"
"I've been waiting all night," he murmured against your mouth, his lips trailing down to your jaw, your throat. "Every time you smiled at me, every time you touched my hand, I wanted to take you right there in that auditorium."
"People would have noticed," you breathed, your head falling back against the leather seat as his mouth found the sensitive spot behind your ear.
"Let them," he said, and there was a roughness in his voice that made your thighs clench. "I don't care anymore. I don't want to be gentle tonight."
Your heart stuttered. Michael was always gentle. He treated you like spun glass, like something precious and breakable.
The thought of him shedding that restraint, of letting go completely, sent a thrill of anticipation and nervous excitement through you.
"What do you mean?" you asked, your voice barely a whisper.
He pulled back, his eyes dark and intense, his breath coming in soft, rapid pants. "I mean I want to fuck you but also make love to you. I want to be rough. I want to hear you scream. I want to lose myself in you completely."
You swallowed, your mouth dry. "Okay."
His eyes searched yours, looking for hesitation, for doubt. Finding none, he smiled, that transformed his boyish face into something darker, more dangerous.
"Good."
———-
The master bathroom was a sanctuary of marble and gold, lit by dozens of candles that Michael had somehow found time to arrange before they'd even gotten inside.
The bathtub was filled with steaming water and mountains of bubbles that smelled like vanilla and sandalwood.
The candles flickered off every surface, turning the room into something warm and intimate, a cocoon away from the flashing lights and screaming crowds.
His hands found the zipper of your gown. The slow, grating sound of it descending was the only noise.
The heavy beaded fabric loosened its grip on your curves and whispered as it pooled to the floor.
His eyes swept over you, clad now in a strapless lace bra and matching high-cut briefs, and a visible tremor ran through him.
"Your turn," you whispered, reaching for the sequined military-style jacket he wore.
You peeled it off, then worked on the buttons of his shirt, your knuckles brushing the smooth, taut plane of his chest.
He was slender, but corded with a dancer's dense muscle. You pushed the shirt off his shoulders. He untied your bra, you unbuckled his belt.
Piece by piece, the armor of the evening fell away until there was nothing but warm, bare skin, the scent of gardenias and arousal, and the thick, unspoken promise of what was to come.
He stepped into the tub first, holding your hand as you followed. The water was perfect, almost too hot, making you hiss as you sank down, your back to his chest, nestled between his legs.
He immediately began to lather a soapy sponge, tracing patterns over your arms, your shoulders, the full curve of your stomach.
"You're thinking," he said, his voice rumbling against your back.
You tilted your head back onto his shoulder. "Just wondering where my gentle Michael went."
He chuckled, a low, dark sound. His free hand came up to cup your breast under the water, his thumb brushing a slow, maddeningly light circle around your nipple. "He's still here. He's just... letting someone else drive for a while."
Before you could respond, the sponge disappeared. His hands found your hips, strong and insistent.
In one fluid, powerful motion, he lifted and turned you. Water sloshed over the edge of the tub, soaking a pile of plush towels.
Now you were straddling him, knees on the smooth porcelain on either side of his slim hips, looking down at him. The bubbles clung to your skin, to the delicate curve of his collarbone.
"I want you to ride me," he said, his voice no longer a rumble but a command. He wasn't asking.
His cock was hard between you, the length of him pressing insistently against your inner thigh.
Your body, acting on pure instinct, responded before your mind could. Reaching down, you wrapped your hand around him, guiding him.
He was hot silk over steel. You positioned him at your entrance, already slick, aching and empty.
You sank down.
The sensation stole the air from your lungs. A slow, stretching fullness that bordered on overwhelming. Your head fell forward, a low moan tearing from your throat as he filled you completely.
His hands on your hips weren't guiding this time; they were gripping, his fingers digging into the plush softness of your flesh with a possessive strength that was entirely new.
"Look at me," he breathed.
You lifted your head. His eyes were a storm, fixed on the point where your bodies joined, then flicking up to your face. He didn't give you time to adjust.
He bucked his hips up, a sharp, unforgiving thrust that sent a shockwave through your core. A gasp, half-pain, half-pleasure, escaped your lips.
"Again," you demanded, the word a broken plea.
This time, you moved with him. You began to roll your hips, finding a rhythm that was deep, grinding, the base of him pressing against your clit with every downward motion.
The water rippled in wild, sloshing waves around you, a chaotic counterpoint to the slick, wet sounds of your joining. He thrust up as you ground down, a perfect, brutal synchronicity.
The pressure built, not a gentle climb but a tightening screw.
His mouth latched onto your breast, his tongue flicking hard against the pebbled peak before he grazed it with his teeth.
The sharp sensation shot directly to your core. Your muscles clenched around him involuntarily.
"Michael—I—don't stop, please don't stop." The words were a chant, fractured and desperate.
His response was a growl against your skin. One hand left your hip and tangled in your wet hair, pulling your head back to expose your throat to his mouth.
His other hand snaked down between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit and pressing down with a merciless, steady pressure that splintered your vision into a thousand points of white light.
Your climax wasn't a wave; it was a detonation. A violent, shuddering spasm that ripped a silent scream from your open mouth, every muscle in your body contracting in a blinding, rhythmic pulse around his unrelenting cock.
He followed you a heartbeat later, a guttural groan torn from his chest as he drove up into you one last, deep, shuddering time.
You felt the hot pulse of his release deep inside you, so deep it felt like he was marking you, claiming you, from the inside out.
You collapsed against him, the two of you a tangle of trembling limbs and heaving breath.
The water had stilled. You lay there for a long time, his fingers tracing lazy, apologetic patterns on your spine.
Eventually, he helped you out, wrapped you in a warm, fluffy robe, and led you to the bed.
"I think I need to lie down for a year," you murmured, your body deliciously heavy and lax.
He turned off the bathroom light. In the sudden, dark quiet of the bedroom, he loomed over you, a silhouette against the faint moonlight filtering through the curtains. You saw the flash of his smile.
"We're not done," he said, the promise of it licking down your spine like a flame. "I seem to remember you wanted to know where the gentle Michael went. I'm going to show you what the rough one is really capable of."
————
The bedroom was dark except for a single lamp on the nightstand, its glow casting long shadows across the king-sized bed.
The sheets were white and impossibly soft, expensive Egyptian cotton that smelled faintly of lavender.
You were lying on your back, freshly dried and still slightly damp, your hair loose around your shoulders, your body still humming with the aftershocks of your first orgasm.
Michael stood at the foot of the bed, looking down at you with an expression that made your stomach flip.
He was still naked. Still half-hard. And the look in his eyes was anything but done.
"Michael, I thought—"
"I told you." He crawled onto the bed, moving over you with a predator's grace. "I'm not gonna be gentle tonight. Did you think I was joking?"
"I thought— oh."
He'd flipped you onto your stomach before you could finish the sentence, his hands on your hips, pulling your ass up into the air.
Your face pressed into the pillows, the lavender scent filling your nostrils, and you felt him position himself behind you.
"Hands on the headboard," he commanded. "Grip it. Don't let go."
You obeyed. Your fingers wrapped around the wooden slats of the headboard, your knuckles already whitening.
"Good girl." His hand came down on your ass, not hard, but firm, a sharp smack that made you gasp.
"I'm gonna fuck you now. And I'm not gonna stop until you've cum so many times you can't remember your own name. Understood?" His voice was so soft that it sounded weird coming from him.
"Y-yes, Michael."
He thrust into you in one brutal stroke.
"Oh my gosh Michael!" The scream was muffled by the pillow, but it echoed through the room anyway.
He was so deep, deeper than before, the angle sending his cock against a spot inside you that made your vision blur.
"Too much?" He didn't sound concerned. He sounded hungry.
"No— don't stop— please don't stop."
"Wasn't planning to."
He set a pace that was nothing like the gentle lover you were used to.
This was rough. Punishing. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, mixing with your breathless moans and Michael's guttural groans.
The headboard slammed against the wall with every thrust. Your fingers were cramping from how hard you were gripping it.
"You feel so— nnngh— so good." Michael's voice was wrecked, barely recognizable. "So tight and wet and— my goodness — made for me. You were made for me."
"Yesss— yesss— I'm yours—"
"Say it again."
"I'm yours, Michael— I'm yours—"
He reached around you, his fingers finding your clit, and the combination of his cock pounding into you and his fingers on that sensitive bundle of nerves sent you over the edge again.
Your second orgasm ripped through you, even stronger than the first, your cunt clamping down on him so hard that he groaned.
"That's two," he growled against your ear. "Can you give me one more?"
"I— I don't know—"
"Yes, you do. You can. You will." He flipped you onto your back without pulling out, somehow managing the maneuver without losing his rhythm.
Now he was on top of you, your legs over his shoulders, his cock driving into you at an angle that made your vision blur. "Look at me. Look at me when you cum."
Your eyes met his. His face was flushed, sweat beading on his forehead, his curls plastered to his temples. He was the most beautiful thing you'd ever seen.
"Cum with me," you begged. "Please, Michael. Cum with me."
"Together," he breathed. "One, two, three.”
The world went white.
Your third orgasm hit like a lightning strike, your whole body arching off the mattress, a scream that was his name and every swear word you knew tearing from your throat.
