Can I request reader is Jackie’s girl and Marlon likes to tease her and provoke her and she tells him that she can take him on and get him in submission and he accepts the challenge so they’re wrestling and Jackie doesn’t like it but just warns Marlon not too much but then she genuinely locks him up and they all just laugh and bond over it? And maybe someone can say to Jackie “I see why you try not to make her mad” or something?
— ᨳଓ . Atta girl | Jackie x reader
⋆.˚ Summary : Marlon has a bad habit of pressing your bottons, so you decide to put an end to his teasing
⋆.˚ Warnings : none ！
ᝰ.ᐟ Riri's notes : lowkey hate how this came out, but we move !
Marlon had a habit of pissing you off; despite the warnings he'd get from Jackie, it was almost like instinct to mess with you. He'd playfully poke at you when you weren't looking, and when you'd tell him to leave you alone, he'd say, "I'm not touching you!” Like a younger sibling, and today was no different.
The Jackson household was as loud as usual, with everyone shouting to make their points, the boys roughhousing and laughing, and various animals running around, creating an even more chaotic atmosphere.
While everyone else roamed around, you and Jackie sat on the couch, watching whatever came on at the time, but it wasn't long before Marlon came waltzing around the back of the couch, the urge to get under your skin just radiating from him.
“Marlon, I swear if you don't move." You put your hand up in front of his face, blocking his face before he pushed it back down.
“And what are you going to do if I don't?” he poked at you, just to see how far he could push you.
“You'd be lucky if I don't lay you out on this living room floor."
“You couldn't do that; you're too soft," he spoke, walking around the front of the couch, stepping into your view.
“Oh yeah?” you finally stood up, grabbing Jackie's attention as he watched what was about to go down.
“Marlon, I'm taking it easy and keeping my hands to myself, got it?” Jackie spoke, a finger pointed right at his brother.
“Man, don't worry, J." He threw his hands up defensively, that cocky smile plastered on his face like always, yet before he knew it, his feet were swept out from under him, sending him tumbling down toward the thick carpet, a groan coming out of his mouth. All the commotion caught the attention of the rest of the brothers, who filled into the living room to see what in the world was happening.
Not only did you send him tumbling to the ground, but you somehow managed to have him pinned down against the carpet, the sounds of his brothers laughing and cheering you on as you took their jokester of a brother down, putting an end to his endless habit of messing with you.
“Okay, Okay, I get it! "I'll leave you alone," he shouted, finally surrendering as you let him go, standing up to give in to the cheers of his brothers, along with your boyfriend, who sat back against the cushion of the couch, arms crossed as he leaned forward, letting out a laugh.
Tito, who stood around, stuck his hand out to help Marlon, who'd stayed laid out against the floor, completely shocked by what just happened before taking his hand and getting himself up off the ground.
“She got you good, Marlon," Jackie spoke up, placing an arm around your waist as you sat back down on the couch.
“Well damn, Jackie, I see why you try not to make her mad now, saving yourself." Tito spoke up, laughing as he patted Marlon's shoulder as a silent way to comfort him for his defeat.
“Now, leave me the hell alone, Marlon; I'm not playing," you said, pointing in his direction and rolling your eyes.
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For Michael Jackson, stepping onto a stage was one of the best feelings in the world—that adrenaline, the screams from the audience, the music pulsing through his veins. But honestly? That was nothing compared to the sight that awaited him backstage.
Because the best part of the night, without a shadow of a doubt, was seeing his wife smiling at him as soon as he came off stage, still breathless, still sweaty, still wearing those shiny outfits. Dalila was always there with a water bottle and a towel, with that look that said *"you were incredible."*
It was such a good feeling.
The post-show sex was simply phenomenal. All that accumulated energy, all that adrenaline trapped in his muscles, needed to go somewhere—and Michael discovered that the best way to dissipate that excitement was to undress Dalila as quickly as possible and take her to bed (or the couch, or the chair, or any flat surface and some not-so-flat ones).
They were newlyweds, technically still on a permanent honeymoon, and there was accumulated sexual tension that needed to be released urgently. After all, both had come to the marriage as virgins.
On one occasion in Chicago, they managed to accidentally break a hotel bed. The wooden structure simply couldn't withstand the enthusiasm.
The expression of surprise on his brothers' faces when the hotel manager came personally to charge for the damages? *Priceless.* Jackie nearly choked on his coffee. Tito simply turned his back and walked away, shaking his head. Marlon, on the other hand, couldn't stop laughing for an entire week.
"You guys are a newlywed couple," Marlon said, between laughs. "Not a demolition crew."
"It's not my fault if the furniture can't handle true love," Michael replied, with that smug smile of someone who knew exactly what he was doing.
It was very satisfying, indeed. He was married to an absurdly beautiful woman—that skin, those eyes, that body that he could finally call his—and yes, they had sex. Lots of sex. Sex in bed, sex in the shower, sex in dressing rooms when no one was looking.
And if that broke some furniture along the way?
They were married in the eyes of God and weren't doing anything wrong.
In fact, his performances had improved since his wife started accompanying him on tour.
Dalila improved whatever environment she was in; the backstage fighting decreased, and even Joe was calmer and more relaxed.
Although he seemed more tired than usual.
(. . .)
Despite the enormous commercial success of *Off the Wall*, the album had been left out of the major categories. Album of the Year, Record of the Year—the categories that really mattered that night—didn't have my name.
I tried not to show how much that bothered me.
But I was frustrated.
Very.
I knew how hard I had worked on that album. I knew how many nights I had spent in the studio, how many times I had redone a part because it wasn't quite the way I wanted it yet. I knew what those songs meant to me.
And yet, when the nominations came out, it seemed like all of that wasn't enough.
Michael spent the entire ceremony disguising his frustration.
No one noticed except Dalila.
Of course she noticed.
Dalila knew my expressions better than anyone, and sometimes it seemed like she could read my mind.
But she only brought it up when we reached the suite where we were staying.
"You're upset."
"No."
She gave me a look.
"Michael."
I sighed. It was impossible to lie to her.
"I am," I admitted.
She didn't try to convince me that I should be happy.
She didn't say I should be grateful.
She didn't say those things people usually say when they want to make a disappointment seem small.
She simply made me sit on the couch and hugged me.
"You wanted to win one of the major categories."
I looked at her.
"I did."
My voice came out lower than I intended.
"I know I shouldn't think this way, but... I wanted to."
"And there's nothing wrong with that," she said.
I stayed silent for a few seconds.
"Sometimes I feel like no matter how much I do, it's never enough."
Dalila squeezed my hand.
"It matters."
"It doesn't seem like it."
She moved a little closer.
"Then look at me."
I obeyed.
"What happened tonight doesn't change what you did," she said. "Your album was a success. People bought it. People listened. People danced. They sing your songs. You know that."
I knew.
But at that moment, knowing wasn't enough.
"I wanted them to recognize it too."
Dalila was quiet for a few seconds.
Then she said:
"And they will," she said. Dalila sat in his lap and held his face.
"This night was fuel. You'll remember this frustration, and you'll do something so excellent that they won't be able to ignore you."
It wasn't a promise.
It was a statement.
Dalila never tried to erase the frustration. When I was sad, she didn't pretend I had no reason to be; she stayed with me, offering silent support.
That's what made her my partner.
She could be impulsive, provocative, and completely indifferent to awards, but when I needed someone, she was there.
I was still disappointed.
Still felt that small wound to my pride.
But now my hand was intertwined with hers.
And that made the night a little easier.
Dalila leaned toward me and whispered:
"And for the record, I still think you're the best musician in the world."
I smiled for the first time in several minutes.
"You're biased."
"Very."
She smiled.
"I'm your wife. My opinion isn't impartial, my love."
(. . .)
In April, Michael achieved an unprecedented milestone: four songs from the same album were simultaneously among the top ten most played in the United States. It was an impressive feat, one of those that entered history and confirmed that his success was growing at an extraordinary speed.
But for Michael, that wouldn't even be the most important event of that month.
On a morning off, he and Dalila were on the couch watching a completely generic movie. Michael was barely paying attention to the story. He was more interested in talking, playing with Dalila, and, every now and then, glancing at the television to pretend he was still following the plot.
That's why he was genuinely surprised when Dalila got up, disappeared for a few minutes, and returned carrying a small box.
She didn't say anything.
She simply approached, sat beside him, and carefully placed the box in his lap.
Michael looked at her.
Then at the box.
"What is this?"
Dalila only responded with a huge smile.
That smile immediately made Michael suspicious.
"Dalila..."
"Open it."
He lifted the lid slowly.
For a few seconds, he didn't understand what he was seeing.
Then his eyes widened.
Inside the box was a tiny pair of baby shoes.
Michael went completely still.
He looked at the shoes.
Then at Dalila.
And looked back at the shoes, as if his brain needed a few seconds to catch up to what his eyes had already understood.
"Are you...?"
Dalila simply nodded.
Michael's face changed immediately.
The surprise gave way to almost incredulous joy.
"We're going to have a baby?"
"We are."
He let out a small laugh, still in disbelief. He stood up and hugged her.
"My God, thank you," he said.
Dalila began to laugh with genuine joy.
Michael looked at the shoes again, this time with a huge smile.
summary. the game has begun, whoever in your family scares the mayor first, he has to leave Normal Valley forever. but if he scares you all, then you all have to leave. then you find out why he really wants your family gone.
content warning. violence, talks of death & attempts of murder, body horror, implied death of a character (this is a fictionalized universe)
tags. fluff, comedy, romance, slight angst, slightly suggestive. michael is seemingly not human, so are you, and your children. the gif of morticia above is simply for inspiration for his fic, not a representation of how the reader looks. heavily inspired by ghosts (michael jackson short film) & the addams family films.
Michael stood in the center of the ballroom with his hands clasped behind his back, his expression brightening into that mischievous smile you knew entirely too well and adored dearly.
The mayor stood several feet away, attempting to maintain the stern authority he had arrived with, though the sword still embedded in the wall beside his head did little to support the image.
You remained seated in the velvet armchair near the fireplace, your knitting resting in your lap, while Prince and Paris crowded against your sides, their eyes practically sparkling with anticipation.
The other parents stood nervously behind the mayor, and the children had begun whispering excitedly amongst themselves.
Michael cleared his throat. “Okay,” he began, looking around the room.
“Since everybody wants to make this a big thing, we're gonna make it fair. No hard feelings, okay? Uh… well, maybe a little hard feelings, but—”
He glanced toward you. “—my wife says we're supposed to be good hosts.”
You nodded approvingly.
“So, here's the rules. If me and my family scare you and you leave town, you gotta pack your little bags and move somewhere else. But…”
Michael pointed toward himself. “If you scare us? We leave Normal Valley.”
The mayor's chin lifted. “Agreed.”
Michael smiled. “Good. You sure?”
“Yes.”
“Because, um…” Michael leaned closer. “I don't want you crying later.”
The mayor scoffed. “Just begin.”
Michael shrugged. “Okay. Your doom.”
He stepped backward into the center of the ballroom, rolled his shoulders, and suddenly began making the most ridiculous faces imaginable.
His cheeks puffed outward, his eyes crossed, his lips twisted sideways, his jaw stretched into an exaggerated grimace before he bounced his eyebrows up and down like a mischievous cartoon character.
Prince immediately dissolved into laughter.
Paris covered her mouth, giggling.
Several of the children started laughing too, and even a few parents snorted despite themselves.
Michael turned his silly expression toward the mayor. “Scary?”
The mayor stared at him, pissed. “No.”
Michael's face became even sillier.
He puffed his cheeks until they looked ready to burst, crossed his eyes, and stuck his tongue out.
The children were practically collapsing, and the parents were chuckling.
Michael eventually returned to normal, blinking innocently. “No?”
“No.”
Michael nodded thoughtfully. “Okay.” He paused.
His smile disappeared. His eyes slowly lifted toward the mayor as his voice dropped.
“Is this scary?”
His entire face contorted.
