amyyy

RING RING!

ᯓ paris jackson x plussize!reader ➤

synopsis : your girlfriend has been away on tour for what feels like ages & unfortunately you’re needy.

cw : MDNI, smutyyy, phone sex, reader gets talked through it ( ahh ), masterbationnn yay!

— ᢉ𐭩 .ᐟ enjoy!

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Blurb: Spending some much needed quality time with your man.

Pairing: Prince (PRN) x reader

Warning/Disclaimer: I don't think there is anything bad. Mediocre writing at the most. For the time period, it's during the time he was trying to leave his label, so, 1993. Established relationship, you two are engaged.

Author's Note: First actual fic with romance, be kind.

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Blurb: Spending some much needed quality time with your man.

Pairing: Prince (PRN) x reader

Warning/Disclaimer: I don't think there is anything bad. Mediocre writing at the most. For the time period, it's during the time he was trying to leave his label, so, 1993. Established relationship, you two are engaged.

Author's Note: First actual fic with romance, be kind.

Content : The biopic got released, it’s the most successful movie worldwide but how will that affect you and Jaafar?

Jaafar Jackson x reader (angst x drama)

The apartment had been quiet for hours.

Too quiet.

The only light left on was the small lamp beside the couch where you’d been pretending to watch TV for the last hour, curled beneath a blanket with your phone resting beside you.

The episode ended twenty minutes ago.

You never changed it.

Your screen lights up again.

Not him.

Just another notification buried between headlines about your man or his recent interview or your friend’s group texting.

Eventually, without even thinking about it, you clicked to watch his latest interview.

Jaafar appears on the screen almost immediately.

Perfect posture.

Perfect smile.

Perfect answer.

“What does it feel like portraying your uncle Michael Jackson?”

Your chest tightens softly.

Because every interviewer asks him the same things now.

Over.

And over.

And over again.

“How does it feel to be your uncle?”

“How much pressure are you under?”

“What would Michael think of your performance?”

“How do you handle the criticism?”

The comments underneath the clip didn’t even help.

He sounds just like him.

He’ll never be Michael.

His smile looks just like Michael.

Michael would’ve been proud.

He looks exhausted.

That last one lingers in your head.

Because it’s true.

Maybe nobody else notices the tiny differences lately, but you do.

The slight delay before he answers questions now.

The tightness in his jaw.

The way his smile fades the second cameras stop rolling.

You glance down at your messages again.

Did you eat yet?

Sent — 7:42 P.M.

Unread.

The word sits there like it’s been ignored on purpose, even though you know that’s not true.

Still, your chest tightens in a way you don’t fully know what to do with.

Because it isn’t just that he didn’t reply.

It’s that you kept checking anyway. Because he usually replies, even on the busiest days, even back when he was still shooting, he always found a moment to check on you.

You told yourself you wouldn’t wait up this time.

You really did.

But at 11 p.m. you were reheating dinner anyway, standing in the kitchen convincing yourself it made sense to just eat later with him.

At midnight, you gave up pretending and turned the stove off, letting the food cool down while you stood there too long doing nothing.

Now it sits untouched in the kitchen while another interview autoplayes quietly from the TV.

And the worst part is that you know he’s trying.

You know he is.

But lately it feels like the entire world gets more of him than you do.

Reposting stories about the biopic, staying active online, showing up everywhere, while your messages sit unanswered, like you’ve quietly slipped out of the part of his life where he remembers to come back to you.

Outside, headlights flash briefly across the apartment windows.

Your heart lifts automatically.

Then drops when the car keeps driving.

Not him.

Again.

You sink deeper into the couch with a tired sigh, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself just as the sound of keys finally rattles at the front door.

It’s almost 2 A.M.

And the second Jaafar walks in, your heart aches instantly.

He looks exhausted.

Black hoodie, curls messy from constantly dragging his hands through them, eyes dull with exhaustion while his phone keeps vibrating nonstop in his hand every few seconds.

Jaafar barely even seems like himself lately.

And the worst part is that you miss him while he’s standing right in front of you.

“Hey baby,” he murmurs tiredly while locking the door behind him.

“Hey.”

He tosses his keys onto the counter and exhales deeply, rubbing both hands down his face.

You hesitate then quietly, “Did you even see my texts today?”

His shoulders tense immediately.

“Baby…” he sighs. “Today was insane.”

“You said that yesterday too.”

“I know.”

You stare down at your hands, hesitating.

“But …you were online.”

The room goes still. Jaafar looks up instantly.

“Oh my God.”