Michael came at the same time, his cock pulsing inside you, his release hot and thick and seemingly endless, his face buried in the curve of your neck as he groaned your name like a prayer.
"Gooosh— baby— I love you, I love you, I love you—"
They came down together, tangled in the sheets, chests heaving, bodies slick with sweat.
Michael's weight was heavy on top of you, but you didn't want him to move. You didn't ever want him to move.
After a long moment, he stirred. "Stay here. Don't move."
He disappeared into the bathroom and came back with a warm, damp washcloth.
The aftercare was as tender as the sex had been rough gentle strokes cleaning the mess from your thighs, soft kisses pressed to your hip, your belly, the curve of your shoulder.
He brought you a glass of water and watched you drink it. He pulled the covers up over both of you and wrapped himself around you like a second blanket.
"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice small and uncertain now, the vulnerability creeping back in. "Was that... was that too much? I didn't hurt you, did I?"
"No, baby." You turned in his arms, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "It was perfect. You were perfect."
"You're not just saying that?"
"I'm not just saying that."
"Okay." He relaxed against you, his head finding its familiar spot in the curve of your neck. "Okay. Good." A pause. "I love you."
"I love you more."
"Impossible."
"I've got eight Grammys that say otherwise."
He laughed, that bright, bubbling laugh that made him sound like a little kid and pulled you closer.
"You're my greatest award," he murmured, already half-asleep. "My only award that matters. My girl. My beautiful girl."
You lay there in the dark, listening to his breathing even out, feeling his heartbeat slow against your chest. Outside, somewhere in Los Angeles, the after-parties were still raging.
Here in this room, wrapped up in the man who had everything and still chose you, the world was perfectly, blissfully still.
warnings/contents: ghostface!jaafar x fem!reader, college;university au, blood, murder, yandere themes, angst, obsessive/possessive behavior, adult themes, toxic relationship, not proofread, ect
word count: 1.6k+
w/a: first time writing for jaafar <3, lowk guys i’ve never seen a scream movie in my entire life but a dear anon requested this so i had to make their wish come true, i hope you guys like it,
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the campus had not slept in weeks. every hallway conversation ended in whispers. every student walking alone after dark kept glancing over their shoulder. curfews had been suggested by the university, pepper spray had been sold out at nearby stores, and every phone on campus seemed permanently glued to emergency dial.
three students dead in under a month, no one knew who was next. you sat curled up on the couch in jaafars apartment, knees pressed tightly against your chest as the local news replayed the same grainy footage of police cars surrounding another dorm building. “authorities are urging students not to travel alone at night–” you quickly muted the TV. silence swallowed the room. the only sound left was the leaves slowly scraping against the windows and the quiet scratching of jaafars pencil from the kitchen counter where he sat pretending to study. because every few minutes, his eyes drifted back to you, always watching. “baby,” he said softly. you looked up. jaafar leaned back in his chair, concern coating his features so naturally it almost hurt to look at him. his glasses slightly crooked from hours of “studying,” though you knew he’d barely read a single page.
“you’re gonna make yourself sick worrying like this.” your throat tightened. “how am I not supposed to worry?” you whispered. “people are literally getting butchered two buildings away from us.” jaafar immediately stood. he crossed the apartment in seconds before kneeling in front of you, large hands sliding gently over your thighs. “hey,” he murmured. “look at me.” you did, and like always, you felt yourself calm slightly. maybe because jaafar had always been safety to you.
you’d been together for four years. since freshman orientation, when he awkwardly offered you half of his sandwich because you’d complained about cafeteria food. you knew his favorite movies, the way he hummed while brushing his teeth, the exact look on his face before he got jealous. and jaafar; jaafar knew everything about you. sometimes it felt like he knew you better than you knew yourself. “i’d never let anything happen to you,” he said quietly. his thumb brushing along your thigh “you know that, right?” you nodded weakly. he smiled immediately at the reaction, almost relieved. “that’s my girl,” he stood up to kiss you, lips crashing into yours. “let me make you feel better, mkay?” he whispered in your ear. he then took your hand and guided you to the bedroom, making sure you knew what he was about to make you feel so good. you couldn’t help but smile. he always knew how to pull your heart strings.
after the third murder, campus emptied out. students started staying with family, some even transferred online temporarily. every classroom felt tense and hollow, but jaafar never seemed scared. concerned for you? absolutely. but scared for himself? never. if anything, he became even more attached to you afterward. he walked you to every class, waited outside bathroom doors, texted you constantly. ‘where are you?’ ‘who are you with?’ ‘did you eat yet?’ ‘come back to my apartment tonight.’ you used to think it was sweet. now it was beginning to feel…intense. still, you convinced yourself it made sense. people were dying, everyone was scared.
one evening after class, you sat beside him in the library while working on an essay. jaafar had one arm draped over your chair possessively, fingers absent mindedly playing with your hair while he scrolled through something on his laptop. “you staying over tonight?” he asked casually. “probably.” “probably?” his eyes flicked toward you. you laughed nervously. “i mean, yeah.” his expression softened instantly. “good. i sleep better when you’re with me.” your chest warmed despite yourself. jaafar always said things like that. like you were necessary. like his entire world began and ended with you. sometimes it was romantic, other times it was overwhelming. right now it felt like both.
the fourth murder happened on a thursday. a girl from your literature lecture. twenty years old. found behind the arts building. you cried in jaafars arms for nearly an hour afterward, and he held you through all of it. “it’s okay,” he whispered repeatedly. “you’re okay.” your fingers clutched tightly at the back of his hoodie. “i’m scared.” “i know.” “what if he comes after me?” jaafar pulled back immediately. his hands cupped your face almost too tightly. “he won’t.” something about the way he said it made you pause, he was almost certain. “he won’t touch you,” jaafar repeated. then he kissed your forehead slowly. “i’d kill anybody that tried.” the words should’ve sounded comforting.
instead, a strange chill crawled down your spine, but you ignored it. because this was jaafar. your jaafar. the boy who carried your books when your wrists hurt, the boy who kissed your knuckles while watching movies, the boy who told you he loved you every single night without fail. so you ignored the uneasiness. you ignored the way his jaw clenched whenever another guy spoke to you. ignored how angry he got when you didn’t answer texts fast enough. ignored how sometimes he stared at you like he wanted to crawl inside your skin and stay there. you ignored all of it. until the night everything shattered.
it was almost midnight when you arrived at jaafars apartment. he hadn’t answered your last few texts, which was unusual enough to worry you. the hallway outside his place was dark and quiet. you unlocked the door with the spare key he’d given you months ago. “jaafar?” you called softly. no answer. you stepped inside carefully. the apartment lights were off except for the dim glow coming from the kitchen. at first, you thought someone had spilled wine across the floor. then your brain finally registered the metallic smell. blood. your stomach dropped violently. “jaafar–?!” a choking sound came from the kitchen. you turned the corner, and froze. everything stopped. the world around you seemed to slow down, making you soak in every inch of the awful scene infront of you. your best friend lay collapsed against the cabinets, blood soaking through their shirt while their eyes stared lifelessly at the ceiling. and standing above them with a knife in hand, covered in blood and breathing heavily was jaafar. for one horrifying second, neither of you moved.
his eyes widened. yours filled instantly with tears. the knife slipped slightly in his grip. “baby-” you stumbled backward. “no..” your voice cracked so hard it barely sounded human. “no no no no—” trying to fully make understanding of what you’re seeing. “baby it’s not what you think.” you let out a broken sob. your entire body shook violently as jaafar slowly stepped toward you. the mask sitting on the counter beside him caught your attention, its the exact same mask of the killer reigning terror on the innocent university students. you felt like you were going to throw up. “oh my god,” you whispered. jaafars face crumbled, “please don’t look at me like that.” “you,” your voice broke again. “you killed him.” your best friend made a wet choking noise from the floor, still alive but barely breathing. you immediately tried rushing toward them, but jaafar caught your wrist before you could move. “don’t,” he said sharply. you flinched so hard he instantly softened. “baby, baby- shit, i’m sorry.” tears streamed down your face. “you killed him,” you repeated weakly. jaafar looked almost desperate now, like he was the one falling apart. “he was trying to take you away from me.”
“what?” “they kept telling you to leave campus. to stay with your parents.” his breathing grew uneven. “they were always in your ear. always around you.” you stared at him in horror. “you’re insane.” that visibly hurt him, actually hurt him. his grip loosened immediately. “don’t say that.” “he’s dying!” “I didn’t want to kill them at first!” he snapped. silence crashed through the apartment. jaafar closed his eyes briefly, trying to steady himself. when he looked back at you again, his expression shifted into something terrifyingly tender. “you have to understand,” he whispered. “i need you.” your breathing turned shaky and uneven. jaafar slowly approached again. this time you backed away immediately. the reaction crushed him.