His jaw elongated, his eyes widened until they looked almost impossibly large, his lips pulled back into a horrifying grin, and his neck twisted with a sickening crack as his features transformed into something monstrous.
The parents screamed. One woman grabbed her husband's arm. Another stumbled backward.
Prince and Paris screamed too—only to immediately burst into delighted laughter.
Michael snapped back to normal and grinned. “Better?”
The mayor's face went pale. “You son of a—”
Michael immediately copied him, throwing his head back and mimicking the mayor's angry expression. “You son of a—”
“Stop mocking me!”
“Stop mocking me!” Michael sang back.
The mayor's face reddened. “I'll make you stop!”
Michael pointed at him. “Oh, you wanna chase me?”
The mayor charged.
Michael playfully screamed and ran. “Oh, no!”
The children erupted into laughter as the mayor pursued him through the corridor. “Come back here!”
“No!” Michael called over his shoulder. “You gotta catch me first!”
The mansion came alive around them.
The wallpaper rippled like flesh.
Doors slammed open and shut.
Shadows stretched across the ceiling.
Ghostly hands crawled out of the walls and reached toward the mayor's coat.
A staircase curled beneath his feet.
A portrait opened its mouth and screamed at him, making his ears ring.
The mayor ran faster. “WHAT IS THIS PLACE?!”
Michael's laughter echoed from somewhere ahead. “My home!”
“YOU'RE INSANE!”
“Merci, monsieur!”
A pair of enormous claws emerged from the floor and swiped at the mayor's ankles.
He leapt over them, only to find the hallway narrowing around him.
The walls groaned. The ceiling seemed to lower. A monstrous mouth opened across the wallpaper, rows of crooked teeth emerging from the plaster.
The mayor screamed and sprinted in the opposite direction. “HELP!”
One father suddenly laughed so hard he had tears in his eyes. “I haven't had fun like this since I was a kid.”
His wife looked at him and smiled. “I haven't seen you this happy since our wedding day..."
"Oh, honey..." The husband said softly. "I'm sorry for not being attentive and as fun as I used to be..."
"It's alright...I haven't been either." The woman whispered back, looking regretful as she watched her kid cheer with the other children.
"Look at how happy he is, I've never seen him like that." She remarked, overwhelmed with joy.
The man smiled, breathless. "It's because of..."
They both looked at you, where you had been listening to their conversation the whole time.
They thanked you quietly as you merely smiled, nodding.
Eventually, the mayor came crashing back into the living room, panting and disheveled, his hair wild and his coat covered in cobwebs.
The room went silent.
Michael stood at the far end.
He looked at the mayor.
Then he smiled.
His body began to change. His shoulders expanded. His arms lengthened. His silhouette grew until he became a towering, monstrous creature that nearly touched the ceiling. His mouth opened impossibly wide. His eyes glowed from beneath the shadow of his brow.
The parents screamed. The children screamed. You even allowed your lips to curl into an amused smile.
Michael roared.
The room shook.
Then, almost immediately, the monster's face cracked into a grin and he burst out laughing.
Everyone else laughed too. Everyone except the mayor.
“You people are idiots!” he suddenly shouted. The laughter gradually died.
“You think this is funny? You think any of this is normal? You're weird! Not weird in a good way. You're freaks!”
The children's smiles vanished.
The mayor pointed at Michael, then you, and then at your children.
“People like you will never be welcomed anywhere. Nobody is ever going to like you. Nobody wants you here.”
Prince's face fell.
Paris looked down.
Slowly, they walked toward you.
You immediately placed your knitting aside and opened your arms.
They climbed into your lap, pressing themselves against you as they cried.
You wrapped them tightly against your chest, gently stroking their hair. "My babies..."
One mother frowned, her heart breaking at their sobs. “Mayor, that's enough.”
Another parent stepped forward. “They're children.”
“No,” the mayor snapped. “They're freaks.”
A father shook his head. “You are being cruel.”
"You're all freaks for agreeing with them!" The mayor shouted out crazily.
Michael's expression changed.
The playfulness disappeared entirely.
He stood silently for several seconds.
Then he clapped his hands once.
CLAP.
Everyone turned toward him. “Haven't you noticed something?”
His voice was calm, but there was something powerful underneath it.
“All this time we've been running around, being scared, screaming…”
He gestured around the room. “Did you feel that? Your hearts were pumping. Your blood was rushing. Your minds were racing. You were imagining things.”
He looked toward the parents. “You were laughing.” The parents exchanged glances.
Michael continued, “That's the thrill. That's what makes you feel alive.”
His gaze traveled around the room. “Everybody in this town has been living these safe, cushioned, monotonous little lives. Same houses. Same weather. Same newspapers. Same routines. Same everything. And after a while…”
He shook his head. “You don't even look like you're living anymore. You look like robots.”
The room was silent.
“But then we came along.”
He smiled faintly. “The freaks.”
He pointed toward the children. “And suddenly the children started laughing again. They started imagining. They started running. They started having fun.”
He looked toward the parents. “And you did too.”
One father smiled. Another nodded. A mother laughed softly. “He's right.”
Another parent whispered, “I haven't laughed like that in years.”
The mayor's expression hardened.
“No!” he shouted. “You haven't scared me!”
The mayor's face twisted as he stared at the Jackson family, his breathing growing heavier, his hands trembling at his sides.
For several moments, he said nothing.
The room remained frozen, everyone still processing what Michael had said about the thrill, about imagination, about how the people of Normal Valley had forgotten what it meant to truly feel alive.
Several parents exchanged glances, their expressions slowly changing from fear to realization.
One mother looked toward her husband. Another looked at her children. A father quietly lowered his arms.
Someone even laughed under their breath, as though embarrassed by how much fun they had actually been having.
The mayor noticed.
His eyes darted from one person to another. “No,” he muttered. “No. Don't you dare.”
Michael's eyebrows furrowed. “What?”
“Don't you dare look at each other like that!” the mayor snapped.
His voice echoed through the ballroom. “Don't you dare start believing him!”
One of the fathers frowned. “Mayor, maybe you should calm down.”
“Calm down?” He laughed bitterly. “You want me to calm down after watching everything I've built crumble in front of me?”
You tilted your head. “Built?”
The mayor stepped forward. “Yes. Built!”
He pointed toward the enormous windows overlooking the town. “Do you think Normal Valley became what it is by accident? Do you think people simply woke up one morning and decided they wanted to live exactly the same lives as everyone else? I made this town!”
His voice grew louder with every word. “For years, I have maintained this place. I created the rules. I created the standards. I decided what was acceptable, what was respectable, what was normal. I made sure everyone knew exactly how they were supposed to behave!”
He pointed toward the parents. “You think all those smiling faces in town are natural? They're not! I taught them to smile! I taught them what to say! I taught them what to fear! I taught them that being different meant being dangerous!”
The room fell silent.
Michael's expression hardened.
The mayor's breathing became ragged as he continued, seemingly unable to stop himself now that the truth had begun pouring out.
“Every morning, they wake up, they go to work, they come home, they mow their lawns, they read their newspapers, they nod politely, they go to bed. Every day. The same day. Over and over and over again.”
He laughed, but there was nothing humorous about it.
“And do you know why? Because that is exactly how I wanted it.”
One parent stared at him. “Why?”
The mayor turned toward her. “Because predictable people are obedient people!”
The words struck the room like a gunshot.
Several parents recoiled.
“People who are content don't question anything. People who are afraid of being different don't challenge authority. People who are terrified of standing out don't organize, don't rebel, don't ask uncomfortable questions. They simply follow.”
His finger jabbed toward the floor. “I gave them their perfect little town! Their perfect little lives! Their perfect little definition of happiness! And they thanked me for it!”
Michael stepped forward. “So that's what this is about.”
The mayor's eyes snapped toward him. “Yes!”
“You don't actually care about the children.”
“Don't tell me what I care about!”
“You don't care about Normal Valley being safe.”
“I MADE IT SAFE!” the mayor screamed. “I made it quiet!”
He pointed toward the Jackson family. “And then you came along!”
His voice cracked with fury as his arms gestured wildly.
“You came here with your haunted house and your ghosts and your monsters and your ridiculous little games, and suddenly people started laughing! Children started asking questions! Parents started remembering things they used to enjoy! They started dressing differently, thinking differently, talking differently!”
He looked around the room desperately. “They started looking at me differently!”
Michael watched him carefully. “That's why you hate us.”
The mayor stared at him. “I hate what you represent.”
His voice lowered into something darker. “You represent everything I spent years eliminating.”
He pointed toward Michael. “You don't obey the rules.”
Then toward you. “Neither does she.”
His eyes moved toward Prince and Paris. “And you've raised those little demons to think they don't have to obey them either.”
Prince frowned. Paris hugged your arm tighter. The mayor's voice became almost frantic.
“You people walk around this town as though it belongs to you. You laugh when everyone else is miserable. You dance when everyone else stands still. You frighten people who have spent their entire lives being told that fear is something to avoid. You make them curious.”
He swallowed hard. “And curiosity is dangerous.”
Michael's eyes narrowed. “To you.”
“Yes!” the mayor shouted. “Especially to me!”
Silence.
The admission seemed to surprise even him.
But now that it was out, he no longer bothered hiding it.
“You want to know the truth?” he demanded. “Fine. I'll give you the truth.”
He grabbed a gun that was inside his coat and pointed it directly at Michael. “I want you dead.”
The room erupted in shocked gasps.
You instinctively drew Prince and Paris closer, every fiber in your body wanted to go run and protect Michael, but you couldn't.
Michael stood perfectly still.
The mayor continued, his voice shaking with rage as his hand holding the gun shook.
“I want this family gone. Not moved. Not somewhere else in the valley. Gone. I want this house empty. I want every trace of you erased from this town so thoroughly that people will eventually convince themselves you never existed.”
One father stepped forward. “Mayor, that's enough!”
“No!” he shouted. “It isn't enough!”
He turned toward the parents, pointing at them, they all screamed. “You don't understand what they've done! They've spent years tampering with the image I've built! The reputation! The control!”
His eyes were wild now. “I have spent years making Normal Valley into something I could control, and these people walked in and destroyed it!”
He gestured wildly around the room. “Look at yourselves! You're laughing! You're enjoying yourselves! You're questioning me! You're defending them!”
He pointed at the Jackson children. “Their children are running around teaching yours to embrace everything I've spent years telling you to fear!” Michael's jaw tightened.
The mayor's voice dropped. “If they stay, the town changes.” He looked toward the parents. “And if the town changes, I lose control.”
He looked at you. “And if I lose control…”
His eyes narrowed. “Then everything I've built disappears.” He pointed the gun at you, you held your stomach instinctively.
You stared at him quietly. “So this was never about protecting the children.”
The mayor glared at you. “No.”
You tilted your head. “It was about protecting yourself.”
He said nothing.
Your expression remained eerily calm. “How very ordinary.”
Michael breathed in and out slowly, doing everything to stay calm and not kill this idiot in front of him who dared to hurt his wife.
The mayor pointed the gun at him one last time. “You want to know why I won't let you stay? Because people like you make people like me unnecessary. You remind them they can think for themselves. You remind them that they can laugh. That they can be strange. That they can refuse to be afraid.”
His voice cracked. “And I cannot have that.” He stepped forward, his face twisted with hatred.
“So yes. I want you gone. I want your family gone. And if I have to watch this entire house burn to the ground to make sure you never come back, I will.” He gripped his hands on the gun tightly.
Michael took a slow breath. “You can't control people forever.”
The mayor's finger on the trigger tightened.
Michael's eyes briefly closed. “If you're gonna do it…” he whispered, opening them again, “…then don't do it in front of my wife and children.”
You felt your heart twist, your voice broke. “Michael.”
He looked at you. You shook your head once.
Not because you were afraid, but because you refused to let him surrender himself to someone else's hatred.
The mayor suddenly shouted, “YOU THINK YOU'RE BETTER THAN ME!” and raised the weapon fully.