“No, I’m serious,” you say before you can stop yourself. “I feel like I barely exist to you.”

His jaw tightens hard.

“You think I don’t know that?”

The sudden sharpness in his voice catches you off guard.

“What?”

“Every single person around me wants something from me right now.”

“I’m not people, Jaafar.”

“I KNOW THAT.”

His voice echoes through the apartment.

Silence slams down immediately afterward.

Your chest tightens. Because he never yells at you.

Ever.

But now he’s pacing through the living room like he physically can’t stay still, hands trembling slightly while he drags them through his curls again.

“I wake up every day terrified I ruined my uncle’s legacy!” he snaps suddenly.

And the entire fight changes.

Just like that.

You freeze.

Jaafar laughs once, but it sounds horrible. Breathless. Panicked.

“They analyze every little thing I do,” he says, voice uneven now. “The way I talk, the way I move, whether I smile enough, whether I sound enough like him—”

“Jaafar I-”

“No, because everywhere I go lately…” His voice cracks sharply. “They want Michael from me.”

The sentence hits like a punch.

And suddenly he just keeps talking like the words have been trapped inside him for months.

“I can’t do one interview without them asking about him.” His breathing starts turning uneven. “Every question is about him. Every headline is about him. Every comment is comparing me to him.”

His eyes are glossy now.

Actually glossy.

“And if I mess this up?” he whispers. “If I don’t do him justice? I won’t forgive myself for it.”

Your anger dissolves instantly.

“The world forgets that I loved him too….maybe more than any of them. He was my goddamn uncle. And I’m doing this for him but...” His breathing turns uneven.

“Jaafar…”

“I don’t even know how to be myself anymore lately..”

His voice breaks completely this time.

And then he finally falls apart.

Right there in the middle of the living room.

He turns away from you suddenly, both hands covering his face while his breathing goes shaky and uneven.

Like he physically cannot hold himself together anymore.

Your heart shatters and you cross the room immediately.

“Hey, hey—”

But the second you touch his arm, he breaks harder.

A choked sound leaves him as he bends forward slightly, shoulders shaking while he tries and fails to catch his breath.

And suddenly you realize how long he’s been holding this in.

How long he’s been suffocating underneath all this pressure while pretending he was okay.

“Baby,” you whisper desperately, grabbing his face gently. “Look at me.”

His eyes are red when he finally does.

Completely overwhelmed.

“I’m so tired,” he admits brokenly.

That sentence nearly destroys you.

Not physically tired.

Soul tired.

You pull him against you instantly, and Jaafar clings to you so tightly it almost hurts.

Like you’re the only thing keeping him standing right now.

“I’m sorry,” he says shakily against your shoulder. “I know I’ve been distant, I know I have, I just—”

His voice cracks again.

“I can’t escape it anymore.”

You rub your hands up and down his back slowly while he struggles to breathe evenly.

“It’s okay,” you whisper.

“No, it’s not.” He pulls back just enough to look at you, tears sitting visibly in his eyes now. “You shouldn’t have to beg for my attention because I’m too lost in my own head to be here with you.”

Your own eyes sting immediately.

“I wasn’t trying to make you feel guilty.”

“I know.” His voice is tiny now. “I know.”

For a second he just looks at you.

Really looks at you.

Then quietly:

“You know what scares me?”

“What?”

“The fact that when I walked in tonight…” His voice shakes again. “I felt like am losing you.”

God.

That completely breaks you.

Because that’s what you were trying to fight for.

And he noticed.

“I miss you,” you whisper finally.

The look on his face crumbles instantly.

“I miss you too,” he admits softly. “So much.”

Then after a pause, “I think I forgot that you’re supposed to be the place I rest at.” His eyes lower. “Not another thing I panic about failing.”

You cup his face carefully.

“You’re not failing me.”

“But I am failing myself.” His voice cracks again. “I don’t know who I am lately outside of this movie.”

Your chest aches so badly you can barely breathe.

He laughs weakly through tears.

“Everywhere I go, they want Michael from me.”

This time the sentence sounds smaller.

Sad instead of angry.

And you realize how terrified he really is beneath all this pressure.

So you pull him back into your arms again immediately.

And this time he fully melts into you.

No pretending.

No holding it together.

Just Jaafar quietly crying against your shoulder while you hold him in the middle of your apartment at 2 a.m.

You kiss his curls softly.

“You know you don’t have to be him with me, right?”

His grip on you tightens instantly.

“You’re allowed to just be Jaafar here.”

A shaky breath leaves him.