“don’t do that,” he said quietly. “you scare me.” staring at the bloodied knife in his hand. that nearly broke him. his face twisted with panic as he quickly dropped the knife onto the counter. “see?” he said quickly. “i put it down.” you kept crying. jaafars own eyes looked glossy now. “i would never hurt you.”“how can I believe that?!” “because I love you!” his voice echoed violently through the apartment. you jumped. immediately, jaafar regretted it. “i’m sorry,” he whispered quickly. “i’m sorry, baby, please…” he stepped closer again carefully, like approaching a wounded animal. “you know me, right my love?” “no.” you whispered. that hit harder than any slap could have. jaafar looked genuinely devastated. “yes you do,” he said shakily. “you do know me.” you looked at the blood on his hands yet again. and suddenly every strange thing over the past month replayed in your head differently, the certainty in his voice, the possessiveness, the late night disappearances. it was right in your face and you chose to ignore it. jaafar noticed the realization happening, panic overtook his features completely. “no, no, stop,” he pleaded. “don’t look at me like i’m a monster.” “you are.” he inhaled sharply. you saw genuine pain in his expression.
“i did this for us.” you stared at him like you didn’t recognize him anymore. “for us?” “they were distractions.” his voice softened desperately. “everything is better when it’s just us.” aanother sob escaped you. jaafar visibly fought the urge to touch you. his hands flexed helplessly at his sides. “i know this doesn’t look like it but-” “you think?!?” “i can explain it better, just please calm down first.” “you murdered people!” “they would’ve hurt you eventually.” his nose flared in annoyance. “that doesn’t make sense!” “it does to me.” that answer terrified you most of all, because he sounded calm again. jaafar took another careful step closer. this time you backed directly into the wall. “you’re avoiding me.” “please.. don’t touch me.” you started crying harder. his expression cracked completely. for a second he genuinely looked like he might cry too. “you don’t mean that.” “i do.” “no.” He shook his head quickly. “no, you’re just scared right now that’s all.” “jaafar,” “i love you too much to hurt you.” he finally reached you.
you whimpered the second his hand touched your arm. his thumb stroked your sleeve gently anyway.“you’re shaking.” “please…” “i know, i know sweet girl.” his voice softened into something dangerously sweet. “i know you’re scared, baby, but i’m still me.” this wasn’t the jaafar you knew or maybe it was. maybe this had always been him underneath everything else. “you can’t leave me,” he whispered suddenly. your stomach dropped. his eyes reached yours desperately. “you can’t.” the possessiveness in his voice returned full force now. “i did everything for you.” “i never asked you to!” “but i wanted to!” he cried. “don’t you get it? i would do anything for you.” tears blurred your vision. jaafar moved both hands to your face instinctively before stopping himself halfway. “please don’t be scared of me.” “how can I not be..” “because you love me.”
an unspoken silence filled the room. jaafars breathing became uneven again when you didn’t answer. “you do love me,” he said softly. it sounded less like confidence now, more like pleading. you stared at him through tears. “i don’t know who you are anymore.” he looked like you’d stabbed him. then suddenly he pulled you into his chest. you gasped in panic immediately, struggling weakly against him. “jaafar!” “i got you,” he whispered frantically against your hair. “i got you, i got you–“ “let me go!” “you’re okay.” you shoved against him harder, crying openly now. jaafar held you tighter, not enough to hurt, just enough to stop you from leaving. “i can’t lose you,” he whispered shakily. “please don’t leave me too.” your entire body trembled violently. “you killed our my best friend…” his grip faltered slightly. for the first time, actual regret flickered across his face, but even then it wasn’t regret for the murder, it was regret that you saw it. “i had to,” he whispered. “no you didn’t.” “yes I did.” you looked at him helplessly. jaafar brushed tears from your cheeks carefully despite your attempts to pull away. “i need you,” he said again. the desperation in his voice was horrifying. “you’re all I have.” “you need help.” “i need you.” jaafar kissed your forehead gently, then your temple, then rested his head against yours. “you’re not leaving me, not now, not ever.” he whispered. and somehow that terrified you more than the blood, more than the body still lying across the kitchen floor. jaafar sounded utterly sincere. like in his mind, this was love. as he held you trembling against his chest while sirens wailed faintly somewhere in the distance, one awful realization settled into your bones, you didn’t know if he would ever let you go.
can you guys tell i got lost in the sauce, this is actually one of my favorite pieces i ever did 🥹🥹
𓊆❤︎︎𓊇 : your dad and michael's bodyguard bill are old friends. he and michael decide to pay a visit to escape the puplic eye. who knew his daughter was this pretty?
𓊈❤︎︎𓊉 : chubby/curvy reader. reader has a tummy. reader has a country accent. michael lowkey highkey likes your accent. p in v. unprotected sex. creampie. dick sucking. needy michael. subby michael. reader calls michael a good boy. nicknames. reader can't keep her mouth shut. michael neither. lots of dirty talk. cowgirl. missionary. 𓏽 ♫ 𝟔.𝟔𝓀
𓊆ྀི❤︎𓊇ྀི : based on 🗯️this! request. this one's pretty short :P i'm pretty busy as for the next week so you'll probably just get some drabbles before i can feed you guys proper fics againnn. if you see typos, no u didn't.
𝓂asterlist || 𝒾ntro || 𝓃avigation || 𝑡aglist
The truck rumbled up the gravel drive a little after four in the afternoon, its tires crunching steadily over the loose stones as it made its way toward the house, kicking up a thin cloud of dust that hung lazily in the warm air before settling back onto the drive.
The late afternoon sun had already started to turn everything a softer shade of gold, catching on the tops of the trees and stretching long shadows across the yard, and for a moment, the only thing you could hear from inside was the low, familiar growl of the engine getting closer. You heard it before you saw it, of course.
After working around cars and trucks for most of your life, you could tell half the vehicles in the county by the sound they made coming up the road, and this one was impossible to mistake. The engine purred far too smoothly, the tires were far too quiet over the gravel, and the whole thing looked like it cost more than your dad's old squad car had ever been worth.
By the time you wandered over toward the front window, wiping your hands absently against the sides of your jeans, the truck had already rolled to a stop near the porch. You caught sight of Bill climbing out of the driver's side, big and broad-shouldered, his sunglasses pushed up onto his head as he stretched one arm over the roof of the truck and looked toward the house with that familiar grin of his.
He had the same easygoing look he always seemed to wear whenever he showed up, like he'd never had a bad day in his life and probably didn't intend on starting one now. You watched him shut the door and glance toward the passenger side before shaking your head to yourself, already knowing exactly who was sitting in there and wondering, not for the first time, how long it would take before that particular city boy came wandering through your door again.
And then the passenger door opened.
You already knew Bill, of course. He'd been coming around for as long as you could remember, long before you'd been old enough to understand what he did for a living, back when he was still just your dad's friend and the two of them were young enough to think they were invincible and stupid enough to prove it. Bill had known your family for years, long enough that nobody really thought twice when he showed up.
He was practically part of the furniture by now, turning up every few months with a bottle of bourbon tucked under one arm and some ridiculous story about something he'd gotten himself into years ago, staying for dinner if your aunt had enough food and leaving before it got too late. You'd known him since you were little, had heard him laugh at the kitchen table more times than you could count, and could usually tell he was coming before you even saw his truck because he'd honk twice as he pulled into the drive.
But the man climbing out of the passenger seat was not Bill.
You stayed by the window, watching him straighten slowly beside the truck, and for a second your brain didn't quite know what to make of him. He was lean where Bill was broad, all long legs and narrow shoulders, dressed in black despite the Tennessee heat that had you feeling warm just standing inside the house. Black jeans, a black jacket, dark shoes that looked far too clean for the gravel driveway, and sunglasses that looked expensive enough to cover a month's worth of rent if you could somehow convince the right person to buy them. He shut the passenger door carefully behind him and then stood there for a moment, looking around as though he wasn't entirely sure what he'd been brought to.
His gaze moved slowly across the property, taking in the old farmhouse, the weathered barn sitting farther back beneath the trees, the fields stretching beyond it, and finally the police cruiser parked crookedly beside the shed.
There was something almost cautious about the way he looked at everything, like he was trying to memorize a place he'd never expected to see for himself. Then he reached up and pushed his sunglasses into his hair, and the afternoon light caught his face just enough for you to finally see him properly.
You stopped breathing for half a second.
You knew that face.
Of course you knew that face.
You'd seen it on magazine covers at the grocery store, on television, on record sleeves sitting behind the counter at the diner. You'd heard his songs whether you'd meant to or not, because there wasn't a radio station in Tennessee that hadn't played them to death. You'd watched half the country lose its mind over Thriller, had seen his name printed so often that it had become almost ordinary to look at, even though the man himself certainly wasn't.
Still, there was something different about seeing him standing there in your driveway, dressed like he was trying very hard not to be recognized, with one hand shoved into the pocket of his jacket and his curls falling messily around his forehead.
Your brain seemed to take an extra second to catch up with your eyes.
Michael Jackson.
Actually standing in your yard.
You stared through the glass.
"...Well, I'll be damned."
Not a poster. Not a magazine. Not a voice coming through your car speakers while you drove the back roads with the windows down, one hand resting lazily on the steering wheel while his songs played through the crackling speakers. This was Michael Jackson, standing in your driveway like he had somehow wandered into the middle of your ordinary Tennessee life by mistake, looking at your house with an almost curious expression as though he was still trying to figure out how he'd ended up somewhere like this in the first place.