The room erupted. Parents shouted. Children cried. Chairs scraped across the floor. Someone screamed for him to stop.
Michael stared at you, breathing hard as tears welled in his eyes. Yours did too.
Then the mayor's hand began trembling. His anger was still there, but underneath it was something else—fear.
Fear that he had finally lost control.
He looked around the room and saw what he had created: parents no longer agreeing with him, children no longer obeying him, and the very people he had spent years controlling now staring at him with disgust.
The gun slowly lowered.
His arm shook. “I…” His voice cracked. “I didn't…”
He looked at Michael. “I just wanted…”
He couldn't finish.
The weapon slipped slightly in his grip.
One of the parents carefully stepped forward.
“You wanted us to be afraid.”
The mayor looked at him. “Yes.”
“And now you're the one everyone's afraid of.”
Silence.
The mayor stared at the gun as though he had only just realized what he was holding.
Slowly, he lowered it.
Michael exhaled shakily. You immediately pulled him and the children into your arms.
Prince was sobbing. Paris's face remained buried against your shoulder. Michael wrapped both arms around all three of you, holding you tightly.
His voice trembled. “It's okay. Daddy's here.”
You kissed your children's heads. “We will be all right.”
Michael pressed his cheek against your hair. “I'm sorry.”
You whispered, “You have nothing to apologize for.”
Then you looked toward the mayor. Your expression became serene again.
Almost eerily so. “Your words of hatred…”
Your eyes remained fixed on him. “Your unbridled anger toward us…”
You glanced toward the children in your arms. “And the way you invoke heartbreak in us…”
"And you even threatened to kill us..."
A faint smile touched your lips. “I admire that.” Your children nodded in agreement, sniffling.
The mayor stared at you.
You tilted your head. “You have scared us today.”
The mayor swallowed.
You slowly shifted your gaze behind him.
Your smile widened. “But I'm afraid…”
The mayor frowned. “What?” You lifted one finger.
“You haven't met all of the family.”
He slowly turned. “What are you talking about?”
Your smile became wicked. “Meet Thing.”
The mayor's eyes widened.
Thing stood directly behind him. Well… as much as a disembodied hand could stand.
Its fingers flexed slowly. Once. Twice.
The mayor's face drained of color. “No.”
Thing tilted his fingers.
“No, no, no…”
Thing leapt. “AAAH!” The hand slapped itself onto the mayor's face, latching onto him as he screamed and staggered backward.
“GET IT OFF!” He grabbed the wrist and tore Thing away, staring at it in absolute disbelief.
“IT'S A HAND!”
Thing wiggled its fingers.
The mayor screamed louder. “IT'S A HAND!”
He backed toward the nearest window.
“It's just a—it's a—”
Thing crawled toward him. “NO!”
The mayor flung it away.
Thing landed neatly on the tiled floor and immediately brushed itself off, doing a big old thumbs up.
The mayor spun around and threw himself through the nearest window. “NOOOOO!”
CRASH!
Glass exploded outward.
Everyone rushed toward the window.
You stood beside Michael, still holding Prince and Paris.
Michael stared down in disbelief. “Uh…”
One parent leaned over the sill. “Is he—?”
Another looked down. “He's alive.”
Michael blinked. “Unfortunately."
You looked down into the darkness.
Far below, the mayor had landed safely in a muddy ditch, covered from head to toe in mud, staring up at the mansion with absolute horror.
Thing climbed onto the windowsill beside you and waved at the defeated man down below.
The mayor screamed again.
Michael stared at the hand.
Then at the mayor who has now fainted.
There was a moment of stunned silence.
Then Michael laughed softly.
Thing crawled to Michael.
Michael held out his hand.
Thing slapped it enthusiastically.
“Good man!" Michael said proudly.
The parents stared at Thing in complete wonder.
One father whispered, “Your butler is a hand?”
You smiled. “Yes.”
Another parent stared. "How is he...when did you..."
"We don't know. We came across him when we were moving here, and ever since then..." You smiled as Thing jumped around happily.
"He's family." You said softly, the parents smiled softly, feeling the love you had for your kooky, weird family.
You and Michael looked toward the parents.
Michael's expression became sincere. “We're sorry.”
You nodded. “If you still want us to leave, we will.”
Michael sighed. “We just ask for a little time. It's hard finding a school where children actually like our children.”
You felt Prince grasp your hand as Paris clung onto her father's pant leg. You smiled sadly. "It's difficult for us, especially them because...we're different."
A mother immediately stepped forward. “Then stay.”
You blinked, a rare look of surprise on your beautiful face. “What?”
“Stay,” she repeated. “They're good kids.”
Another parent nodded. “And they're happy here.”
A father smiled. “Besides, I think Normal Valley could use a little excitement.”
The children cheered.
Prince and Paris jumped up.
Michael laughed with relief, pulling you into his arms.
“You hear that?” he whispered. “We're staying.”
You smiled at the parents serenely. “Thank you...”
The children rushed toward the window.
You and Michael followed. Everyone looked down at the ditch.
The mayor was still stuck inside it.
The children laughed.
Prince grabbed a shovel. Paris grabbed another.
You immediately recognized those shovels, it was the ones they used for grave-digging.
“Oh, no.” You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms.
Prince grinned. “Gardening!”
Paris nodded enthusiastically. “Gardening!”
You sighed, relenting. “Fine. Be careful. And do not dig up Great-Aunt Petunia this time.”
“Okay!” they shouted.
They raced toward the garden.
Paris stopped briefly beside the boy she liked.
She looked at him shyly. “Do you want to go play?”
The boy smiled. “Yeah.”
Paris nodded. “Okay. Because if you didn't, I'd definitely stab you this time.”
The boy happily took her hand. “Okay.”
Michael watched them go. His smile vanished. “Wait.”
He began transforming.
His shoulders broadened.
His eyes darkened. “I'm going to—”
You grabbed his arm. “Michael.”
He stopped. “But—”
“They are children.”
“He's holding my little girl's hand!”
“And Paris has chosen him.”
Michael frowned. “I don't like him.”
You smiled. "Don't you remember when we were like that, my love?"
Your husband immediately melted at the nostalgia. "Ah, when I chased you with an axe after Uncle Perry's funeral..." He grasped your hand, kissing it.
"I almost killed you..." You murmured to him romantically.
Michael laughed in delight, his voice soft and gentle. "And I kept following you after that, and we got married."
"Fell in love," You looked at your children together as Michael kissed your temple tenderly. "And had beautiful children..."
Michael looked toward the children.
They had already reached the ditch.
Prince and Paris smiled down at the mayor. “Say hi to Aunt Petunia!” they shouted.
The mayor's eyes slowly opened as he regained consciousness, they then slowly widened. “Wait—what?”
The children plunged their shovels into the dirt.
Dirt began raining down into the ditch.
The mayor screamed in agony. “STOP!”
Prince laughed. Paris giggled.
Michael covered his mouth.
You simply sighed. “Children.”
The parents watched from the window.
One mother whispered, “Should we stop them?”
You considered it. “Probably.”
Michael looked at you. “Are we going to?”
You smiled. “Eventually.”
That evening, you invited the parents to stay for dinner.
The dining hall filled with laughter, conversation, and the occasional terrified shriek when something on someone's plate moved unexpectedly.
The soup boiled with no heat.
The roast attempted to crawl away as Michael carved into it.
A salad hissed when someone touched it—a vine sneaking out and slapping the person's hand away.
One father cautiously stabbed a piece of meat with his fork and watched it wiggle. “Is this...supposed to do that?”
Michael smiled. “Yes.”
You calmly continued eating, swallowing a screaming piece of dumpling, the screaming growing quieter as you digested it in your stomach. “It is fresh.”
The man looked horrified. “Fresh?”
“Very.”
Eventually, even he began laughing.
By the end of dinner, the parents were telling stories, the children were running around together.
The mansion no longer felt like a place to be feared.
It felt like home, a paradise, a place full of love and excitement.
Somewhere, where everyone can feel alive.
When the evening finally ended, you and Michael stood outside beneath the front gate, waving goodbye as your new friends departed.
Prince hugged his friends.
Paris hugged hers.
The children promised to return tomorrow. “Goodnight!”
“See you tomorrow!”
“Don't forget us!”
Michael laughed. “Come back anytime!”
You smiled warmly. “You are always welcome.”
The gates slowly closed behind them as the house groaned tiredly. Michael laughed, patting the wooden beam of the house. "You did good, old thing."
The house merely groaned in response as the windows slowly closed and the candles' fires flickered brighter.
Your two children had tuckered themselves out and slept soundly in their coffins, hands crossed across their chests with their favorite stuffed animals tucked in their arms.
The sky darkened.
Thunder rolled across Normal Valley for the first time.
Lightning illuminated the mansion's towers.
Michael stood beside you, looking at you with that familiar adoring expression.
He sighed softly, tired. “What a day.”
You looked toward the storm. “It's a perfect day for new surprises.”
Michael chuckled. “I think we had enough surprises for today, my dear.”
You smiled. “No, my love.”
You turned toward him. “There is one more.”
Michael tilted his head. “What?” You reached into your dress' long sleeve and slowly pulled out the project you'd been working on all day.
“I finished it.” You unfolded it. "Or should I say, we?"
Michael stared.
It was a tiny baby onesie.
He smiled.
Then his smile disappeared.
He looked closer. One leg. Two legs. Three.
His eyes widened in realization. “Is that…”
You nodded softly. “Yes.”
Michael stared at you. “We're having another baby?”
You smiled. “Oui.”
He let out a breathless laugh, immediately wrapping his arms firmly around your waist and pulling you close. “Oh, querida...”
He kissed your hand fervently.
Another kiss. “My beautiful woman.”
Another. “My wife.”
He pressed your hand against his cheek.
“You are everything to me.”
His large, dark eyes shimmered with joy. “I'm absolutely yours. For all time.”
“Oh, cara mia.” Michael whispered reverantly.
You placed both hands against his face, smiling softly. You tenderly murmured to him, “Mon sauvage.”
Michael practically melted.
He pulled you in and kissed you.
You kissed him back, slowly at first, then passionately, beneath the heavy storm and the calm silver moonlight.
Behind you, the mansion glowed warmly through the windows.
Inside, Thing sat at the organ, playing a dramatic, haunting melody that made the entire moment feel like something torn from a strange romantic fairytale...
...Well, you guys both kinda were.
Thunder rolled overhead.
Rain began to fall.
Neither of you cared.
Then, beneath your feet, something rustled.
You and Michael broke apart.
You looked down.
Another rustle came from the garden.
Then a muffled, delighted voice rose from beneath the earth. “Congratulations…”
Michael stared at the ground.
You stared at him.
He looked back at you.
You both burst into haunting laughter.
“Goodnight, Aunt Petunia!” Michael called.
You smiled down toward the garden. “Sleep well, darling. Have fun with your new boytoy." You grinned.
You and Michael laughed wickedly as you heard the Mayor's muffled screaming along with Aunt Petunia's cackling.
Michael took your cold hand gently in his warm one.
Together, you walked back toward the mansion as the storm raged behind you, the gates closed, the gargoyles watched, Thing continued playing the organ, and you two happily retreated back to your quarters.
And so, Normal Valley from then on had become just a little bit less normal.
Note: Thank you for reading this mini series, je t’aime ❤️ Stay weird, my dears. 🦇
summary. your peculiar family disturbs the peaceful town of Normal Valley. your family is weird, kooky, and certainly out of place; causing the mayor and the townspeople to try and drive you out.
content warning. violence, talks of death & attempts of murder, body horror (this is a fictionalized universe)
tags. fluff, comedy, romance, slight angst, slightly suggestive. michael is seemingly not human, so are you, and your children. the gif of morticia above is simply for inspiration for his fic, not a representation of how the reader looks. heavily inspired by ghosts (michael jackson short film) & the addams family films.
Once upon a time, in a valley so painfully ordinary that the birds that flew overhead seemingly grew drowsy by how uneventful the town underneath them was, there lived a family that was anything but.