And for the first time all night, some of the tension leaves his body.

“You’re my favorite place,” he whispers.

Tears burn your eyes immediately.

You pull back enough to kiss him softly.

But this time he kisses you back like he needed it.

One hand slides shakily into your hair while the other settles against your waist, pulling you impossibly closer until there’s barely any space left between you.

Not desperate.

Just aching.

Like he’s trying to remember what safety feels like through you.

Your fingers curl into the front of his hoodie while his forehead presses against yours between kisses, his breathing finally slowing little by little.

“I missed this,” he whispers against your lips.

“You have me,” you whisper back immediately. “Even on the bad days.”

His eyes close for a second like the words physically hit him.

Then he kisses you again.

Softer this time.

Longer.

And when you pull back slightly, you notice his shoulders aren’t as tense anymore.

The trembling in his hands has eased.

“You didn’t eat, did you?” he asks quietly after a moment.

You blink.

Jaafar sighs softly, thumb brushing underneath your eye.

“Baby…”

“You didn’t either.”

A tiny tired smile finally appears on his face for the first time tonight.

“Come here.”

He takes your hand and leads you into the kitchen.

The food is cold by now, but neither of you care.

At almost three in the morning, the two of you stand side by side reheating leftovers in complete silence while Jaafar keeps one arm wrapped around your waist the entire time like he physically cannot let go of you yet.

And honestly?

You don’t want him to.

At one point while waiting for the microwave, he suddenly pulls you against his chest again without warning.

“What?” you laugh softly.

“Nothing.”

His voice comes out muffled against your hair.

Then quieter, “I just need to hold you for a second.”

So you tilt your head up and kiss him once more.

Small.

Sleepy.

Full of love.

And Jaafar looks at you afterward like you’ve just given him something he thought he lost.

Later that night, curled together in bed with your fingers running slowly through his curls while he lays half-asleep against your chest, his hand lazily tracing shapes against your waist beneath your shirt, the apartment finally feels quiet in a good way again.

Safe.

His breathing evens out slowly.

And just before sleep fully pulls him under, Jaafar murmurs softly, “Thank you for reminding me that I’m still Jaafar.”

You press a kiss against his forehead.

“Always.”

fem reader

One-minute Man

A/N: “How you nut and you barely put the tip in it?”

Warning: Smut, embarrassment 🫣

Taglist: @d3adlyclassrat , @Weepingwillow12344, @perfectillusiontreasure , @islandsunning , @ivorydays , @sassenachmalfoy , @shanilovesbils

His mouth is wet against you.

That’s the first thought that crystallizes—his mouth, so warm and wet and eager, like he’s been thinking about this for hours. Days, maybe. Jaafar’s hands grip your thighs with a kind of reverent uncertainty, fingers flexing, then stilling, then flexing again, as if he can’t decide whether he’s allowed to hold on or if he should just hover.

Under the dim lamp glow of your bedroom, the shadows carve out the shape of his shoulders, the dip of his spine as he lies between your legs. He positioned himself here almost shyly, after twenty minutes of kissing that left you both breathless, after you’d pulled back and said, “I want your mouth on me,” and watched his eyes go impossibly wide.

Now his tongue traces a slow, experimental line up your center.

Your head presses back into the pillow.

“Like that?” he murmurs against you, voice vibrating through sensitive skin.

“Yeah. Just like that.”

He makes a small sound—half relief, half hunger—and does it again. Longer this time. Slower. His tongue flattens, drags, curls at the top where you’re most sensitive.

Jaafar Jackson fucks like he’s still learning the choreography. Every movement careful, attentive, checking for your reaction before committing. When your hips rise to meet his mouth, he groans, and the sound is so unguarded you feel it deep in your belly.

“You taste so good,” he whispers, and the words come out almost pained.

His lips close around your clit and he sucks—soft, then harder when your fingers twist into the sheets.

Your breathing goes shallow.

The wet sounds of his mouth fill the room. Slick and obscene. He’s messy with it, enthusiasm outpacing technique, chin glistening, tongue working you in broad, devoted strokes. Every few seconds his eyes flick up to your face, checking, needing to know if he’s doing it right.

You stroke his hair. “Relax, baby. You’re doing perfect.”

His whole body shudders.

That’s when you notice it—the subtle rhythm of his hips pressing into the mattress below. He’s not even touching himself. Just grinding, slow and helpless, against the bunched-up comforter. The movement is unconscious, instinctive, his body chasing friction while his mouth stays devoted to you.

“Are you humping the bed?” you ask, voice teasing but soft.