You stepped back from the window before anybody could catch you standing there and staring, though it was probably too late for that. Your heart was doing something completely stupid against your ribs, beating hard enough that you could feel it in your chest, and you pressed your palm flat against yourself as if you could physically tell it to calm down. It didn't listen. Of course it didn't. You'd spent the last few minutes reminding yourself that he was just a man, just somebody who happened to have a very famous face and a voice you'd heard more times than you could count, but that argument became considerably harder to believe when said man was standing twenty feet away in your driveway.
"Baby girl!"
Your dad's voice thundered up from downstairs before you could even collect yourself, followed by the familiar squeak of the screen door opening and the warm boom of his laughter carrying through the house and out into the yard. "Get down here, we got company."
You closed your eyes for half a second.
Baby girl.
Of all the things your dad could have called you today, he had to pick that one.
And in front of Michael Jackson, no less.
You were going to die.
Taking one slow breath, you glanced down at yourself and immediately became aware of every little thing you'd never given a second thought to before. You tugged at the hem of your shirt anyway, smoothing it down as if that might somehow make the situation less embarrassing, then caught sight of yourself in the old hallway mirror and stopped. You stared at your reflection for a second, considered doing something, then immediately decided against it.
Another burst of your dad's laughter floated up from below. You sighed, nd finally headed for the stairs.
The old wooden steps complained beneath your bare feet as you made your way down, each creak somehow sounding louder than usual in the sudden awareness that you were about to walk into a room containing a man you'd only ever seen on television. By the time you reached the bottom, you could hear Bill talking, your dad answering him, and another quieter voice mixed somewhere between them. You slowed slightly as you reached the corner, suddenly very aware of yourself again, before forcing your feet to keep moving.
When you rounded the corner into the living room, all three men were already inside, your dad standing near the couch with one hand resting against the back of it, Bill leaning comfortably against the armchair like he'd been there a hundred times before, and Michael standing a little farther away from them with his hands loosely clasped in front of him.
Then Michael's gaze drifted across the room once more, almost absentmindedly, until it landed on you.
And stayed.
Not a glance. Not a polite acknowledgment. And for a long, strange second, neither of you moved or spoke. He looked at you. He looked at all of you. Your face, your throat, your chest and the curve of your hips. His jaw shifted, and his throat moved like he was swallowing something that tasted difficult.
Then your dad's voice broke through.
"There she is. Michael, this here's my daughter."
You stepped forward and offered your hand, because that's what you did when someone came to your house. You shook their hand like a normal person who had simple manners. "Hi."
Michael looked at your hand. Then at you. Then he took it, and his palm was warm and dry and his fingers wrapped around yours and held on a half-second longer than a handshake required.
"Hey," he said, and his voice was softer than you expected. Lighter. A little breathy around the edges. "Nice to meet you."
"Nice t' meet y' too."
His gaze flickered— a spark, there and instantly gone again.
"Soooo... y' Bill's friend," you said, pulling your hand back.
"Somethin' like that."
Before either of you could say anything else, Bill reached over and clapped Michael firmly on the shoulder, the gesture so familiar and casual that it almost made you forget who was standing in front of you. He treated Michael exactly like he treated everybody else, with the same easy familiarity he'd always had with your family, as though he hadn't just brought one of the most recognizable people in the world into your parents' living room.
"This one needed a few days off the road," Bill explained, giving Michael another friendly pat on the shoulder, "and I told him your daddy's got the best property for thirty miles. Peace and quiet."
"And a damn good grill," your dad added from beside him, already grinning. "Hope you like steak, son."
Michael's smile at that, and he glanced toward your father before giving a polite nod. "Sounds perfect."
But when his eyes came back to you, they stayed there for just a fraction longer than they needed to.
You felt the heat climb your neck before you could stop it. His stare wasn't subtle. It wasn't trying to be. It dragged down the length of you again— your hips, your thighs, the way your shirt pulled a little tight across your chest— and when his eyes came back up to yours, there was something in them that made your stomach drop, hot and sudden.
He wanted you.
You'd seen that look before. On boys at the county fair, on men at the bar, in countless movies. You knew what it meant. What you didn't know was why Michael Jackson was looking at you like that — like you were something he wanted to unwrap and taste.
"So," you said, crossing your arms under your chest, which did something interesting to his expression, "y'all stayin' for dinner or what?"
His eyes flickered again.
"Wouldn't miss it," he said quietly.
Your dad was already steering Bill toward the kitchen, one hand settling around his shoulder as he launched into a detailed explanation about some new smoker he'd bought, apparently determined to give Bill the entire history of the thing before either of them had even made it through the doorway. Bill listened with the patient expression of a man who had clearly heard several versions of your dad's latest projects over the years, but just before he disappeared into the kitchen, he glanced back at Michael.
It was quick, almost imperceptible, but you knew that look well enough to recognize it immediately. Bill's eyebrows lifted just slightly, his mouth twitching at one corner as if he were trying not to smile, and the message was obvious even without words: behave yourself. Michael caught it too, judging by the tiny shake of his head and the embarrassed little smile that crossed his face before Bill finally turned away. Then the kitchen doorway swallowed both men, your dad's voice immediately rising above Bill's as they started arguing about barbecue.
And just like that, you and Michael were alone.
You tilted your head. "Y' always stare at people like that?"
Michael blinked. A flush crept up the back of his neck, dark against his skin, but he didn't look away. "Sorry," he said, not sounding sorry at all. "Didn't mean to be rude."
"Didn't say it was rude."
His mouth opened. Closed. You watched him fumble for a response and for some reason— maybe the nerves, maybe the way he was looking at you, maybe the sheer absurdity of Michael Jackson standing in your living room getting flustered— you laughed.
It came out warm and easy, and something in his shoulders loosened at the sound.
"What's so funny?" he asked.
"Nothin'." You smiled. "Y' just ain't what I expected."
"What'd you expect?"
"I dunno." You shrugged. "Bigger, I guess. More... I don't know. Shiny."
"Shiny?"
"Y' know what I mean."
His smile broke through then— real and crooked and a little shy— and it changed his whole face. "'m shiny enough for you?"
You felt your smile widen.
"I didn't say that neither." You stepped past him toward the kitchen, close enough that your shoulder almost brushed his arm. "C'mon, city boy. Daddy's gonna talk your ear off about that smoker if we don't rescue him."
He followed. You could feel him behind you, feel his eyes on your back, on the sway of your hips, on the way your jeans hugged the curve of your ass. You didn't turn around, but your cheeks went hot, and your pulse beat hard in your throat.
Dinner went like dinner always went when Bill came around—loud, slow, and full of stories you'd heard so many times that you could practically recite half of them yourself.
Your dad had the grill going out back before the sun had even started to sink, and the smell of smoke and charcoal had drifted through the open kitchen windows for nearly an hour while the three men talked over one another on the porch.
Bill had already told some story about a fishing trip from years ago, your dad had interrupted at least twice to correct the details, and by the time the steaks finally made it onto the table, both of them were arguing about whose memory was worse. You were used to it. This was what dinner looked like when Bill came around, plates being passed from one side of the table to the other, glasses being refilled before anybody had to ask, your dad laughing loud enough to be heard from the other end of the house, and Bill always having one more story ready whenever the conversation started to quiet down.
The sun had dropped lower by then, leaving the kitchen windows glowing with that deep orange light that made everything inside look warmer than it really was. You sat across from Michael, and it took you a moment to realize that he had chosen the chair directly opposite yours.
There had been other seats available, but he'd taken that one without making a big deal about it, settling into the chair quietly while Bill and your dad argued over who was responsible for burning the first batch of steaks. You didn't think much of it at first. It was simply where he'd happened to sit. Still, every time you looked up from your plate, you found him there, and every now and then your eyes met across the table for a second before one of you looked away.
Michael seemed to be taking everything in. The food, the conversation, the house, the way your daddy talked with his mouth full despite your mother's complaints about it for years, the way Bill leaned back in his chair whenever he laughed. He looked comfortable. Then you'd catch him smiling at something your dad said, or laughing quietly when Bill exaggerated some part of an old story, and you'd decide he probably was.
"So Bill tells me y' a writer," your dad said eventually, sawing into his steak. "What kind of stuff?"
Michael's eyes flicked toward you for half a second before returning to your dad.
"Songs, mostly."
"Songs." Your dad nodded slowly, apparently deciding that was a perfectly respectable profession. "Y' write 'em yourself?"
"Yes, sir."
Your dad pointed his fork at him.
"That's good. Too many folks these days don't write their own stuff."
"Dad."
"What?"
"You don't even know what he's written."
"I know enough."
Michael smiled into his plate, clearly trying not to laugh. Your dad leaned back in his chair and looked at him again. "How 'bout you sing somethin' after supper?"
You immediately looked across the table.
"Daddy."
"What?" He looked genuinely confused by your reaction. "Boy's got a voice, don't he?"
You gave him a look that clearly said please stop embarrassing everybody.
Michael, meanwhile, ducked his head slightly, that same shy smile appearing at the corner of his mouth as his fingers moved absently around the edge of his glass.
"Maybe later."
Your dad grinned.
"That's what I like to hear."
You rolled your eyes and went back to your plate, though you couldn't quite stop the smile that tugged at your own mouth. When you looked up again a moment later, Michael was already watching you, and the second your eyes met, he smiled again.
You watched him through the candlelight— the way his fingers moved when he talked, the way he barely touched his food, the way his eyes kept finding you over the rim of his glass. Every time your accent curled around a word, you saw his attention sharpen.