Normal Valley was, and has always been a place where the grass was always the same shade of green, cut to exactly 3 inches every Saturday.
The houses were all painted the same variation of beige.
The people residing in the area were as—if not more—boring than their houses.
Every morning at 8 am, the husbands would all go out with a smile that never quite reached their eyes as their wives languidly waved them goodbye. The mailman would deliver the newspaper that essentially told the same story everyday; Normal Valley is the safest, most sensible, and uniform town in America—with the mayor's face stamped on the front as he held up a thumbs up.
No one gossiped, no one laughed, and certainly, no one would ever try to be different. If they ever complained, it would only be done within their own homes—complaining about the same, sunny, perfect 70-degree Fahrenheit weather that they always had.
They had grown accustomed and convinced themselves that this was the best way to live—by doing nothing remarkable at all.
Well...except one family.
The Jackson Family.
At the very edge of the town, beyond the old iron gates and the black trees that seemed to lean towards whoever had dared to pass by them; stood a large, grand, and dark mansion—a magnificent, sprawling monstrosity of dark stone, crooked infrastructure, enormous windows, chimneys that produced smoke despite the fireplace never being lit, gargoyles that seemed to come alive at night to protect your home, and ivy so thick—infesting every crack and corner within the walls of the outside.
Some even say that all of the Jackson relatives who have passed were buried there...but who knows if they truly even passed?
Lightning sometimes struck the tallest spire of your home, even when the weather forecast promised sunshine.
The heavy front doors opened by themselves, shadows moved when nobody was standing there, the chandeliers' crystals clinked against each other—mimicking voices and whispers as the portraits that were hung in the dusty hallways seemed to blink and follow whoever walked by.
And somewhere inside that horrible, dilapidating, and disgusting nightmare of a home—there lived the Jackson family.
You, your husband, Michael. Your children, Prince & Paris, and some other inhabitants that seemed undead and some that you couldn't pinpoint exactly what they were—that you all now considered family, lived there.
To you, this was home.
To Michael, this was paradise.
And to your children, this was where they grew up surrounded with love, and all things that would kill a normal person.
To the residents of Normal Valley, your home is an eyesore—something detestable, something to be afraid of. A weed infesting the roots of a beautiful field of marigolds.
But, to the children of Normal Valley, it was the most exciting place on Earth.
Every other afternoon, the little ones along with your own children would run through the cold, creaking forest towards the mansion, laughing and shrieking as they disappeared through the fog and into the gates.
Only to return—running back towards their homes hours later, screaming with delight whilst bats fluttered around their heads as if they were butterflies as your children chased them down the path.
You and Michael would stand just behind the gates, waving goodbye happily with smiles on your faces. Michael would hold you gently as he waved off the children.
"Goodbye Mr. & Mrs. Jackson!" One of the children cheered out. "See you guys again tomorrow!"
"Goodbye, children! Come visit soon!" You called out happily as Michael laughed in delight.
"Mr. Jackson! Your arm is still twisted!" One of the kids pointed out.
Michael looked towards his arm and contorted it back with snaps and twists whilst you smiled.
He then continued to wave as the kids all said "ewww!" and ran away, laughing and shrieking with glee.
Prince and Paris would then run back to you two, running into your arms as Prince rambled endlessly in your arms, his legs still swinging as if he was still running, you gently fixed his hair affectionately and chanted some words, causing him to immediately fall asleep.
You kissed his forehead—whilst Paris tried to perform one of her father's tricks in his arms, cheering when she finally was able to turn her head 360 just like him—laughing in glee as her father praised her talents as you all retreated back inside.
The parents of the other children would be waiting at the other edge of the forest, staring in horror and restless as their children finally came back, laughing.
They would all then jump as the heavy mansion doors would close on their own with a deep, ominous boom.
The adults of Normal Valley hated the Jackson family.
The children adored them.
This was because children possessed something the adults had long ago misplaced: imagination.
And perhaps that was why, on one particular morning, while the rest of Normal Valley woke to the sound of alarm clocks, lawnmowers, and the distant hum of a man quietly complaining about his newspaper being two minutes late...
You were sleeping peacefully in the enormous four-poster bed you shared with your husband.
You laid beneath the heavy black covers, your skin cold beneath the faint silver light filtering through the curtains, your hair spread across the pillow like ink.
You looked entirely peaceful, like a corpse.
How mesmerizing.
Almost angelic, if one ignored the small collection of antique knives displayed neatly on the nightstand beside you.
Michael stood in the corner of the bedroom watching you in the darkness.
He wore his familiar white, flowy attire, the silhouette of his figure nearly blending into the shadows, his expression softening as he gazed upon his wife with intensity in those large, dark eyes.
There was something almost reverent in the way he looked at you, as though the strange, morbid, beautiful woman sleeping before him was the only thing in the entire world worth looking at.
He worshipped the ground you stepped on, he would kiss your feet up to every single strand of your hair if you allowed him to.
Michael was absolutely devoted to you.
He tilted his head slightly, smiling to himself.
“Look at her,” he murmured, his voice low and affectionate.
“I would die for her. I would kill for her. Either way…”
His smile widened.
“What bliss.”
Your eyelashes fluttered.
Slowly, your eyes opened.
Morning light peeked through the curtains and illuminated them, catching the faint sparkle in your gaze.
You looked toward the corner of the room and immediately found your husband standing there. A soft smile touched your lips, gracing Michael with your beauty.
Michael's expression instantly brightened.
He walked toward you, his hands clasped behind his back. He studied your face carefully before tilting his head.
“Unhappy, darling?”
Your chest rose up and down slowly, breathing calmly.
“Oh yes.” You smiled faintly. “Yes, completely.”
The sunlight suddenly grew stronger.
A golden beam slipped between the blinds and landed directly upon the poor potted carnivorous plant beside the bed.
Within seconds, one of its leaves drooped. Then another. Then the entire plant seemed to surrender to existence. It withered dramatically before your eyes, succumbing to sweet death's hold.
You stared at it. Michael stared at it.
“Oh,” he whispered. "How lucky...."
You frowned, covering your eyes. “The sun.”
You looked toward your husband. “Il me perce comme un poignard.”
Michael visibly shuddered. “Oh, (Name)…that's French.”
You nodded, raising an eyebrow. “Oui.”
Michael immediately seized your hand, kissing it repeatedly, desperate.
“Oh, I love when you speak French,” he murmured between kisses. "My lady, my woman, my wife, the sweet torturer of my soul..."
"Say something again, my love, I beg of you..." He breathed out, kissing up to your forearm.
You merely looked at him in amusement. "Michael..."
"Please, mama."
"No."
"Please..."
"Mm..."
He kissed up to your shoulder, looking at you in pure desperation as if he was going to never see you again.
"Please, (Name)...I will perish if you don't speak to me. The flame in my heart will diminish, and I will be no more..." He said dramatically, his hair disheveled around his face.
You smiled serenely at his suffering. Nonetheless, you relented. "Non."
He inhaled shakily, kissing your arm repeatedly up to your neck, his lips hot against your cold skin. "Oh, (Name), how you make me sin so deliciously...."
"Fermez les rideaux, mon amour." You reminded him gently.
"Oh, right, my apologies..." He rose abruptly, grabbed his fencing sword from its stand beside the wardrobe, marched toward the blinds, and pointed the blade dramatically at the window.
“En garde, monsieur soleil!” he shouted.
“You shall not have her!” He sliced the blinds closed with theatrical precision. "Ha!"
The bedroom fell back into its beloved darkness.
You watched him with an amused expression.
“Michael.”
He froze. “Yes, querida?”
He immediately returned to your side, dropping his fencing sword, clattering on the ground.
You reached for his hand, your cold fingers curling around his wrist.
You breathed softly. “Last night…”
Michael's eyes widened slightly. “Mm?”
“You were unhinged...you were like some desperate, howling demon.” Your eyes twinkled.
You placed a hand against your chest. “You frightened me.”
Michael was breath taken at that moment, staring at you intensely just like last night.
You smiled wickedly, leaning back onto your arms. “Do it again.”
Michael grinned, pulling the dark covers back over yourselves and practically pouncing onto you, joining you in bed.
And that, was the beginning of another perfectly ordinary day in the Jackson household.
The morning continued exactly as most mornings did in the Jackson household: completely, gloriously, and catastrophically out of hand.
By the time you had finished smoothing your dress around yourself and slipped from the bed, Michael had already discovered that his son had escaped from changing into his uniform.
There was a tiny pair of black trousers abandoned halfway down the corridor, one sock hanging from the chandelier, and a distant, delighted cackle coming from somewhere inside the west wing.
Michael stood in the middle of the hallway, staring at the evidence with his hands on his hips.
“Prince,” he called, sweetly.
Nothing.
“Prince?”
Silence.
Michael narrowed his eyes. “Uh-huh. Okay. So we're doing this today.”
You emerged from the bedroom behind him, calmly carrying a brush and ribbon while Paris followed you in her little black dress, already sitting obediently upon the velvet bench in front of the mirror.
“He's in the library,” you said. "Do you want me to help?"
Michael turned, sighing. "I know, I can do this on my own, my love."
"Oh, really now?" You raised an eyebrow.
His chest puffed. "Why, of course, I'm the Maestro!" He said dramatically.
You smiled, gently shaking your head. “Good luck, my love.”
Michael took one step forward. “Prince, your father is coming.”
From somewhere behind the library doors came a tiny voice. “NO!”
Michael's eyebrows rose. “Oh, yes.”
The doors slammed open. Prince shot through them like a little streak of lightning, his pajamas still hanging around his waist, his hair sticking up wildly like he had stuck his finger in an electrical socket—and by the looks of the sparks emitting from his body—he probably did.
Michael gasped. “Oh!”
Prince laughed hysterically as he tore down the corridor.
“COME BACK HERE!” Michael shouted, immediately giving chase.
“DADDY, NO!”
“You have school!”
“I DON'T WANNA GO!”
“You don't get to decide that!”
“I DO!”
“No, you don't!” Prince disappeared around a corner.
Michael rounded it two seconds later and nearly crashed into a suit of armor. “Prince!” he shouted.
A giggle echoed from the ceiling—Michael looked up.
Prince was hanging upside down from one of the enormous chandeliers, grinning.
Michael stared at him. “How did you—”
Prince dropped. Michael caught him. “Gotcha!”
Prince squealed and immediately twisted himself out of his father's arms with the unnatural flexibility he had inherited from Michael, landing on the floor and sprinting away again.
“Oh, you're fast now?”
Michael laughed, running after him.
“Okay! Okay, little man! You wanna play? We can play!”
Prince cackled, racing down the staircase so quickly that his feet barely seemed to touch the steps.
Michael followed, laughing breathlessly. “Prince! Come on, man! Daddy is not playing with you today!”
“Yes you are!”
“No, I'm not!”
“You are!”
“I'm trying to get you dressed!”
“That's playing!”
Michael stopped halfway down the stairs, placing his hands on his knees. “Oh, Lord.”
You watched from the doorway of your bedroom, trying not to laugh.
Michael looked toward you. “Baby, please help me.” He begged adorably.
You raised an eyebrow. “You are the Maestro.” You said with a hand flourish, teasing him.
“Yeah, but he's fast!” Your husband looked at you in exasperation. "Mama...!"
Prince poked his head from behind a curtain, teasing. “Mommy's on my side.”
“Your mother is not on anybody's side,” Michael said, straightening. “She just...enjoys my suffering.” He deflated at that.
You smiled. “Very much.”
Prince laughed and ran again.
Michael immediately chased him. “PRINCE!”
The boy's laughter echoed through the mansion as father and son disappeared into the shadows, Michael occasionally letting out exaggerated screams of frustration while Prince's footsteps darted from one corridor to another.
“I GOT YOU!” Michael shouted.
“NO, YOU DON'T!”
“I SEE YOU!”
“NO YOU DON'T!”
Prince attempted to reverse direction.
Michael caught him around the waist. “Got you!”
Prince shrieked with laughter, kicking his legs. “No! Daddy! No!”