He freezes. Pulls back just enough to look up at you, lips swollen, cheeks flushed dark.

“I—no, I wasn’t—I mean, maybe a little, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“Jaafar.” You laugh gently. “Don’t stop. I didn’t tell you to stop.”

He stares at you for a beat. Something vulnerable flickers across his face—embarrassment, but also a raw, unraveling want.

Then he lowers his mouth back to you.

This time his tongue moves with more urgency. Less measured. He’s stopped pretending he isn’t grinding against the mattress, and the little broken sounds he makes against your cunt tell you he’s past the point of caring.

Your fingers tighten in his hair.

“That’s it. Right there. Don’t stop.”

He moans. The vibration sends a spike of pleasure through you. Your back arches.

And then it happens.

Jaafar’s whole body goes rigid. His mouth stutters against you, loses rhythm. A choked, desperate sound tears out of his throat—surprise and agony and bliss all tangled together—and his hips jerk against the mattress once, twice, three times. Convulsive. Unmistakable.

He buries his face in the crease of your thigh.

For a long moment, neither of you moves.

His breathing is ragged, almost panicked. The hands gripping your thighs are trembling.

“Oh my god,” he whispers into your skin. “Oh my god, oh no.”

“Jaafar?”

“I’m sorry.” The words tumble out, muffled against your thigh. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t—I wasn’t trying to—it just happened, I couldn’t—”

You push up onto your elbows. “Hey. Look at me.”

He doesn’t move.

“Baby. Look at me.”

Slowly, agonizingly, he lifts his head.

His eyes are glassy, wide with mortification. His lips are slick, cheeks flushed a deep, burning red. The sight of him—so undone, so wrecked from nothing more than tasting you—sends a pulse of heat straight through your core.

“Did you just come?” you ask, keeping your voice gentle.

He squeezes his eyes shut. Nods. The gesture is tiny, miserable.

“From eating me out?”

Another nod. He looks like he wants the mattress to swallow him whole.

“That’s the hottest thing that’s ever happened to me,” you say.

His eyes snap open. “What?”

“You heard me.” You reach down, cup his jaw, thumb brushing over his slick lower lip. “You came just from tasting me. Do you know how good that makes me feel? How wanted?”

His brow furrows. “But I didn’t even—I was supposed to make you finish first, and I just—”

“You will.”

“I came in my pants like a teenager,” he says, voice cracking with shame. “I’m a grown man and I—”

“Jaafar.” You tug gently at his jaw until he crawls up your body, bracketing you with his arms. The evidence of what just happened is a damp patch against his gray sweats, impossible to ignore. “Stop. Seriously. I’m not mad. I’m not disappointed. I’m turned on.”

He blinks.

“Really?”

“Really.” You pull him down into a kiss. He tastes like you—musky and sharp and intimate. “Now take these off.”

Your fingers hook into the waistband of his sweats.

He hesitates. A last flicker of shame.

But your other hand slides between your own bodies, pressing flat against the wet spot on his gray sweats, and his hips jerk involuntarily. A whimper catches in his throat.

“Sensitive?” you murmur against his mouth.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Really sensitive.”

“Good.”

You push his sweats down over his hips. He helps, kicking them off awkwardly, still half-wrapped in embarrassment. His boxers follow, and then he’s bare above you—lean muscle and smooth brown skin and a cock that, impossibly, is still hard. Not just hard. Thick and flushed and curving up toward his belly, wet at the tip despite having just come.

“Look at you,” you whisper. “Still so hard for me.”

A full-body shiver goes through him.

“I can’t believe—I mean, I’ve never—” He swallows. “It’s never happened that fast before. Ever.”

“First time for everything.”

You wrap your hand around him.

The sound he makes—a broken, airless gasp, half-relief and half-torture—goes straight to your clit. His hips buck into your grip, and he immediately tries to pull back, as if he’s done something wrong.

“Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“Stop apologizing.” You stroke him slowly. Once. Twice. He’s so hard the skin is stretched tight, velvet over steel, and every slide of your palm makes his thighs tremble. “Does this feel okay?”

“Too okay,” he manages. “It’s too—I’m gonna—”

“Already?”

He buries his face in the crook of your neck. His breath is furnace-hot against your throat. “You don’t understand—I’ve been thinking about this for so long. For weeks. Every time we hung out, every time you touched my arm or laughed at something I said, I’d go home and just—I couldn’t stop thinking about—”

“Tell me.”

“About this. You. Exactly this.” His hips are moving now, helpless little thrusts into your grip. “And now it’s real and I’m so—you’re so—”

Your hand stills.