"So, y' off the road for a bit?" you asked.
"For a few days," he said. "Bill thought I needed to slow down."
"And y' came 'ere?" You laughed, gesturing at the kitchen, the faded curtains, the dog barking somewhere down the road. "Ain't exactly the Ritz."
His gaze settled on you, heavy and warm. "That's the point."
You felt it low in your belly. That look. The way he said that's the point like he meant you're the point.
"Pass the oil, baby girl."
Your dad's voice snapped through the little pocket of tension before either of you had quite figured out what to do with it, calling across the table for the bottle of steak sauce. You reached for it automatically, your fingers closing around the glass before you even looked up, and held it out toward him. Your dad took it with a distracted thank-you, already turning back toward whatever story Bill was telling, but when you lowered your hand again, you caught Michael still looking at you.
Not just glancing.
Looking.
There was something almost absentminded about it, like he'd gotten caught somewhere between listening to the conversation and paying attention to you and hadn't quite realized he'd been doing it. His eyes moved over your face for another second before finally meeting yours. You couldn't help the small smile that pulled at your mouth.
"Y'alright there?"
Michael's eyebrows lifted.
"Fine."
His answer came a little too quickly, and his voice sounded rougher than it had a moment ago. He cleared his throat quietly, lowering his gaze toward his plate as though the steak suddenly required his full attention.
You watched him for another second, amused.
"You sure?"
He nodded, though he still wouldn't quite look at you.
"Yeah. I'm fine."
There was something about the way he said it that made you want to tease him, but you let him off the hook for the moment, reaching for your glass and taking a sip while trying not to smile. Across the table, Michael finally glanced up again, and this time there was a faint smile on his face too, like he'd realized you weren't going to make a big deal out of it.
Bill was watching him now. Bill knew. You could see it in the way his eyes narrowed, the way he glanced between you and Michael like he was reading a situation he didn't love.
"So," Bill said, leaning back in his chair and wiping the corner of his mouth with his napkin, "you got that creek still runnin' through the back forty?"
"Sure does," your dad answered immediately, already pushing his chair away from the table as though Bill had just reminded him of something he'd been meaning to show him all evening. "C'mon, I'll show you."
Bill stared at him for a second, clearly caught off guard by how quickly he'd volunteered himself.
"Now?"
Your dad gave him a look.
"What, you got somewhere to be?"
"Didn't say that."
"Then get up."
Bill laughed under his breath, shaking his head as he slowly stood from the table and reached for his glass. He glanced toward Michael before following your daddy toward the back door, and there was something in that look that made you narrow your eyes slightly. It was the same expression he'd given Michael earlier, only this time there was a little more amusement behind it. Michael caught the look too, judging by the way his eyes followed Bill for a second before dropping back toward his plate.
Neither of them said anything.
The screen door banged shut behind them a moment later, and the sound carried across the quiet yard before gradually fading into the distance along with the low murmur of their voices.
For the first time since dinner had started, the kitchen seemed almost strangely still. The refrigerator hummed from somewhere behind you, the old ceiling fan turned lazily overhead, and every now and then you could hear the faint creak of the house settling around you. The table was still covered with the remains of dinner, half-empty glasses, crumpled napkins, a few crumbs scattered across the plates, and the serving dishes your daddy had left sitting in the middle because nobody in your family had ever been particularly good about cleaning up immediately.
You looked across the table.
Michael had set his fork down.
He reached for his napkin and wiped his mouth slowly, almost absentmindedly, before folding it once between his fingers. Then he looked up.
Straight at you.
This time, neither of you looked away.
—
You didn't remember who moved first.
His mouth crashed into yours and your back hit the hallway wall, his hands everywhere at once— your waist, your ribs, the back of your neck pulling you closer. The kiss was all tongue and teeth, messy and desperate, spit-slick and gasping. He kissed like a man starving, like he'd been sitting across that dinner table losing his mind and couldn't hold it another second.
You grabbed a fistful of his jacket and yanked him against you. He groaned into your mouth.
"Your room," he panted, pulling back just enough to breathe. His lips were wet, swollen, already wrecked. "Where's your—"
"Upstairs."
You grabbed his hand and dragged him. The stairs groaned under both of you, and halfway up he pulled you back against his chest, mouth finding your throat from behind, teeth grazing the soft spot below your ear.
"Keep walkin'," you breathed. "Ain't stoppin' on the stairs."
He laughed against your skin— breathless, giddy, ruined already.
Your bedroom door banged open. Then shut. Then his hands were on your face, cradling your jaw, kissing you slower now but no less desperate, his tongue sliding against yours while his thumbs traced your cheekbones.
You walked him backward. He went easy. The backs of his knees hit the mattress and he sat, looking up at you with those dark, blown-out eyes, his chest already heaving.
You dropped to the floor between his legs. His breath caught. "What are you—"
"Shh." Your hands found his belt, worked the leather through the buckle. "Been thinkin' 'bout this since y' stepped outta that truck. Been thinkin' 'bout gettin' my mouth on this pretty city boy cock."
"Baby—"
"Tell me t' stop."
He just looked at you and opened his mouth, but no words came out.
You yanked his belt open. Popped the button. Pulled the zipper down and watched his jeans part, and there he was— thick and hard, straining against his briefs, a dark wet spot already soaking through the cotton where the head pressed. You leaned in and mouthed him through the fabric, wet and hot, and his hips bucked off the mattress.
"Oh god—"
You pulled his briefs down. His cock sprang free, thick and heavy, the head flushed deep and slick with pre-cum, already dripping down the shaft. You wrapped your hand around the base and he was hot in your palm.
"Shit," he whispered.
You looked up at him. His chest heaved. His mouth hung open. His hands were fisted in the sheets like he didn't trust himself to touch you.
"Y' want me t' suck your, baby?"
He shook his head. Swallowed hard. "yes..."
"Then sit still."
You lowered your mouth.
The first taste—salt and skin and the slick bead of pre-cum on your tongue—drew a groan from somewhere deep in his chest, a sound so raw it vibrated through you. You licked a slow, flat stripe from base to tip, letting your spit pool and drip down the shaft, and his thighs tensed under your free hand.
"Oh god— baby.."
You took the head between your lips and sucked. Gentle at first, just the tip, your tongue swirling around the ridge while your hand worked the base in a slow twist. His head fell back. His throat went long and taut.
Then you took him deeper.
You let your jaw go slack and pushed down, taking him inch by inch until he hit the back of your throat. You gagged around him, wet and loud, not trying to be quiet about it, and spit dripped down his shaft, pooled at the base, slicked your fingers where you gripped him.
"ah—" His voice cracked. "Your mouth— baby, your mouth is so—"
You pulled off with a slick, obscene pop and grinned up at him, mouth slick, chin wet, a string of spit still connecting your lips to his dick. "So what, baby? Use your words."
"So good." He sounded wrecked. His hand found your hair, not pushing, just holding. "Sooo damn good, baby. I can't— I've never—"
"Never what?" You licked a long stripe up the underside of his shaft, slow and filthy, and his hips jerked. "Never had a girl suck your dick sloppy like this?"
"No— no, never—"
"Shame." You took him back into your mouth and went deeper this time, until your nose pressed against the dark curls at the base and your throat convulsed around him. Your spit dripped down his balls. The room filled with the wet, obscene sounds of your mouth working him— slick and messy, gagging and slurping, no pretense at being neat about it.
He was falling apart above you. His thighs trembled. His stomach clenched. One hand was in your hair and the other was still fisted in the sheets, knuckles white, and every sound he made was needier than the last.
"So thick," you mumbled around him, pulling off just enough to breathe, your hand pumping the slick length of him while you talked. "Soooo goddamn thick, Mike. Heavy on my tongue. Y' know how good y' taste?"
"Mmmm..."
"Could suck this pretty cock all night." You dragged your tongue over the head, catching another bead of pre-cum, and he whimpered. Actually whimpered. "Y' want that? Want me to keep goin'?"
"Yeah..." His hips rolled up into your hand, desperate and involuntary. "Please. Baby, please— I want— I need to be inside you..."
You pulled off with a wet pop. Wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, slow and deliberate. "Yeah?"
"Please." His voice broke on the word.
"Good boy."
He whined. A high, desperate sound that went straight through you, his whole body shuddering.
"Yeah?" His voice was trembling, wrecked. "'m your good boy?"
"Mhmm." You crawled up his body, pushing him back onto the bed, straddling his hips. "My good boy."
He surged up and kissed you, hands fumbling with the hem of your shirt, yanking it over your head. Your bra followed— his fingers working the clasp with more desperation than skill until it gave. The straps slid down your shoulders. He pulled the lace away and let it fall, and then his mouth was on you.
Hot and open-mouthed, his tongue dragging flat across your nipple before he sucked it between his lips. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, your back arching into him, offering more, and he took it. He laved and sucked and bit down just enough to make you gasp.
"God, look at you." He pulled back, hands cupping both breasts, thumbs dragging over your nipples. His eyes were dark, reverent. "So soft. So beautiful. Y' so beautiful, baby."
"Michael—"
"I mean it." He looked up at you, earnest and wrecked. "Been losing my mind all night. Every time you looked at me. Your voice— the way you talk— I couldn't think. Couldn't breathe."