“Oh, yes. We're getting dressed today.” Michael hoisted him beneath one arm like a sack of flour while Prince continued squirming.
“Mama!” he yelled. “Mama!”
You called back serenely, “Your father has you, darling.”
“HELP!”
“No.”
Michael laughed. “Thank you.”
“Traitor!” Prince cried.
“Language, my Prince.” you called.
Michael carried him toward the bedroom. “Come on, little man. Let's put your clothes on before you turn into another creature and crawl into the walls.”
Prince groaned in frustration, finally giving up.
Meanwhile, Paris sat perfectly still while you worked on her hair.
You stood behind her, gently parting her hair and gathering it into neat sections, your fingers moving with practiced tenderness as the morning light remained safely imprisoned behind the heavy curtains.
Paris watched herself in the mirror, humming softly while you tied the last ribbon.
“There,” you murmured. “Beautiful.”
Paris smiled. “Thank you, Mama.”
You kissed the crown of her head. “You're welcome, my darling.”
Your eyes then narrowed slightly. You noticed something peeking from beneath the folds of her dress.
Paris slowly looked at you through the mirror.
You held out your hand. “What is that?”
Paris hesitated. “Nothing.”
“Paris.”
She sighed and reluctantly produced a tiny knife.
You stared at it.
She stared at you. “I was just bringing it to school.”
You gave her a long, quiet look. “For what purpose?”
Paris shrugged, trying to act casual. “In case I need it.”
You sighed softly. “Darling...” You shook your head.
Your daughter visibly deflated.
You held her chin up gently, smiling. “…That is entirely too small.”
Paris's eyes brightened.
You reached into a drawer, removed a larger ceremonial knife, and handed it to her. “Take this instead.”
Paris smiled. “Thank you, Mama.”
You gently adjusted the ribbon in her hair. “The bigger the knife—” You reminded her.
Paris grinned. "—The better the stab!"
"That's my girl." You said affectionately, kissing her forehead.
By the time the Jackson children were ready, Michael had finally managed to get Prince dressed.
The boy stood beside his father looking far too innocent for someone who had spent the previous twenty minutes running through a haunted mansion at supernatural speed.
Michael straightened Prince's collar. “You good?”
Prince nodded. “Good.”
Michael crouched. “No experiments at school.”
Prince blinked. “What kind?”
Michael stared. “Any.”
Prince nodded solemnly. “Okay.”
Michael narrowed his eyes.
“You promise?”
“Promise.”
You walked past them. “He lyin'.” You hummed out.
Michael immediately looked at Prince. “You're lyin'?”
Prince smiled. “A little.”
Michael slowly grinned, ruffling Prince's hair. "Good man!"
The journey to school was always a spectacle.
Normal Valley's streets were quiet, beige, and painfully clean, while the Jackson family carriage rolled through town as though it had escaped from another century entirely.
Children pressed their faces against the windows, waving enthusiastically as you and Michael waved back.
“Good morning!” you called.
“Morning, Mrs. Jackson!” they shouted.
Several adults hurried their children inside the school.
Michael watched them go, shaking his head. “They really don't like us.”
You smiled. “Their loss.”
Michael nodded. “Exactly.”
You two then pressed kisses onto your children's heads, affectionately giving them words of encouragement before letting them go ahead.
Prince leaned toward the window. “Bye!”
Paris waved elegantly. “Goodbye!”
The children of Normal Valley waved back enthusiastically, already planning their next visit to the mansion.
You knew they would come that afternoon.
They always did.
The adults could complain all they wanted, but their children had discovered something far more valuable than Normal Valley's carefully maintained sense of normalcy: they had discovered how wonderful it was to be frightened.
The school, unfortunately, had not yet reached the same conclusion.
By lunchtime, Prince had already been sent to the principal's office. You were summoned that afternoon.
When you entered the office, Prince sat in a chair with his hands folded innocently in his lap while his teacher stood beside a table covered with cupcakes.
The teacher looked exhausted. “Mrs. Jackson…”
You smiled politely. “Yes?”
“Your son brought these cupcakes.”
“How thoughtful.”
“They were laced with poison.”
You glanced at Prince, he smiled.
You looked back at the teacher. “Oh.”
You picked up one cupcake and took a bite. “Cyanide?”
The teacher stared in horror. “Y-Yes....”
You sighed. “Prince.”
He looked at you. “Yes, Mama?”
“You mustn't give your classmates sweets without warning them.”
Prince nodded. “Sorry.”
You smiled softly. "They might get cavities."
"Oh! What about diabetes?" Prince perked up, grinning.
You nodded, "Even better!"
The teacher looked horrified. “Mrs. Jackson!”
You raised your hands. “I'm not encouraging him. I'm simply acknowledging his creativity and the wonderful consequences that come after it!"
Prince brightened. “I also know how to make the antidote.”
The teacher's jaw dropped. “He WHAT?”
You smiled proudly. “My Prince is very advanced in Chemistry!" You said cheerfully.
The teacher wanted to swallow one of those cupcakes just to end this meeting.
Paris' meeting was even more uncomfortable.
She sat beside her teacher, looking calm and composed while you entered the classroom alone.
“Mrs. Jackson,” the teacher began carefully, “Paris attempted to stab another student, a boy.”
You looked at Paris.
Paris looked back.
Then you smiled, sighing. “Young love.”
The teacher blinked. “Excuse...me?”
You sat down. “How adorable.”
Paris smiled shyly. “He didn't notice me.”
“Of course he didn't,” you murmured. “Boys can be remarkably oblivious.”
The teacher looked deeply concerned. “She pulled a knife.”
“She has passion.”
“She threatened him.”
“Conviction.”
“She chased him around the playground.”
"Persistence.”
The teacher stared at you. “Do you not see the problem?!”
You laughed softly. “Oh, darling, I understand perfectly.”
You leaned back, remembering. “When I first met Michael, he chased me through a cemetery with an axe.”
The teacher's expression froze. “An axe?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
You shrugged. “He thought it would be funny.”
“And what did you do?”
You smiled. “I nearly stabbed him with the same knife my Paris has.”
The teacher slowly turned toward the window as if desperately seeking another universe. “And this is how you two met?”
“It was love at first attempted murder.”
Paris looked delighted. “That's romantic.”
You nodded. “It was.”
The teacher rubbed her temples. “...Please just leave."
The final straw came a week later.
The mayor called an emergency town meeting.
Every adult in Normal Valley gathered inside the town hall beneath the enormous portrait of the mayor giving his eternally optimistic thumbs-up.
He stood before them, red-faced and furious. “This has gone too far!” he shouted.
“The Jackson family is a menace! Their children are corrupting ours! Their house is an abomination! Their very existence is disturbing the peace!”
Parents murmured agreement. One woman raised her hand. “My daughter likes visiting them.”
The mayor stared at her, nodding firmly. “That's precisely the problem!”
Another parent hesitated. “My son says they're nice.”
“They're freaks!” the mayor snapped. “We must drive them out! We have to make them go away!”
The adults all looked at each other. The mayor knows what’s best for them.
The mayor then grinned, patting his coat. “No matter what the cost.”
The room erupted in nervous applause.
And so, armed with courage that was mostly borrowed from one another, the mayor and a group of concerned parents marched toward the Jackson estate.
The children followed their parents reluctantly, since apparently they had to see the truth—that people like them don't belong in Normal Valley.
The moment the group reached the old iron gates, the gates creaked open.
Everyone stopped.
A flock of bats burst from the trees.
The children squealed.
Then giggled.
The adults screamed.
The heavy mansion doors opened on their own with a deep, ominous groan.
One little boy whispered, “This is awesome.”
Another child waved toward the shadows.
A disembodied hand peeked from behind a pillar.
“Thing!” the children whispered excitedly.
Thing waved.
“Hide!” one child whispered. “Before my dad sees you!”
Thing scurried behind a curtain.
The children covered their mouths, giggling.
The adults noticed nothing.
They stepped inside.
The doors slammed shut behind them.
BOOM.
Michael appeared at the top of the staircase.
He stood motionless for several seconds.
Then he smiled.
“Welcome.”
The parents screamed.
Michael's grin widened.
“I'm sorry,” he said innocently. “Did I scare you?”
The mayor glared upward.
“Mr. Jackson.”
Michael descended the staircase slowly, his eyes never leaving the mayor. “Mayor.”
“We're here to talk.”
Michael nodded. “Okay.”
The mayor opened his mouth.
Michael suddenly threw a fencing sword toward him. "Then, you must fight for it!"
The mayor caught it purely by accident.
“What the—”
Michael drew another sword.
“En garde, monsieur!”
The mayor stared at him.
“No!"
Michael lunged.
“Yes!”
Their swords clashed.
The children cheered.
The parents gasped.
Michael laughed as he danced around the mayor, his movements impossibly quick and theatrical. “Oh! You're pretty good!” he exclaimed. “I'm surprised you haven't died yet!”
“I am not trying to die!”
“That's good!”
“STOP AIMING AT ME!”
“You're holding the sword!”
“I DON'T KNOW HOW TO FENCE!”
Michael laughed. “Neither did I when I started!”
“You're insane!”
“Thank you!”
The duel continued until you calmly cleared your throat from the sitting room.
Michael froze mid-lunge.
You sat in a velvet chair, knitting peacefully.
He slowly looked toward you.
You raised one eyebrow.
Michael immediately lowered his sword.
“Oh.”
You smiled.
“You are a host, my love.”
Michael nodded rapidly. “Yes, darling.”
“And you have a group over.”
“Yes, darling.”
“You should perhaps stop attempting to kill the mayor.”
Michael glanced at the mayor.
Then at you.
“Right.”
He tossed his sword over his shoulder.
It flew through the air.
THUNK.
It embedded itself in the wall approximately one inch from the mayor's ear.
Everyone froze.
Michael blinked.
“Uh…”
You sighed.
Michael hurried toward you, immediately taking your hand and kissing it repeatedly. “I'm sorry, baby. I'm sorry. I got excited.”
You tried to reach for the tea set.
He continued kissing your hand.
“Michael.”
“Yes?”
“Let me go.”
He kissed your wrist.
“Mm-hm.”
“Michael.”
“I'm listening.”
You looked at him.
“Arrête ça, espèce d'idiot insupportable."
Michael practically melted.
His shoulders dropped.
His expression softened.
“Yes, ma'am.”
He released your hand immediately.
Several wives standing nearby looked at their husbands.
One woman's eyes silently screamed, Why aren't you like that?
Her husband just looked at the ground, grumbling.
Another wife sighed.
Her husband whispered, “Don't look at me.”
You began preparing tea.
“Tea?”
The parents exchanged nervous glances.
Finally, one woman nodded.
“Yes. Thank you.”
You poured several cups and handed them around.
The room was quiet.
One parent lifted the cup.
Took a sip.
Paused.
Something floated to the surface.
An eyeball.
The parent screamed.
You calmly tilted your head.
“Oh.”
You reached into the tea, plucked the eyeball out between two fingers, and examined it.
Then you looked toward the staircase.
Prince and Paris sat there together, barely containing their laughter, holding a glass jar filled with lizard eyeballs.
You narrowed your eyes.
“Children...?"
They giggled.
“Put the jar back in the ingredients cabinet.”
“Yes, Mama.”
They hurried away.
The parents stared.
Michael clasped his hands together.
“Well,” he said pleasantly, “now that everybody has had tea… why did you come to our humble abode?”
The mayor stepped forward.
“We want you gone.”
Silence.
“You and your family don't belong in Normal Valley. You're frightening the children.”
The children immediately protested.
“We like them!”
“They're fun!”
“We come here all the time!”
The parents shushed them.
Michael's smile slowly disappeared.
The mayor continued. “You're strange. You're disturbing. And we're tired of pretending otherwise.”
Michael tilted his head.
“So…”
His eyes narrowed.
“You're trying to scare me?”
The mayor scoffed.
“I don't have time for your games.”
Michael stared at him.