He makes a noise of pure distress.

“I want you inside me,” you say.

“But I just—”

“I know.” You release him, reach down to guide him where you want him. The head of his cock nudges against your entrance—slick from his mouth, from your own arousal—and you both suck in a breath. “I want it anyway. I want to feel you.”

“I’m going to come,” he warns, voice cracking. “The second I’m inside you, I’m gonna—I can’t—”

“Then come.”

You pull him in.

The first inch makes him sob. Not a small sound—a real, ragged sob, torn from somewhere deep in his chest. His cock pushes into you, thick and hot and pulsing, and you feel every millimeter of it as your body stretches to accommodate him.

“Oh god,” he chokes. “Oh god, oh—please, I can’t, I’m already—”

“Shh.” You wrap your legs around his waist, lock your ankles at the small of his back. “Just feel it, Jaafar. Just feel me.”

He sinks deeper.

And his whole body convulses.

“I’m coming,” he gasps, and the words are desperate, apologetic, ecstatic all at once. “I’m coming, I’m sorry, I’m—fuck—!”

His hips slam forward—burying himself to the hilt—and you feel the hot pulse of him inside you, the rhythmic clench of his release. He’s gasping into your neck, fingers digging into the sheets on either side of your head, every muscle drawn tight as a bowstring.

You hold him through it. Stroke his spine. Murmur his name.

“Good boy,” you whisper. “That’s it. Let go.”

The shudders take a long time to subside.

When they do, he’s still inside you. Still hard. His breath comes in ragged, disbelieving puffs against your throat.

“I’m sorry,” he says for what feels like the hundredth time.

“You keep saying that.”

“Because I mean it.”

“Stop meaning it.”

He lifts his head. His face is a ruin—tear-tracks, flushed cheeks, a sheen of sweat. Hair a mess from your fingers. Eyes wet and dark.

“I wanted to last. I wanted to be good for you.”

You brush the damp curls off his forehead. “Who said you weren’t good?”

“I came twice in five minutes.”

“Three times, if you count the bed thing.”

He groans and drops his forehead to your collarbone. “Please don’t.”

But there’s something lighter in his voice now. A crack of humor.

And he’s still inside you.

You tighten around him—deliberately, a slow clench—and his breath hitches. His cock twitches in response, a reflexive jerk that makes him whimper.

“Too much?” you ask.

“I don’t know.” The words come out strained. “Maybe. It’s—I’m so sensitive, everything’s—”

You do it again. Tighter this time. A slow, deliberate squeeze along his length.

His hips jerk involuntarily.

“Oh,” he breathes. “Oh, that’s—”

“Good?”

“I don’t know.” He sounds wrecked. Genuinely, utterly wrecked. “It’s so much, I can’t—I don’t know if I can take it.”

Your answer is to roll your hips.

He cries out. Not loud—the sound is muffled against your shoulder—but it’s sharp and involuntary and his whole body jolts like you’ve touched a live wire to his spine.

“You’re still hard,” you murmur. “You’re still inside me. And you’re still hard.”

“I know.”

“That’s not a normal refractory period, baby.”

“I know.” He sounds almost distressed by it. “I don’t know what’s happening—it’s like my body didn’t get the message that we’re done.”

“Who said we’re done?”

His head lifts. Those dark eyes find yours.

There’s fear in them. Real fear. But also something hungrier. Something that wants to be pushed past what he thinks he can handle.

You roll your hips again. Slow, this time. Deliberate. A grind that presses the base of him against your clit and drags a moan from your own throat.

“I haven’t come yet,” you remind him. “You promised you’d make me come.”

“I—yeah. I did.”

“So make me come.”

He stares at you for a long, suspended moment.

Then he moves.

The first thrust is tentative—a shallow, testing roll of his hips that makes him hiss through clenched teeth. Overstimulation. You can see it on his face, in the way his jaw is locked and his eyes are squeezed shut and every muscle is trembling. But he doesn’t stop.

“That’s it,” you encourage. “Good boy. Just like that.”

A broken sound escapes him.

He thrusts again. Deeper. The overstimulation is written all over him—the flush crawling down his chest, the sweat beading at his temples, the way his thighs shake every time he bottoms out. His cock is still so hard, twitching inside you with every stroke, and you can feel the residual wetness of his last orgasm making every glide slick and obscene.

“I can’t—it’s so—” He can’t finish the sentence.

“Does it hurt?”

“No, it’s—it’s too much, but it’s not—I don’t want to stop.”