You kissed him hard and sloppy and pushed him flat on his back.
"Then don't think."
You shimmied out of your pants and panties, kicking them off the bed. He watched you the whole time, propped on his elbows, his cock slick and hard against his stomach, and when you straddled him his hands found your hips like they belonged there.
"Wait," he breathed.
"What?"
"I want to see you." His palms slid up your sides, slow, deliberate, over the swell of your stomach and the soft curve of your waist. His thumbs traced the stretch marks on your hips, pressing into the give of your flesh. He didn't flinch. Didn't hesitate. "Every inch. You're gorgeous, baby. These hips. This stomach. All of you."
Heat flooded your chest, your throat, your cheeks.
"Y' gonna make me emotional 'fore I even get y' dick inside me."
"Can't have that." His smile was shaky but real. His hands squeezed your hips, fingers sinking into the softness. "Come here, baby."
You reached down and wrapped your hand around him. He was slick with your spit, still leaking, thick enough that your fingers didn't quite meet around the base. You lined him up, the head pressing against your soaked entrance, and you both sucked in air at the same time.
"Ready?" you whispered.
"Mhm..."
You sank down.
The stretch of him knocked the breath from your lungs. Inch by thick inch, filling your wet pussy until there was nothing but the feeling of him— hot and heavy and so deep. Your head dropped forward. Your nails bit into his chest.
"Ohhhh, fuck— y' so, so thick, baby—"
The words slurred out of you, drunk and babbling. You couldn't help it. The stretch was obscene, splitting you open, and he just kept going until you were seated flush against his hips, every inch buried inside you.
"Feel good, baby?" His voice was strained, barely holding together. His hands were gripping your hips so tight you knew there'd be bruises. "Tell me— tell me it feels good—"
"S'good. S'fuckin' good. Y' so deep— so thick inside me, Mike— feel so full—"
He moaned, head pressing back into the mattress, throat bared. "Move. Please move. I need you to move."
You did. Slow at first. Just a roll of your hips, grinding down on him, feeling every inch drag against your walls. Then faster. Then harder. You braced your hands on his chest and rode him into the mattress, your tits bouncing in his face, your soft thighs slapping against his hips.
He stared up at you like you were a revelation. Mouth open. Eyes blown wide. Watching your body move above him— the bounce of your breasts, the way your hips rolled.
"Yeah," he breathed. "Yeah, baby, look at you— look at you riding me—"
"Y' like watchin' me, baby?" Your voice was breathless, catching on every stroke. "Like watchin' this pussy take your dick?"
"I love it." His hands slid up your ribs, cupped your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples while you rode him. "Love watchin' you. Love these tits. Love this body— love the way you feel— so wet, so tight—"
"So heavy," you babbled, grinding down harder, feeling him hit that spot deep inside. "Y' so deep inside me, baby. Shit. Splittin' me open. S'good— s'fuckin' good—"
"Yeah? You like how deep I am, baby?"
"Love it. Love this dick. Love the way it stretches me out—"
Your tits bounced in front of his face. The angle dragged his cock against that spot that made your vision blur.
"Oooh fuck— Mhm! right there—"
He caught a nipple in his mouth and sucked hard, and your rhythm stuttered. His tongue circled the peak, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp, and then he switched to the other breast— mouth hot and wet and greedy.
And then you felt it. That creamy, wet slickness building where your bodies met. The sound of it, obscene and unmistakable, filled the room with every stroke.
"Hear that?" He pulled off your breast, looking down between your bodies, watching himself disappear into your pussy. His voice was reverent. "Hear how wet y' are, baby? Y' creaming all over me."
You looked down. There was a ring of white cream coating the base of his cock, slick and shining, smearing on his skin every time you sank down.
"Not my fault," you gasped. "Y' the one with the pretty face 'nd big dick—"
He groaned and grabbed your hips, fingers sinking into the soft flesh, and started thrusting up into you from below— sharp, desperate snaps of his hips meeting every roll of yours.
"That's it. That's it, baby— make a mess on me— cream all over my dick—"
"Shit!—"
"You're sooo fucking wet. So messy. God, I love it— love this pussy—"
The words tumbled out of him, filthy and wrecked, and you couldn't hold back. You rode him harder, faster, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room, the headboard knocking against the wall. Your thighs burned. Your stomach tightened. You were right there, right on the edge.
"'m close—"
"Me too. Me too." He wrapped his arms around you and flipped you onto your back in one motion.
He was on top of you now. Chest to chest. His forearms braced on either side of your head, curls falling around his face, damp with sweat. He looked ruined. Desperate. Nothing like the composed city boy from dinner.
"Need to feel y'," he breathed. "Need t' be deeper. Need all of you."
"Need y' too...."
He pushed inside again, slow this time, letting you feel every inch, and then he dropped his face between your tits.
His mouth was everywhere. Kissing the swell of your breasts, licking the sweat from your sternum, burying his face in the soft give of your cleavage while his hips rolled into you. His hands slid down your sides, over the curve of your waist, and then they were gripping your ass— both hands full, fingers sinking deep into the plush flesh, pulling you up into every thrust.
"So soft," he groaned against your skin. "So fucking soft everywhere. Love this body. Love your ass in my hands—"
"Mmm, y' fuck me so good, baby.."
"Feel so good, baby. This pussy—" He drove in deep and held there, grinding against you, his face still buried between your tits. "So wet. So wet. Grippin' me so good."
"Y' so deep— y' so deep like this— oh my—"
He fucked you slow and deep, his hands kneading your ass, his mouth working up from your chest to your throat to your mouth. The kiss was sloppy. All tongue and spit and gasping breaths, and when he pulled back there was a string of saliva connecting your lips.
"Need deeper," he said, and it was a plea. "Need— let me—"
He hooked your legs over his shoulders. Folded you nearly in half. Mating press. The new angle made you both groan.
"There." Your voice broke. "Right there, right there!—"
He fucked into you with short, desperate strokes, his rhythm faltering, his breath coming in broken gasps against your mouth. His curls dripped sweat onto your forehead. His hands gripped your thighs, your ass, anything he could hold.
"Baby, 'm not gonna— can't—" He was shaking. His whole body trembling. "can't hold it— y' feel too good—"
"please don't hold it." You grabbed his face, fingers sinking into his damp curls, and pulled his forehead to yours. "Come inside me, baby. Want it. Want all of it."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Cream in my pussy. Fill me up."
He buried his face in your neck and drove into you hard— once, twice— and then he was coming. A cry cracked in his throat, raw and broken, his whole body shuddering as he spilled inside you, hot and pulsing, his cock throbbing through every wave.
The feel of him— the hot rush of it, the way his hips kept jerking— tipped you over. Your climax hit like a wave breaking, white-hot and blinding. Your pussy clenched around him, milking every last pulse, and you bit his shoulder to keep from screaming. Your thighs shook. Your nails raked down his back.
He whimpered into your throat, still thrusting weak and shallow, like he couldn't bear to stop. Like he wanted to stay inside you forever.
For a long moment there was nothing but breathing.
He eased your legs down, slow and careful. Pulled out with a wet, messy sound. You felt the slick heat of him and you drip down your thigh, and he collapsed beside you, immediately pulling you into his chest, one arm wrapped tight around your waist.
"Wow," he whispered.
"Mhm..."
"That was—"
"Mhm..."
He laughed— breathless, giddy, still shaking a little. His lips pressed to your forehead, your temple, the tip of your nose, your mouth. The kiss was soft now, tender, a different kind of desperate.
"You called me a good boy?"
You felt your cheeks go hot. "Don't get a big head 'bout it."
"Too late." He nuzzled into your hair, his hand tracing lazy patterns on your hip. "Definitely too late."
From somewhere out in the yard, your dad's voice rang out: "Told you that creek still runs clear!"
Michael froze. Then his body shook with silent laughter, his face pressing into your hair to muffle it.
"Bill's gonna kill me."
"Bill's not gonna do shit." You tilted your face up and kissed the corner of his mouth, tasting salt and yourself and him. "'sides. Worth it."
He looked at you. Brushed a strand of hair from your cheek, tucking it behind your ear.
thriller!michael jackson x fem! tall plus-size reader
thriller!michael who first met you as a makeup artist for his thriller music video. you specialized in sfx makeup and were an obvious choice for his makeup. however, he only knew of your skills, not how absolutely stunning you were.
thriller!michael who was constantly busy, his schedule clogged up with award shows, studio sessions, and drawn-out meetings. but in the very little free time he had? it was spent thinking about you. he constantly recalled how breathtaking you looked that day. your clothes were casual, just a simple cardigan and jeans but god you looked good. your curves were so prominent, his eyes were laser focused on the way your hips swayed.
thriller!michael who just couldn’t get your pretty face out of his mind. he had to do something about it. so, one day, he woke up early, the sun only just peeking out of the horizon. he was calling every connection he needed to find your number. and when he did. he was oh so nervous. his long fingers tapping in a frantic rhythm against the dial before he span the numbers into the phone.
you answered with a croaky voice, he felt a little guilty that he’d woken you up at the crack of dawn. but only a little. he felt his stomach flip a little as you spoke to him, your voice was so soft, so smooth. the things he’d do to hear it every day.