Then slowly smiled.
“Oh.”
He clapped his hands loudly.
CLAP!
The entire mansion seemed to respond.
Doors slammed.
Candles flickered.
The chandeliers rattled.
Michael's grin widened.
“Game time.”
You quietly set your knitting aside, briefly. Grinning to yourself.
Your children immediately rushed toward you.
You gathered them into your arms.
Prince and Paris looked toward their father with enormous, excited eyes.
Michael stood alone in the center of the ballroom.
The mayor stared at him.
And somewhere above them, behind the curtains, Thing bounced on his fingers in anticipation.
I would like to request a Marlon fic where he has always been known to be quiet, smiling, and happy. But that all shatters when he goes on an interview and the host starts to talk negatively about reader who is nothing but a sweet, shy, caring soul. And maybe she could be plus size?
THE "QUIET" ONE
⋆˙⟡ featuring⋆˙⟡ ― marlon jackson x gf!reader
꒰ contents ꒱ marlon is known for being quiet, until someone messes with you.
⋆˙⟡ author's note⋆˙⟡ ― gotta love a man that stands up for his girl.
Marlon had always been known for being quiet and put-together, despite his chaotic personality.
Not awkwardly quiet or cold, just naturally soft-spoken, content to sit back with that familiar little smile while everyone else talked. He laughed easily, listened carefully, and rarely had anything unkind to say about anyone.
It was part of his charm and people loved that about him.
So when his smile disappeared during the interview, everyone noticed.
It had started with a question about you.
Marlon was used to people asking about his relationship, so nothing seemed too crazy at first. He always answered with that same fond smile, never giving too much away. You were private by nature, and the two of you made a point of keeping your relationship as private as possible, if only to keep the public eye at bay.
You were shy and sweet—the kind of person who would rather stay tucked into the corner of a room than have twenty pairs of eyes on you. You were perfectly happy just being there, quietly supporting your man.
The host seemed to know that, and yet she kept pushing.
At first, it was subtle comments about how different the two of you looked together. Then came the remarks about your size, disguised as fake concern and punctuated by little laughs.
Marlon’s smile slowly faded as he shifted in his seat. He was uncomfortable, but he told himself to give the interviewer a chance to redeem herself.
She didn’t.
She “wondered” whether he ever worried about how people perceived the two of you, or whether he ever thought about what he could have if he weren’t with you.
Then came the words that made Marlon’s expression go completely blank.
"You could do better, don't you think?"
For a few seconds, he said nothing.
Marlon looked down at his hands, his fingers tightening together before he finally lifted his eyes again.
“Better than her?” There was no smile now.
The host tried to laugh.
“You know what I mean.” She tried to play it cool, glancing toward the audience for some validation, but no one gave her any.
“No,” Marlon said simply. “I really don’t.”
His tone remained calm, but there was something underneath it now—something firm, restrained, and angry.
Because they didn’t know you.
They didn’t know the woman who always remembered the little things about him. The woman who made sure his suitcase was packed properly and that he had enough toiletries for every trip. The woman who still got shy whenever he complimented her, hiding her face against his chest because, no matter how many times he told her, she still couldn’t quite believe he genuinely thought she was beautiful.
And they definitely didn't know how often you had stood in front of the mirror wondering if you looked too big beside him. They didn't know how many times you had quietly asked him if he was sure he wanted you.
Marlon knew. He knew every insecurity you tried to hide from him, every little thing you worried about but rarely said aloud. That was why this interview was bothering him as much as it was. He knew exactly where her words were landing, and he hated the thought of you hearing them and wondering, even for a second, if Marlon saw you the way the interviewer did despite him saying he did not.
“She is one of the kindest and sweetest people I've ever met,” he said, staring at her dead in the eye. “And you sitting here talking about her like she's something I should be embarrassed about...”
He shook his head.
“I don’t understand that. And the fact that you’re trying to hurt someone who has done absolutely nothing to you makes you disgusting.”
“How would you feel if it were you?” Marlon leaned forward slightly, his gaze never leaving hers. “Actually, don’t answer that, because I don’t care.”
The host swallowed hard.
“I don’t care what she looks like to you.” His eyes remained fixed on hers. “I care what she means to me.”
The audience erupted, breaking into applause. Some even stood to show their respect for the way he had defended his woman.
After that, Marlon refused to entertain another question about you.
You didn't find out about the whole thing until later.
By the time Marlon came home that evening, the interview was already being replayed on tv across the country, the conversation definitely going to be the headline of the day tomorrow.
You knew nothing about it.
You were curled up on the sofa in one of Marlon’s oversized sweaters, a blanket tucked around your legs as an old movie played quietly in the background.
The front door opened, and you lifted your head from the armrest.
“There you are.” You gave your boyfriend a sleepy smile.
“Hey, sweetheart.” Marlon closed the door behind him, his expression softening the moment he saw you.
Usually, he would have dropped onto the sofa beside you with a grin, probably stealing half the blanket in the process. Tonight, though, he remained by the door for a moment, his keys still in his hand as he seemed to search for the right words.
“What happened?” You watched him carefully.
“Nothing.” He shook his head quickly, setting his keys down on the table. “Marlon.” You pushed yourself upright as you frowned at him. “I know you better than that.”
He sighed, then sat beside you and took your hand, his thumb gently brushing over your knuckles.
“They asked about you in the interview.” Your stomach dropped. “What did they say?”
He told you enough.
Enough for you to understand where the host was coming from. Enough to understand the comments about your body, about how different the two of you looked beside each other, and about how people thought he could find someone who suited him better.
You stared down at your lap, your fingers quietly playing with the edge of the blanket.
Then, unexpectedly, a small, embarrassed laugh slipped from your lips.
“I suppose they weren’t completely wrong.” You shrugged, though your fingers tightened around the edge of the blanket. “I mean… you could have someone who looks, you know, better.”
“Don’t.” His voice was gentle but firm. “Don’t you dare talk like that about yourself.”
“I just mean—” Your eyes dropped to your lap again.
“I know what you mean, and you’re wrong.” Marlon crouched in front of you, gently lifting your chin until your eyes met his. “You really think I don’t notice how beautiful you are?”
“Marlon…” You smiled softly.
“I’ve never looked at you and wished you were different.” His hand settled against your cheek, his thumb gently brushing your skin. “I fell in love with you.”
A tear slipped down your cheek, and he quickly wiped it away with his thumb.
“Your body isn’t something I tolerate or something I want you to change. I love you exactly as you are.”
“You got really angry.”
“I did.”
“You never get angry.”
“I do when people are cruel to you.” A faint smile tugged at his lips.
Your eyes filled with tears again, and this time, you leaned into his chest without saying anything. Marlon immediately wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close before reaching for the blanket and draping it over both of you.
He rested his head against yours, his hand moving slowly up and down your back.
For a while, neither of you said anything and just stared at each other. You stayed in his arms, enjoying the embrace as you listened to the steady rhythm of his breathing as the old movie continued playing softly in the background.
The quiet, smiling man everyone knew had finally found something worth breaking his silence for. And after that, everyone knew better than to ever cross him like that again.
And in his arms, you finally let yourself believe that you were safe, cherished, and loved exactly as you were.
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YO YO YOOO I GOT A FLUFFY REQUEST FOR YOU, QUEEN. So, since the Beauty and the Beast movie came out in November 1991 in theaters (general release), it was also released in September 1991 in New York at a Film Festival. So, like Michael and the reader are rumored to be dating since they're very close and always flirting in public, like friends, as you two would call it.
And someone hosts a Halloween party, and you and Michael go dressed up as Belle and the Prince. People keep teasing him at the party about matching and steadily bothering them with questions, but they end up liking the attention by the end of the night!
(VISUAL FOR HAIR) Since his hair was so pretty, it was shoulder-length and curly while he was at Elizabeth Taylor's wedding at Neverland. And the reader can have whatever hair she wants: silk press, brown curly wig / or also a curly bob, etc.
(THE MORE DETAILS THE MERRIER)
— THANK YOU, RIRI BB ୨୧
݁ — ᨳଓ . A princess and her prince | Michael x reader
⋆.˚ Summary : It's nothing new that you and Michael come as a pair, so when you're invited to a Halloween party dressed up as Belle and her prince, it raises suspicions about if you're rlly just good friends.
⋆.˚ Warnings : none !
ᝰ.ᐟ riri's note : I actually dont know why this took me so long to write, but we move oki peace out
To the public, you and Michael were basically considered to be dating, with the amount of times they'd caught you two out on casual outings, shopping, dinner, whatever the case was. You two were always together, like peas in a pod. Your pictures constantly showed up on the cover of every magazine, with large headlines that made it seem like you two were basically confirmed, but to you and Michael, you were just close friends. Friends who maybe spent too much time together despite your busy schedules. Friends who had way too many inside jokes, way too many late-night calls about the latest drama.
Well, fast forward to one of the spookiest times of the year. The time of the year when spider webs covered nearly every house in the neighborhood, the trees turned an almost movie-like shade of orange and red, kids rang doorbells yelling "trick or treat" as they waited for sweet treats to fall into their DIY pillowcase bags. And to say that you were excited was an understatement; in fact, you were beyond excited. The thought of spending the whole month planning your costume just for one night made you nearly jump for joy, your fingers instinctively mashing Michael's number, that familiar ring blasting through the speakers before his voice replaced the ring.
“Hello?”
“Hi Mikey, did you get invited to Whitney's Halloween party?” You asked, raising a brow like he could see it.
“I did, are you going?” Curiosity piqued in his voice, the sounds of him shuffling around whirled through the phone.
“You know I am, I love Halloween!” You giggled before speaking again. “Let's match, mmm, I was thinking Beauty and the Beast?” You hummed into the phone, leaning back against your headboard, legs crossed.
“Oh, you want me to be your prince,” he let out a soft chuckle.
“Maybe I do, is that a problem?”
“No, no, of course it's not, I'd love to be your prince,” another laugh whirling through the speakers of your phone.
“That's what I thought, anyways, I'm gonna head to bed, don't stay up too late,” you let out a yawn, saying your goodbyes, the line cutting, signaling the end of your conversation.
Though your schedules were packed tight, the one thing you didn't forget about was your costume; it was planned down to a T, and you knew it would look perfect. Your hair was in the perfect curly half-up, half-down, the bottom half falling past your shoulders just like Belle's, while the other section was pulled in a bun. And the dress. It was gorgeous, no, beyond that, it was big and yellow, pretty ruffles and lace details apparent as it fell off your shoulder, keeping them and your collarbones exposed.
You weren't sure exactly what Michael had planned for his half, but you knew with his sense of style it'd complement your own outfit perfectly.
You smoothed your dress down one last time, admiring yourself in the mirror before a knock interrupted your thoughts. The sound of your heels clicking against the floor echoed throughout the halls of your home as you made your way to the front door, your fingers twisting around the cold metal as you opened it, revealing a more than dashing Michael standing on your doorstep, looking like he was straight out of Beauty and the Beast. His hair held those pretty curls that you loved to look at, and his suit was tailored perfectly.
“Oh wow,” you both somehow spoke those words at the same time, the air shifting slightly, but not in an uncomfortable way. But there was something else, something you never really thought about, but it was there and you weren't sure how to handle it.
“What do you think?” You pushed the door open before twirling, your dress whirling around you as you spun.
“I think you look beautiful.” His mouth hung open like it was hard for him to pick his jaw back off the ground, and if you were to ask him, you looked like a real-life princess.
“Thank you, you look pretty dashing yourself.” You bowed playfully, Michael following soon after, an airy laugh falling from his lips.
“Ready to go?”
“Of course!” You looped your arm around his, walking toward the car.
The party was already lively with music bumping from every corner of the house. Spider webs hung from the ceiling, decorating the place nicely. Other celebrities, dressed up in costumes, danced all over; some just stood, a drink in their hand, as they bounced their heads to the music like it was instinct.
“Oh wow, you guys look amazing,” someone commented, their eyes darting at your locked arms, a hint of amusement playing out on their face as they made their way.