“Then don’t stop.”

Your hands slide down his back, over the flexing muscle of his ass, pulling him deeper. The angle shifts and suddenly he’s hitting a spot that makes your vision blur, and the sound you make is so raw it seems to startle him.

“Right there?” he asks, breathless.

“Right there. Don’t you dare stop.”

He doesn’t. Even though tears are leaking from the corners of his eyes now, even though every nerve in his body is screaming with overstimulation, even though his rhythm is starting to fracture into something desperate and irregular. He’s shaking so hard you can feel it through your entire body.

“Look at you,” you whisper, cupping his face. “Taking it. Being so good for me.”

“I’m gonna—” His voice cracks. “I think I’m gonna—”

“Come again?”

“I don’t know if I can—there’s nothing left, I don’t think I actually can—”

“Then just feel it. Let it happen.”

His mouth opens on a silent cry.

The thrusts are frantic now. Uncontrolled. His hips snap against yours with a rhythm that’s lost all pretense of technique—he’s chasing something, running toward a cliff he’s not sure he can survive.

Your own climax is building. Low and hot in your belly. Every stroke of his cock inside you, every desperate sound he makes, pushes you closer.

“I want you to come with me this time,” you tell him. “Can you do that? Can you hold out for me?”

His answer is a sob.

But he nods.

“Good boy.” Your thumb traces his cheekbone. “My good boy.”

The tension in your core is winding tighter, tighter—

His hips stutter. His whole body is vibrating, wound to a breaking point that’s been exceeded twice already.

“I can’t,” he gasps. “I can’t, please, I need to—”

“Wait. Just a little longer.”

“I can’t!”

“Yes you can.”

You clench around him—hard, deliberate, the way you know he can’t resist—and watch his face shatter.

But he doesn’t come.

He holds. Trembling, sobbing, eyes wild, but holding.

And something about that, about the sheer effort he’s putting into pleasing you, about the way he’s pushing past what his body is screaming at him to do, tips you over the edge.

“Now,” you breathe. “Jaafar—now—”

He slams into you one last time and you feel him break—the dry, convulsive clench of a third orgasm, and it might be dry but it’s devastating, wracking his whole frame with shudders that have no end. And you’re right there with him, your own climax crashing over you in waves, pulling a cry from your throat that you don’t bother to muffle.

For a long moment there’s nothing but the two of you. Breathing. Trembling. Stuck together with sweat, clinging.

He’s collapsed on top of you, weight solid and warm. Still inside you.

Still—

“Jaafar.”

He doesn’t answer. Just breathes against your neck.

“Baby.”

A weak sound.

“Are you still hard?”

A pause.

Then, impossibly, you feel it. The subtle twitch. The stubborn, unrelenting stiffness.

He lifts his head. His eyes are red-rimmed, cheeks blotchy, expression one of complete and total bewilderment.

Michael, you have God-given talent. And if a person is to make a difference in the world, he must preserve that talent, develop it, and use it for the good of others. Because of your musical talent, you have stirred generations of people all across the world. And for that, history has reserved a page for you in its annals. And then, for your humanitarian acts—for caring about what happens to people, caring enough to do your very best—I assure you that immortality will cradle you gently in its arms, and you will be forever known.

Lonely!Michael Jackson x Female!Reader

Warning: None. Long drabble. Inspired by Leave Me Alone,  You Are Not Alone, and Earth Song (Don’t ask. Lol)

Michael never liked to openly express his feelings. He felt embarrassed when he did; stupid. Every time he felt as if he had diverted from his curated persona, it felt as if he were some stupid fly on the wall. Everybody would walk past him, ignore him. Under his famous persona, he was nothing but a tool.

It felt as if people would keep him around to check off a list. Touring; done, autograph; signed, paparazzi appearances–done. Tabloids would exploit him. One walk outside his house. And he was bombarded by scavengers, their cameras flashing. 

Nobody ever dared to notice the loneliness he felt underneath; the fidgeting of his hands, the lost and dazed stares. He was nobody beyond “Michael Jackson: King of Pop.” He was a profit—product. His face plastered everywhere, songs blasting on every radio station. He loved to reap the benefits of his hard work, but sometimes he just wanted to live. Sometimes he would find himself wondering if it had all been worth it; if his career was worth pursuing.

But it was all he knew. From when he lived in Gary, his father, Joseph, struck them into the perfect Jackson 5, to his current stance as Michael Jackson, the soloist. He didn’t know who he was beyond Michael. Sometimes he wished he could go back to just being “Mikey” —that kid from Gary.