“I’d like to offer you a position as my permanent makeup artist.”
“really?! yes!...um I mean yes I’d be honoured to take the position.”
thriller!michael who’s absolutely fascinated by you. you’re so close to him, leaning down closer to him, a small eye-shadow brush in your hand. you have to keep reminding him to close his eyes because he would just keep staring at you.
“michael, you need to close your eyes.”
“hm? oh yes sorry.” he’d say so softly, no longer needing blush on his cheeks from how rosy he became near you.
thriller!michael who always makes excuses to be near you. leaving his water bottle beside you so he’d have a reason to be close. taking his lunch breaks the same time as yours. he’d even got into the habit of walking you back to your car after your work was completed. though, he always lingered a couple steps behind, admiring how your curves moved, sliding his sunglasses on to cover his wandering eyes.
thriller!michael who had always known you were beautiful but there was one day you came to work wearing a new dress. it was shorter than usual, stopping at the middle of your thigh, your stockings left your legs so smooth and shiny he just couldn’t stop himself from staring. but then you had sat down, crossing your legs and the lacy edge of your garter was revealed to him. michael almost fainted, he had to stop his jaw from dropping onto the floor. and for the rest of the day his red jacket laid precisely placed over his lap.
thriller!michael who after months of you working with him worked up the courage to take you out for dinner. he had gone out of his way to make sure the entire restaurant was empty. he was worried it was too flashy, but he couldn’t risk a crazed fan interrupting his time with a beautiful girl like you.
when he stood outside the sleek black car, holding the door open he felt the air leave his chest suddenly. you were stunning. the dress you wore was navy blue, going down to your ankles. the leg slit that allowed him to peek at the curve of your thigh had his heart beating faster than he thought it could go. but when his eyes travelled up and landed on the way the dress draped to reveal your cleavage, he was certain his heart stopped.
“you look beautiful.”
thriller!michael who was finally lucky enough to call you his girlfriend. and if you thought he was already infatuated with you, now it was an addiction.
thriller!michael who was incredibly clingy. He loved physical touch. he was always resting against you. his large hands pulling you close into an embrace, hands running up and down your waist.
thriller!michael who was obsessed with your thighs, always having a hand on them. if you were sitting beside him, he lightly grabbed your inner thigh, thumb caressing your soft skin. or if you were laying down on the couch, he’d sit beside you, hands subconsciously coming to massage up and down your plush legs.
thriller!michael who always buys you the most extravagant outfits. he never lets you shy away from them. he wants everyone to see his beautiful girl.
“michael it’s a bit…i don’t know.”
“what’s wrong with it baby?”
“I don’t know if it’ll look good on me.”
“everything looks good on you…at least try it on for me. please angel?”
thriller!michael who absolutely adores when you wear heels. his favourite pair was a sleek pair of bright red stilettos that made you stand out in every room you walked into.
“I like those shoes on you.”
“cause they make me taller?” you ask standing above him, your hands resting on his shoulders.
“because they look beautiful on you.”
thriller!michael who still gets flustered when you’re doing his makeup. you’re so close, absentmindedly resting your hand on his thigh, his own holding your waist as you blend in the contour on his cheek. his stomach had butterflies as your tongue slightly sticks out of your mouth, lightly grazing your lip.
“mike stop staring I’m tryna concentrate.”
“but you’re so cute when you concentrate.”
thriller!michael who can’t help but feel completely at peace when you kiss. every day he is surrounded by flashing cameras, screaming fans and utter chaos. but the second he walks through the front door, and you tug onto his jacket pulling him close so that your lips meet every bit of stress melts away. and as you pull away his hands will reside at your cheeks, holding you closer for just a moment more.
“missed you today mikey.”
“yeah? i missed you more baby.”
a/n: thankyou sm for readingggg hopefully u enjoyed it :)) i got a req to do diff eras with plussize!reader so hopefully this is good lolol. plz plz tell me what u think, ur fav hc or moment. anyway thankq sm for reading i will kiss everyone who likes reblogs or comments byeee
Synopsis: Since the first time Michael went in the Candy store and landed eyes on you, he never stopped looking for your face everytime he comes back.
Content: jackson era! michael x reader! fluff! michael being painfully shy to talk to you.
Author’s note: bello :) finally. here is a oneshot, written with so much love. sorry for the delay!
During the little breaks he had after rehearsal, he would make Bill drive him to the nearest candy store for something sweet.
It was just a quick stop. Right?
This is around his 5th stop for the week. He picked out his usual treats, and he walked to the counter placing it infront of you.
The second his eyes lifted up and landed on you, his heart raced.
Usually, it was an old lady at the cash register. Mrs. Pattinson. She adored Michael, but where was she? Why is there well..a beautiful girl infront of him?!
“That’ll be 8.50.” Your voice sweeter than candy itself, cut his thoughts short. He quickly nodded, as he almost immediately grabbed some dollars bills and quarters from his pocket.
His hand brushed against yours as he handed you the money.
“S-sorry. Where is Mrs. Pattinson?”
“She got sick. I am her grandkid just filling in her shop for her as she recovers.” You said as you grabbed a bag and placed his candy inside.
“Well..tell her that Michael said get well.” You smiled softly, and handed him his bag. “Will do.”
As he ate his candy inside the backseat of the car, his heart was racing. Bill noticed from the front rear mirror, but didn’t say anything. Michael’s eyes were more focused on the candy, and every bite he took.
But after that day, he dreaded that rehearsal would end as early as it could so he can go to the candy store.
To see you get candy!
For the next few days, you both exchanged greetings and goodbyes. Michael was too shy to initiate a conversation, he would just watch you as you work.
When he would be picking out candy he would just peak from where he is at, to look at you. Admire the way the sunlight woukd hit your hair and eyes.
Another day, another interaction.
“You really like candy?” You asked, as you put his candy in the bag.
“Mhm.” He was internally fighting his thoughts. So many what if’s running through his head. Should he risk it? Or regret it? “As a kid, I would always use my allowance that I earn to buy Candy..”
Your eyes shot up, and you let out a breathless laugh. “So you’ve liked candy forever?”
“Forever.”
“I hate candy.” You stated while smiling, looking at him. His big Bambi eyes met yours, as he bit down a shy smile. “You’re lying. I saw you eat candy.”
“Oh so you’ve been watching me? Is that right Michael?” His cheeks flushed as he quickly shook his head. “W-what! No! Not like that!”
You gave him a suspicious look, but still nodded. “Relax, I don’t mind.” He nodded, and gave you the money. You handed him the bag, and he quickly left.
As you counted the money, your eyes landed on a dollar bill.
“You’re sweet. Sweet like candy. Maybe sweeter. -Michael.”
That was written on the piece of dollar bill along with a bunch of doodles. You rolled your eyes and bit down a smile.
preview: days go by and you can’t seem to get your mind off of michael and his disappearance, leaving you to do the only thing left—finding him.
A/N: glad you guys enjoyed part 1 !! :,) hopefully you guys this lil last part as well. this one’s pretty longer sooo eeee! if you haven’t read part 1 here you go !! → maggots for brains
the sounds of your mother’s kitchen utensils clashing against the pots filled of food only intensified as she continued babbling about your “wrong doings” once more.
however, you didn’t pay attention like you used to.
instead, continued tapping your fingers against the window while listening to your tunes in your cassette, old headphone cord in your hands while your eyes focus on the neighborhood. you didn’t have the time today to listen to anything her or your father had to say.
it’s been days since your punishment started of staying under your parents surveillance after wandering off nights prior. days since you were able to feel freedom like a normal 22 year old and days since you’ve seen a zombie. the most prettiest and kindest zombie you’ve ever met.
michael.
vivid visions and dreams continued days after meeting him by how desperate you wanted to see michael again. where did he go? did he still want to talk? the feeling of normalcy with michael felt beautiful, something you wish you could encounter again.
as your eyes continue to scan through the neighborhood, watching kids play on their bikes and people enjoying their evening, your eyes suddenly widen before stopping the taps of your fingers over the glass. your hand reaching towards the headphone before removing it from your ear. bingo.
the sound of your parents now in unison in the kitchen making your gut churn at the sound, trying your best to ignore the feeling you look back out the window before standing up from the floor, making sure you shake away the sudden tingle from your lower body at the longevity of sitting on the rug.
“uhm…i’m going to go to bed!” you shout from across as you hear your parents voices suddenly submerge into a peaceful quietness. “honey it’s jus’ only 6!” you wince at your mothers tone before sighing under your breath. you were going to make sure one way or another your plan would work.
it just HAD to work.
“yeah but uhm…i’m jus… reallyyy tired.” at your ending words you place a palm semi-over your mouth before creating a fake yawn to escape past your lips. the sound echoing throughout only making your father laugh before smacking what seemed like the counter. “alright angel get some rest then.”
letting the silence spread again to make sure there wasn’t a sudden catch, you slowly nod before making your way towards your room to start your plan.
as hours go by till the night fully encased all around, you look at the perked up mirror in the corner of your room to come to view with your outfit, then your hair, and all the way up towards the side that looks over your bed.
the sight of the small flower bouquet tipped over the side of your bed making your heart swell up at the sight itself. you didn’t know if this was a good or stupid idea overall, but you had to find out for yourself.
with your hands now coming in contact with the stems of the flowers, you slowly click open your bedroom window before letting the dark night breeze slightly hit over your face.
the cooling sensation making a small smile appear upon your lips before tucking the bouquet gently under your arm and fully climbing out of your window carefully to start the walk to the cemetery.
your shoes almost dragging across the cracked pavement as you watch your surroundings with each step you took. once the oak trees start to appear in sight, you turn to find the half broken gates opened to the cemetery path. multiple tombstones scattered around with small gifts and half dead flowers sulking into the mushy grass.
you never went to this cemetery before so the chilling sensation only continues to grow as you slowly walk around the path, trying your hardest to not step over anything personal and being respectful as possible while trying to look for the letter ‘M’ anywhere.