Then it was Whitney herself, making her way through the crowd, eyes immediately landing on the two of you, that gorgeous smile plastered across her face.
“Well, would you look at you two, looking straight out of a fairy tale?” She spoke, quickly embracing the two of you, the smell from her perfume lingering in the air around you.
“You sure nothing else is going on with you two?” She questioned, looking down at your intertwined arms, your bodies pressed tightly together.
“Oh, stop it, we're just friends.” You nudged at her shoulder with your free hand, earning a giggle from her.
“Whatever you say.” She swatted at the air, looking over you two one last time, before melting back into the party.
As the night went on, you were bombarded with questions. People from all sides wanted to know if this was your official couple debut, and if people didn't think you were dating before, they sure did now, and you were sure the tabloids would have the scoop on this soon.
The party began to wind down, yet the music kept blasting through the speakers. Your feet began to hurt from the terrible decision to wear heels, and the exhaustion began to hit, and now all you wanted was some fresh air.
“Mikey, I'm going to get some fresh air,” you tapped his shoulder, watching as he leaned down to hear you better.
“Okay, I'll go with you,” he nodded, following your lead outside, your hands clasped together as you made your way out into the crisp night atmosphere. The stars hung high in the sky along with the moon, as they twinkled, adding to the dim light in the sky.
“People really seem to be convinced we're dating,” he spoke up first, the sound of the music slightly muffled.
“Yeah, I don't mind though, we do look good together,” you elbowed him, a breathy laugh falling out into the open.
“I kind of like the attention though, let 'em talk,” you spoke again, smoothing out your dress once again.
"Got your bag?" You asked your daughter as she grabbed it and skipped to the door.
She nodded enthusiastically as you smiled. "Fantastic. Ready to go see Daddy?"
She rushed to the car as you unlocked it and made her way into her seat. This was your normal Friday evening. Your daughter would come home from school, do homework and then possibly take a nap. All this so she could go to her father's house for the weekend. Her favorite time of the week.
It took a bit for her to get adjusted to you both not being in the same house but she managed. After setting up a perfect schedule, you both have a way of making her feel comfortable. You both thought a break is what you needed from each other. That break turned into a clean break. You found out that you weren't cut out for marriage with Jaafar.
A long process that you know you had to put your all into however, that wasn't enough. Restless nights, your daughter crying for him in the middle of the night, nights he didn't even make it home. It was all too much for you so you called it.
"I don't think this is working out." You told him one night he came in late.
He just stared at you, clearly exhausted. "What are you—"
"I can't do this by myself, Jaafar." You explained as your voice trembled.
"So you're leaving me to go do that anyway?" He questioned. After that you both argued and that was it.
You left in the night after he stormed off. You sent the papers his way and didn't look back. You guys found common ground and lead your relationship that way. Your daughter still asks why you both don't live together anymore. It hurts hearing her say she misses when you both were together.
"Alright—Winnie wait!" You tried to call to your daughter as she jumped out the car to run into her fathers arms, who walked out of the house to greet you.
He picked her up with ease as he kissed her face. "Hi, baby." He greeted her as she giggled.
"I missed you, Daddy." She told him as she kissed his cheek. "I missed you more."
You got out the car and gave him a half wave. "Hey." He smiled as you gave him a tight lipped one.
"She had a nap and her homework was done this time so, it's just you guys tonight." You explained to him as you walked to the back of the car to grab her things.
Winnie pulled her daddy down by his collar so his ear was by her lips. "Mommy has a date."
As if he were a sleeper agent, Jaafar stiffened. You and him both agreed to not start anything until the divorce was finalized. It's his own fault really, they're sitting in a drawer somewhere in the house. He 'misplaced' them.
"Plans?" He asked as you lifted out of the car.
You nodded. "Yeah, work stuff."
He could tell you were lying because your habits never changed. You still didn't keep eye contact and you did a slight fidget. He just hummed as Winnie looked between you both. She was as mischievous as her daddy that much you knew for sure. She only knew about the date because she had eavesdropped on her Mommy. She had the perfect plan as her eyes began to water.
She began to cry loudly causing you to freeze and look at her. "Why's my baby crying?" You coo as you cupped her face.
"I wanna be with Mommy and Daddy!" She cried harder as she held onto Jaafar's shirt.
You pursed your lips, contemplating whether you should leave him to deal with it or not. You knew your baby was having a hard time with your divorce but you didn't think she was taking it this hard. You tried to hold her but she wouldn't unlatch from your ex-husband. "Baby, I know you're upset but Mommy has somewhere to be. I can't stay with you and Daddy today."
Your words fell on deaf ears as Jaafar bounced her gently trying to soothe his weeping child. "You can't postpone it or go in late?"
You wanted to roll your eyes. "I'm sure she'll be fine as soon as you both start an activity."
Jaafar narrowed his eyes at you because you knew just as much as he did that, that wasn't true. Winnie has cried longer for less. When you washed her stuffy, she cried for hours because it smelled like lavender instead of the funk she created. She's cried when Jermajesty wouldn't play dress up with her. She cried because you were dropping her off at school instead of Jaafar.
"Just for a bit." He tried coaxing you. He gave you that look like he needed the help and you really wanted to be the 'bad guy' here but you knew you couldn't.
"Fine. I only have an hour to spare." You told him as you shut the car door. He silently thanked you as you walked past both of them.
Winnie lifted her head, peeking at your retreating figure as she high-fives her Daddy. He chuckled before kissing her cheek. "You're a great actress." He told her as she smiled.
The evening went as Winnie planned. You stayed and did little activities with her and Jaafar while time ticked by for your date. Winnie would catch you rapidly texting and going for your purse and would cry. Jaafar would steer you away from the door if you inched too close to it. You were being held hostage at your ex-husband's house. You couldn't believe it and it was far too late when it finally clicked.
"Mommy, please stay for dinner!" Your little girl begged but you were ready to put your foot down.
"Mommy has to go." You told her as she pouts.
"But—"
"Nuh uh! I've been here long enough and I've done everything you've asked. I'm extremely late." You explained to her as you slung your purse over your shoulder and grabbed your keys.
"You only want to leave so you can go on your date!" Winnie bursted with energy.
Your jaw dropped as you turned around to look at her. "Winnie J—"
Jaafar crouched down to your daughter with both his hands on her shoulders. "Winnie how about you go upstairs while I talk to Mommy, okay?" Jaafar's tone soft as he ushered her up the stairs.
"I can't believe she said that—"
"She's right though." He told you as your eyes cut at him.
"Are you serious?" You asked in disbelief as he nodded.
"She just wants to spend time with both of us. Is that too much to ask for?" His tone sheepish as he questioned you, gaging your reaction.
You sighed. "Jaafar, I don't know what you both are planning, but I don't like being in the middle of it." You turned to the door once again.
"I asked her what she wanted for her birthday." He spoke up as he crossed his arms.
You rolled your eyes. "What does that have to do with anything?"
"She told me she wanted us to be in the house together. She misses having both of us in the house." His features softening as he looked down, thinking about it.
You rolled your lips in as you thought about it. Your daughter has always known two parents in the house. She's always known you and Jaafar being there. You guys didn't try to work out your issues; you just put them on the back burner. When neither of you could face it you decided to end it.
Winnie was an emotional kid. If she was sad, she would cry. If she was angry, she would speak her mind. You admired her for that though that's exactly how you raised her. She wasn't afraid to express her feelings until now. She didn't want to force you guys together but hearing you tell her Godmother that you were going out on a date—she lost it.
"Look I know we didn't end up how we planned but we can work something out. I just want the best for Winnie." He explained.
"Jaafar, I tried to make it work—"
"No we argued, you took my daughter and left our home and then served me papers." He used his index to point to the ground as he called off your actions.
"While I was trying to figure out how to bring my girls home, you were plotting to end all of this with me." You could hear the heard behind his voice. His eyes danced as if to keep himself from crying.
"Jaafar—" He held his hand up to stop you from continuing. "No, I've let you have your time to 'heal' or whatever this is. It's my turn."
You pursed your lips waiting for him to speak. "You don't understand how—scared I was when I came home and things were out of order."
Your eyes danced in his as you remembered how you snatched things from drawers and left. You didn't leave a note or anything. You didn't think about his feelings then but god were you thinking about them now. He wasn't a bad husband but bad at managing his time. He made promises to everyone who pulled him every which way.
"I tried to call you only to figure out that you blocked me. You didn't want to talk to me fine but ripping my daughter away was cruel." Your head dropped as you listened to him tell you about yourself.
"I'm sorry. I was just so angry that I didn't think about how it would affect you." You explained as you twisted the strap to your bag.
"I wanted to work this out with you. I still want to because we made something beautiful. I didn't work this hard for us to lose each other." He explained to you as he grabbed your hand.
"We've been married a long time and we have a beautiful little girl. I don't think I can spend another moment without waking up to both of you." He spoke lowly as your lips trembled.
Jaafar's thumbs caressed the back of your hands. He has been waiting forever to tell you this. To express how he's been feeling. He let you have your way but as soon as you didn't want to talk? He couldn't let that slide.
"You keep running from me; from our issues. Just talk to me so we can figure this out." He pleaded as he closed in on your space.
You have loved Jaafar since you guys were younger. Everything he did showed you he was ready for the next step. You don't know where along the lines you changed your mind on him but you know you still have love for him. There is no one else you could have chosen to be your husband and the father to your child.
"I'm sorry that I left and I let the spur of the moment control my emotions." You whispered, trying to swallow the lump forming in your throat.
"I never signed the papers." He told you as your gaze darted towards him.
"What?" He nodded unashamed. "I couldn't sign them knowing we had unresolved issues."
You laughed through your watery eyes. "You're sick."
"If it means we get to do this one more time, I'll be as sick as you want me to be." He chuckled pulling you in as he put his head on top of yours.
"We're gonna be okay." He whispered as he kissed the crown of your head. Your arms wrapped around his waist, tightly.
Little did either of you know, Winnie watched from the stairs with a small smile on her face. She finally got exactly what she asked for. Not only that, she won't be seeing anyone new try to enter her parents space again. She would make sure of it.
Am I gonna reuse this song? Absolutely. Anyway here’s something for y’all to gts to 😛
My drama filled loving clique: @gnabnahcsworld @stuff-i-like-to-read @yinny-roma
Summary: The healing journey is long one. You meet an old friend (or is he considered new given the circumstances) and your resolve wavers once more.
Content Warnings: usual spiraling, mentions of blood and death, reader is going through it
ANNOUNCEMENT: I’m redoing the Ikigai Taglist. Please ask on the masterlist if you’d like to be added/stay. I’m limiting spots to 100 (there’s too many currently and I don’t even know if some people want to stay; don’t want to be harrassing anyone who’s left the fandom 😭).
Part 19 | Part 21 | Series Masterlist | LADS Masterlist
You run from Sylus. Body repaired, heart in pieces, you avoid him like the plague, but with new techniques. Your last fight taught you a lesson in letting your sons get suspicious. You get sneaky with how you go about this. Subtle in a way Sylus alone notices.
You’re still their mother and boss. Still the woman that shares warmth with Sylus. Still teasing him, touching him, even with how it churns your stomach. Fists of disgust pound at you each time Sylus’ palm stretches across your back. You keep yourself still when his laugh reverberates too close to your ear. The twins no nothing of your inner world.
No one knows anything. Not the sweet young cook that comes in every evening with fresh bread and toothy smile. Not the old man that checks the authenticity of Sylus’ jewels with dim blue eyes and keychains you believe made by his granddaughter. Not Simurgh. Your act falls apart when the only eyes you see are red. Red as the thread you wish was yours. Red as the love you’ll never have.
”But you could. Oh, you could if you just said the words,” Sylus’ sad eyes trick you into pondering.
When guilt gnaws at you—for the concerned looks he gives you, the questioning tilt of your god’s head, the tugging hands of Simurgh at the hem of your clothes that you know Sylus put her up to, and the man in question’s thread expressing the mountains of betrayal his face won’t allow—you remember that night. Your Morana’s meltdown. His nightmares. His fears.