Michael blinked behind his sunglasses, his hair tied in a loose ponytail. He was inside, and he knew it was useless to wear the glasses, but it comforted him to be able to hide behind them— no matter how sad, happy, or angry he felt. They were his shield. 

His hands anxiously tapped against his knees, his eyes glancing around the room, the clock slowly ticking. He hadn’t wanted to be here; not one bit. He couldn’t sleep, and his skin felt as if it were burning. But when he heard your name, his heart had leaped to his stomach. 

He didn’t know what it was about you. Maybe it was the way your eyes would fall onto his stature, eyes glossy with thought. Or maybe it was the way you carried yourself, eyes soft with understanding whenever he would talk to you or bare his teeth. Or maybe it was the way that you would allow him to talk about his faraway dreams of a dreamland beyond, where he was your Peter Pan, and you his Wendy. 

Michael exhaled harshly as his eyes shut in irritation. He was seated in front of a recording camera, the hands holding it aged. The cameraman stood under the blaring sun with a visor, his shirt loose and pooling around his stomach. Michael took note of the muddied and dried ketchup on his shirt, his eyes trailing back to the spot every once in a while. 

“Tell me again, Michael. What is this album about?” 

Michael blinked, his fingers stopping in their stride. He swallowed, his eyes ripping from the yellowed stain and onto the camera. He chewed the inside of his mouth, his teeth harshly baring against the soft insides. The silence was deafening. 

All he could hear was the loud breathing of the cameraman and the loud chirping of the birds lounging about. He raked his mind for an answer. He had one, a perfectly visualized explanation: what the album was, the message behind it, and the auditory inputs that went into it; what everything represented. But he couldn’t find it in him to answer. 

How hard was it for him to open his mouth and speak the words trapped in his mind? Apparently, hard enough. Michael’s idle hands began to tap against this knee again, the knobbing pestering stimulating a rush of adrenaline throughout his body. 

“Can we take a break?” he asked. His voice was barren of the sweet excitement he often wore, and broke into the silence with a hoarse yet gentle tone. He hadn’t even waited for the answer; he just stood. He didn’t know where he would go, or where his feet would take him, but all he knew was that he wanted to be as far as he could from that darn camera.

The air outside the door hit him like a wave, fresh and cold. It felt refreshing. He could feel his nerves begin to calm at the elimination of surveillance. It felt nice. Michael continued to walk, his feet softly padding against the floors of the Hayenhurst hallway.

He could hear voices beyond the hallways, soft laughter blending into conversation. He followed the sound, his shoulders slightly tense. His stride had gotten faster, and his eyes subtly squinted under the glasses. He could hear your soft giggles, the sweetness of your voice lulling him closer. 

He rapidly blinked as he neared the corner, his patience already waning for your appearance. 

His heart warmed when he saw you, your back facing him. Still, you had managed to calm him down without even turning to face him. He blocked out the way his mother’s eyes trailed from you to him, and only took in the moment when you turned. 

You were slightly confused, eyes squinted as you tried to understand the situation. But suddenly, a soft smile broke out on your face, and Michael felt his attention drawn to you. Your footsteps were soft against the floors, your white flats glistening under the fluorescent lights. 

“Michael, you alright?” you asked, your voice laced with a soft lilt. “Are you finished with the interview?” you continued. Michael’s teeth found themselves biting the soft mucosa lining behind his lip. He couldn’t find the words to respond, and instead continued to stare at you behind his glasses. 

The silence from Michael was frightening, and you could sense something was off from the way he continued to wear his glasses in front of you. Slowly, you stepped closer, “Michael?” you mumbled. 

Michael blinked before taking a deep breath. His voice was calming, your heart slowly relaxing at the sound of his confirmation, “Yeah. Just tired.” You blinked at him, processing everything. Your eyes fell behind him at the small movement at the end of the hallway, the door where he was being interviewed opening as the cameraman stepped out in frustration. 

 Michael Jackson

Synopsis: The media has chosen it's next celebrity to bully, and this this, for the umpteenth time, they chose Michael Jackson.

Pairing: Boyfriend!Michael Jackson x fem!reader

Warnings: Angst, Michael's sadness should be considered a tw at this point.