“michael…michael…” your voice soft in a whisper as your eyes scan around the dark area yet failing to come across anything. you knew it was going to be hard to even find his tombstone. he’s a zombie. where do zombies even live at?
your mind going through different scattered options as you let your hands run against your leg nervously. the cool wind hitting your skin again as you sigh soon placing your back over a tree, overlooking the cemetery. maybe it was just a once in a lifetime thing? maybe michael was your lesson from your parents to never meet a zombie?
or maybe michael was just a part of your imagination.
your eyes shut as you felt your legs slowly give out by how tired you’ve become. you let your back slowly drag down over the tree before feeling your arms wrap over your knees and the flowers gently placed over the dead grass.
“where are you?” your voice small and muttered between your knees as you continue to look down. “maybe if i talk you can hear?”
another gust of wind blows making your skin prickle with goosebumps at the feeling before you continue to whisper talk to yourself.
just a moment.
you needed just a moment in peace.
“i wonder what’s it like you know…” you now lift your head up, still hugging your knees before looking up at the dark sky. the clouds slowly passing as a small glimpse of a half moon shines down. the sight so pretty as you watch the moon over you peacefully.
with a small sigh you continue your talk. “i wonder what’s it like to be you…not in a bad way jus’…” you pause for a moment as if michael was really there. taking in the silence to yourself before feeling the tips of your fingers pick against a small strand of your clothing. before you could open your mouth again to speak, a loud sound cracks from your left.
the sound making you gasp surprised as you turn your head to see michael standing there. his clothes were different this time, still dirty and rugged up yet different. his hair bunched in beautiful dark curls as his fingers move nervously against his pants.
“i…” he doesn’t fully speak. you both simply just watch one another shockingly before you break with a small smile lingering over your lips. michael watches you smile before feeling his lips do the exact same. “you’re here.”
you nod feeling yourself stand up before rubbing the dirty grass away from your clothes with your palm. “i didn’t know if it was right or not…or if i should’ve maybe..” you begin to ramble slowly with your nerves bubbling up before pausing and catching michael giggling softly under his breath.
the sound so beautiful as you continue to listen to his giggles. the happiness so clear on him it was simply too noticeable to ignore. michael catches on before slowly quieting himself down, looking at you with a calm face. he didn’t expect for you to come back but he wanted you to so bad.
after the days had past michael couldn’t stop repeating your name in his head or hushed under his breath. if he was saying something, he was murmuring your name. if he was trying to escape from people trying to attack him then he was repeating in his head your name.
and if he was simply staring at the night sky from his tombstone, he was vividly dreaming about your sweet voice, your kind manners, and your pretty face. a feeling so normal it sent him into an orbit. something so real to him in years, that he wish would come back and it did.
you did.
“are those..?” michael points towards your side as you look down to see the flowers still laying on the ground. with a small slip of an exasperated gasp, you grab the flowers off the ground and turn towards michael.
your hands palming the stems nervously as you feel the tip of your toes tapping gently against the inside of your shoes. “i wanted to place this on your tomb…wait or is it home? tomb…? i’m sorry.” michael laughs at your sudden stammer before shaking his head happily. “i get what you mean it’s jus’…”
your brows furrow as you swore you could feel a pinch from the flower stem deep in your fingertip. ignoring the sudden sting, michael looks at the petals and the bouquet colors so beautifully organized. something so crafted with care that his non-beating heart felt full once again. “it’s beautiful.” michael says your name softly—the same way he repeated your voice for days after your first encounter.
softly and with precaution.
your heart beats rapidly at the tone before feeling like putty melting into the breeze and wrapping yourself with the warm feeling michael was currently giving to you. someone so “malicious” to the public eye turned out to be someone you sought out for. someone who was the complete opposite.
“ah..here ya’ go” pushing the bouquet towards your front, so close towards michael’s chest as he looks down and lifts his palm up. the sight of his cracked hands and marks coating the surface comes to sight as you watch him carefully grab the flowers from you, gently touching your knuckles for a split second before pulling away.
the ghost of his touch lingering over your skin softly as you pull back, rubbing the same spot he touched with your finger over the knuckle. “would you like to see?” michael points towards the cemetery before realizing what he meant.
he wanted you to see his home. as you give him a slow reassuring nod, you both begin to walk carefully back on the path. michael right by your side as you both quietly walk close to one another. both your breaths matching pace as the sound of your shoes shuffling removes the silence between you both with a slight cut.
once you both reach the back end of the cemetery michael stops in-front of a small shed. “and here’s me.” at his shy voice, you look to see michael’s tomb. the color so worn out and dirty. ashes crushed on the side with dead flowers scattered amongst the brim of the tomb—as if no one has stepped a foot over here in years.
“i know it’s not the prettiest but..”
“it’s alright.”
your voice cuts him off as michael watches you suddenly kneel down towards his tomb. watching you as you wipe a finger or two over his name to remove the ash away from the front.
michael j. jackson, rest in loving peace
“see? jus’ needed a lil’ clean up that’s all.” your voice radiating with positivity as michael smiles at you. the way you picked up the dead flowers away from his tomb to grab the new ones you had given him and placing them next to his name plate, only made him even more cheesy.
michael hasn’t seen his home feel so homey. he never thought he could see the day where he could look at his tomb and feel so happy and full of serenity—till now. after what felt like a couple of minutes, both you and michael sit on the ground, not caring about the dirty mush lying underneath you both.
“i missed you actually…” your voice cuts the silence again as michael turns his head to face you. your lashes fluttering beautifully as your cheeks flush dark at the sudden confession. “i missed you too.” with michael’s words ringing through your ears you smile even wider at him.
“i’m sorry about my parents.” michael shakes his head before grabbing a small stick from the ground and messing with it in his fingers. “s’alright.” you disagree with a slight hum before subconsciously letting your palm topple over his knee. michael shifts on the ground before tensing up under your touch.
the warm feeling of your palm touching his knee driving him over as your fingers sprawl out a bit, touching him even more. “michael it’s not. i know it’s not….”
“you may not be jus’ like us but you were one of us before and that still is something.” your words so deep and meaningful as michael places his palm carefully over your own. both of you guys now holding hands as michael nervously touches you, his calloused and scarred palm so cold yet so gentle over your skin that you didn’t mind not a single bit.
“you seriously not scared of me? not a bit?” you shake your head at michael’s words before seeing him smile the biggest smile yet. his cheeks doubling in size with such cuteness as his eyes shine under the moonlight above you guys.
ignoring how dark it was, you both could still feel and sense each other beyond limits—almost perfectly actually. “you know… your parents they’re wrong about you.”
you blink surprised as michael continues, now letting his thumb rub gently against the back of your hand. “everything they said about you during that night—they’re all wrong.” michael’s words echo as you felt your eyes gloss up at hearing them. “and you’re more than jus’ a zombie.”
michael tugs the corner of his lip softly as he nibbles anxiously. you both stay quiet in the peaceful night silence, letting your hands still hold as you watch the moon and your surroundings wash to the back of your mind, while the main focus is on the person next to you. “i must go or they’ll catch me again.” at your sad and sudden tone, michael squeezes your hand a bit before nodding in understanding.
both you and michael stand up, getting a slight pull from michael for a little help, you both now stand face to face near eachother. your cozy scent swirling around michael letting him catch a whiff of the warm scent. gosh were you simply everything.
before michael could utter a single word, you slowly lift yourself on your tip toes a bit near him slowly. soon, michael feels a soft kiss placed over his skin. your warm lips over his tender cheek as he melts to the sensation, feeling himself at peace.
once you pull back michael opens his eyes slowly to see you smile at him softly. “have a nice night michael.” michael smiles before tucking his hands into his pockets, mind still focused on the kiss to his cheek. “sleep well mama” the words flowing so easily from him it made you gullible.
with one last look and a small wave, you start to head back home, making sure to keep quiet throughout the entire way back. your smile still wide as the tips of your fingers softly tap over your bottom lip at the recall of you kissing michael and catching him off guard.
the sight of his doe eyes going even more wide with a furrow of his brows and slump of his shoulders rolling back a bit only made you more pleased at the sight and act.
“michael…michael…michael…” your voice repeating his name like he did prior to tonight. meanwhile michael was currently looking at the fresh flowers on his tomb. no droopy petals, no lack of colors, no dead bugs on it. just flowers. fresh cared for flowers.
it was now michael’s most prize possession even when know one would know about it. he was just glad that you had came back and he was much more happy to know you’d be coming back again and again.
michael found something to be happy for. something to feel alive again and oh did he love that feeling right to his core.