Word count: 1.5k

Drea's note: Going through twitter pissed me awffff so I wrote this to get the angst out my system. Lmk what you think and have tissue ready!

word count: 1028

request?: no

description: after the death of another friend, colson starts to realize his way of living is dangerous and could cost him so much

pairing: machine gun kelly x female!reader

warnings: swearing, mentions of drugs, mentions of death, sad boy hours up in here for this one

masterlist

based on this tweet and this one

You knew something was wrong with Colson. He seemed off the whole day - staring off into space, not listening to what you or Casie were saying, often forgetting what he was doing because he was so deep in thought. What tipped you over the edge in thinking something was wrong was when Colson went to tuck Casie in. You decided to follow and stood outside of Casie’s door, listening to Colson speaking to his young daughter.

“I love you so much, you know that right Cas?” he asked her.

“I know dad,” Casie responded. “And I love you, too.”

“And I regret missing so much of your childhood because of touring and work and everything. I missed so many little things, I’m so sorry baby.”

“Dad, I don’t care about that,” Casie assured her father. “You were blowing up, and it was all for me anyways. And you’re trying now. That’s all that matters dad.”

You peaked into the room to see Colson hugging his daughter. You couldn’t see his face, but you could see he was shaking. You were almost certain he was crying.

You went back down to the kitchen before either one of them noticed you there and started cleaning the dishes as if you had been doing it the whole time. After another few minutes, Colson came down into the kitchen and wrapped his arms around you, burying his head in the crook between your shoulder and neck.

“Colson, what’s going on?” you asked him. “You’ve been out of it all day, like you’re lost inside your own mind. Has it just been a bad mental health day?”

He shook his head. You felt him beginning to tremble and heard him take a deep, shaky breath, as if he were sobbing. You quickly turned around in his arms and hugged him close to you. This wasn’t new to you. Colson had bad mental health days, and the only person he liked to turn to was you. You were always there for him, no matter what. You figured this was just another bought of bad depression hitting him hard.

When he finally regained himself enough to speak, he told you, “It’s not just that, it’s Juice, too. Dude was only 21 and he OD’d this morning. He was 21! He had such a bright future ahead of him and it’s all gone now because of those goddamn drugs.”

You wiped the tears off his face, unsure of what to say to that. Colson had been going through a lot the past few months, the past year in general really. He had lost a lot of friends and it was obviously taking a toll on him. He had been incredibly upset when he got the news that morning about the passing of one of his friends and fellow rappers, Juice WRLD. Obviously you knew he wasn’t okay, but this outburst had taken you aback a little.

Colson pulled away from you, shaking his head as he ran his hand through his hair. “All my friends have just been dropping like flies, and it’s all the same shit; drugs and mental health. But none of us wanna do shit to help ourselves because we’d rather drown ourselves in alcohol and pump too many drugs into our system because it makes us feel better. This lifestyle only has one ending lately, and it’s not a good one.”

He sunk to the floor, sitting up against the kitchen counter. He lowered his head and began to cry again. This was the hardest you had ever seen Colson cry. Even when he was having a hard day mentally, even when he fell and fractured yet another bone, even when he told you about all he had to miss in Casie’s life because of his fame and touring, this topped them all.

You sat next to him on the floor and wrapped your arms around him. He buried his head in your shoulder and held you tightly against him. You knew your best course of action was the let him grieve. He had every right to. What else do you do when it feels as though all your friends are dying?

Colson squeezed you, so you squeezed him back, as if reassuring him that you weren’t going anywhere.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he said. “I can’t play with death like this anymore. It’s too real now, that could be me at any time.”

You nearly cried when he said this. You had never considered any of this tragic stories being Colson, and honestly you didn’t want to. That terrified you. Colson was the love of your life, you couldn’t imagine having to live without him.

“You can’t leave us, Colson,” you told him, holding him a little tighter then. “Casie and I need you. We can’t be without you.”

He shook his head. “I can’t leave you girls. I would never be able to leave either of you on good conscious. I’d fight whoever was waiting for me at the gates to let me come back.”

You took his head in your hands and raised it so he was looking at you. You wiped his tears again with your thumbs. “I’m not telling you what to do, but I am telling you that you do need to cut back on the partying. You don’t have to give up the drugs and the drinking, but when someone gives you something, or when you go to take a drink when you’re already high as fuck, just picture me and Casie waiting for you at home.”

He squeezed you a little tighter at this. “I’ll always come home to you, (Y/N). I promise.”

You cupped his face and kissed his forehead. “I know, baby.”

“And I’ll give it all up, all the partying, for you and for Casie, I promise.”

You giggled. “That’s a lot of promises, Colson.”

“Just one more.” He kissed your nose and told you, “I promise to love you forever, and that our forever will last till we’re too old to remember all of this.”

You smiled and kissed Colson. “I promise to love you forever, too, babe.”