I’d rather you hate me than miss me. I’d rather break your heart by living away from you and have it mended by our dear friend than become another woman you’ve loved who’s death you blamed yourself for.
Astrid. Miss Hunter. His birth mother. All women that float through your love’s thread. All forces of nature with strength that surpasses yours. All beings you don’t hold a candle to.
And while there’s much to envy about them, they belong to a list that you don’t want to join. A burden you can’t add to. So you’ll run. For as long as it takes. For as many times as necessary for your heart and his to heal.
I can’t have you. I can’t risk everything for something so… wrong.
—
Your new jewel, a get well soon gift from Kai, gives you trouble and you’re thankful for that. While it’s ripped you from your workshop to the living room, it’s also a fantastic distraction. Despite how your mind tries to drift elsewhere.
”You plan to rot in here for the rest time, Gamayun? And after just getting cleared by your doctors?”
Sylus’ arms cross over his chest at that moment, smirk on his face. The slight shake in his tone and his clingy thread attempting to wrench your work from your hands got you out here. It’s the least of what you owe him.
You’ve gone back to your avoidance of your love. Left his room and his arms when Helios said you were healthy. Started spending more and more chunks of time outside the base with anyone but him. Luke. Kieran. Astrid. Miss Hunter.
Anyone but your Morana. Who’s too attached. Who’s too lovely. Who’s breaking your heart with a mallet each time he speaks your name and touches your skin. Not that he does that anymore. The first time you flinched, the very night you finished needing to visit your physical therapy office and was okayed to do your exercises at home, he backed away.
He didn’t need words from you. Didn’t need a conversation. Knows you too well.
Knows our dynamic is too wrong.
You slam your tools onto the table you set at the foot of the couch. A low growl escapes your lips as you throw your body into the cushions. A soft pillow’s on your back. Gift from Alex; sewed together by their hands and stuffed with feathers from a friend of theirs. You move to hold it.
“Whatever did that divine jewel of mine, one that’s fortunately become yours thanks to my efforts that my dear sister gracefully didn’t bore you with details of me precurring it, do to you?”
The voice behind you isn’t one you recognize. The cheer. The accent—a mix of Jamaican and British. Masculine with a softness you’ve never heard. Your body relaxes upon it entering your ears, despite its owner crowding your personal space.
You move to look over your shoulder, legs swinging to fall across the couch.
Sister?
To your knowledge, Kai does indeed have a brother. One she never speaks of. One you’ve never felt close enough to her to ask about. One you’ve seen in flashes of memories and tastes within her soul. Those glimpses give you a small window into the mystery man in your home.
Or, at least, they should’ve. The man behind you bares no resemblance to his sister or the child he once was. Striking blue eyes dominate the room, the single thing he shares with his blood. His skin—olive with patches of white on the hands. His hair, black and as deep as Alex’s, with streaks of white that are visible when the light hits it right. It’s buzzed.
Hands on your shoulders and his presence next to you prevents you from digging into his thread at the moment.
“Now, don’t strain yourself on my account. I’d rather avoid having to pull myself out of rubble again because of your boss’ temper tantrum.”
You blink at the man. Brain buffering and hands not knowing if they should reach for a weapon or to embrace him. Strange. Strange indeed. Stranger still, you don’t have a need to ask any questions. Who he is. Why he talks to you the way he does. Why he’s so touchy. Why he feel familiar to the point where it’s scratching the top of your brain.
“Kai sent him over for some business,” Sylus appears where the man once stood, glowering at the pair of you (especially where your invader holds a hand on your shoulder to steady you). “A task he’s seemed to have forgotten.”
The intruder shrugs before flashing you a smile. “You can hardly blame me, Mr. Qin. For your supposed partner distracted me as much as I’m distracting her. Since you’ve appeared to have neglected to inform either of us being present in your home today.”
Familiarity weighs on you as much as hand. Squeezes and messes with you. And being so unaware in the presence of Sylus makes you jump to the threads. Can’t look a fool in front of your boss.
Your answer shocks you to your core. But you don’t have time to falter.
Sylus is speaking to me. I shouldn’t be this spaced out.
The poor man’s made your mission to distance yourself impossible. He clings now that you’ve cleared most of your physical therapy. You need assistance at times still, but you never turn to him. Simurgh and the twins are who you look to first. Other members of Onychinus, even newer ones, next. Sylus lies last on the totem pole.
Everyone else doesn’t come with the emotional burden he does. The fingers that wrap around your heart. The guilt that clogs your throat. The grim memories of your near murder by the stars that deemed your love not one to be.
Maybe that’s why you lean into your new companion’s hand. Let him close. The flash of pain in Sylus’ eyes chokes you.
I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I need to do this.
“James,” you interrupt Sylus and both men address you with wide eyes; your tone is one of fondness and the beaming grim you force startles them.
Strange. Strange indeed. How one man whose never been one for change, when it comes to who he is, does so in the blink of an eye. How he shifts his appearance from an old man to one no older than 30. How he wears different personalities at the drop of a hat. How he remains so hidden in this world you and his sister tread.
That oddness doesn’t stop you from doing what must be done. You tackle James in a hug, an affectionate act that causes anxiety to twist its claws into your stomach and skin.
”Push him away. Push Sylus away,” you chant to yourself. ”It’s for the best.”
You need to give him a reason to hurry to Miss Hunter before the universe takes you from him for good. Give him the perfect circumstances to love who he’s meant to before his confused emotions make you cross the forbidden line.
You don’t want to die. You don’t want to leave your sons, your friends, and your Morana. And pretending to love James might do that for you. He’s uncomplicated: soulmate dead and would never in million years have genuine romantic feelings for you. He can act to the calibre you can, put on a show for everyone in your life.
The Lemurian man embraces you in return. His thread teases Sylus, matching with the shit-eating grin you glimpse on his face when you two pull back.
“Must’ve missed quite a ton, Miss,” he uses your first name with a gentleness that would make anyone else swoon. “For you recognized me with a new face.”
“I have my ways. I’m not one for forgetting a dear friend.”
The words taste like ash.
“Dinner?” you waltz past Sylus, ignoring the way he wilts and telling yourself the simple truth:
It’s for the best. For him, and for him. I was never meant to have him.
—
“What’s with the sudden change in,” Sylus, holding a wine glass in hand (that he’s emptied far too quickly and refilled more times than necessary for a simple business dinner), “everything. Got bored of being a geriatric?”
You wish for a moment you sat beside the man so that you could smack him. The brief glimpse he gives you signals he knows what’s going on in your head. You narrow your eyes to express your disappointment instead.
“Must you be so hostile to a guest you invited without informing me?”
“Must you take the side of said guest who shouldn’t be here at the moment?” Sylus, uncharacteristically, borderline snarls at James. “A guest whose sister should’ve informed him as such. A guest whose family owes you a debt, and in turn, should repay it by valuing your recovery time.”
James takes Sylus’ comments in stride. You’re next to him. He lifts his hand, turns the palm to face your god of death, and something flickers across his skin. Scales. Not the scales of the tail he once had (they’re too dark, and it’s not something he’d bring out to make a point to a man he holds a grudge against; pettiness may be prevalent in his family, but it’s not that deep). Nor are they the scales of snake or any of the myriad of fish that call the sea their home. James’ aquatic friends aren’t his inspiration.
Dragon scales.
Not ones that match Sylus’s fiend form. But the ones from Astrid’s. The resemblance clicks with your boss. You’re sure not to show that it does for you too.
His skin changes again in the blink of an eye. It’s shades darker than the one the rest of his body sports. Is this his real appearance, or the one he’s decided to stick with presenting to you?
What a confounding man…
“Becoming a new person, creature, or being is par for the course for me. I imagine you of all people, Mr. Conqueror, would understand that fact, given what you and my sister partake in for a living.”
Sylus sips his wine, “Just as much as a cockroach as your sister then, I see. Must be a familial trait. Father or mother’s side?”
James’ thread races towards Sylus at the comment, wrapping around your Morana’s throat as you call to it to relax. Nothing shifts in the man’s demeanor. He remains still as a lake.
It’s off putting, to say the least. To watch the threads of the world become more active. Another anomaly to the list of things strange about you. A list that’s been getting longer and longer since your fight with Alex and your encounter with that sinister part of the universe. It still slithers within you. And with it, a simple reminder:
This is what’s best for us all.
It’s best that you bite back laughter at Sylus’ antics. It’s best that your heart falls to your feet over forcing someone to mediate between the pair of you. It’s best that you miss his warmth while you slumber in your bed in the base. It’s best that you remember the fear in his eyes (which still lingers beneath the surface to make molten pits in his crimson).
Your closest companions were born different; beings beyond mortal understandings and cultural. How would they react to you, someone who was made to be human but became something else?
Sylus deserves better than that.
“I believe my sire would be the one to curse my sister and I with that gift, despite the longevity coming from our dear mother.”
James’ fingers curl on his wineglass a bit tighter. Sylus notices and relaxes his own grip. Melancholy passes over both their faces. Your sea-dwelling visitor’s skin shifting to a shade more alike to his sister’s for a brief second; it forms a band on his index finger. The ripple in his appearance vanishes a moment later.
“And since we’re on the topic of blood bonds,” blue eyes that remind you of stormy nights back in your hometown weigh upon you. “I do have to inquire about your own, Mr. Qin.”
Sylus, ever the businessman with an excellence poker face, doesn’t waver, and scoffs. “Did the explosion scramble your brain as well as your heart? Lost your sanity to the rubble?”
“No,” James turns to you, and you swear he winks at you. “Lost that to your dear diplomat. And I’ve always had a misshapen brain; you’d know if you’d bothered to have conversations with more people rather than simply demolishing them.”
You decide to interrupt before another blood bath occurs, “Why didn’t you ever mention your sister during our talks? Surely that would’ve made things progress in a more efficient manner.”
James chuckles. “Perhaps for you, my sweet. But unfortunately for my beloved sister, I’m not isolated enough from the world to not be aware of the,” he pauses, a darkness flickering in his bright eyes for a moment before it’s washed away. “complications of your boss and my blood’s relationship. That, and Kai’s never been the most forthcoming nor jovial when I’ve taken it upon myself to nose around her side of the world.”
“And that’s why we’ve never met prior.”
“Correct,” a shadow falls across James’ thread for a second. “That, and I had my own engagements to attend to.”
Death flashes in those shadows now. Blood and bodies. A cruel but beautiful voice. And a connection to one of Miss Hunter’s soulmates, the one who’s power allowed you to breathe underwater.
“And Sherman?” your boss chimes in. “I figured you’d share your goals and standards with your sister about the company you keep.”
James cocks his head to Sylus’ direction, “Of course we do. Why else would I pursue your lovely partner here instead of you? One fiend is more than enough for my family.”
A pause blankets the room. Smothers you as the threads of both men waver.
“I only connected myself to Sherman because I heard about Onychinus’ search for one with him.”
Something in James softens. He reclines back in the chair, and sets down his utensils. He appears… human, for the lack of a better term.
“And I did so in hopes one of you could drag my sister out of the pits of her grief.”
A glint passes behind his eyes, a show of his true feelings. Daggers brush across your skin. His thread sings a haunting melody. Part of you longs to grab Sylus’ hand, protection for him and yourself, while another dreams of brushing those swords.
Polite smile and straight back remain all anyone sees. Except for your love; he slides his chair ever so slightly closer to yours. Sparks of his Evol twine with your fingers. You want to cry.
Still supporting me, protecting me, even when I hurt you.
James continues, basking in the tension he’s created, “That was clearly a miscalculation on my part, given how things ended,” James’ cheerful demeanor returns in full, bright smile and brighter eyes that carry so much. “But the added chaos to my schedule wasn’t unwelcome. I suppose I ought to thank you for that.”
He address Sylus, but looks at you. And although there’s a flirty glint to his eyes, it drowns in something else. Something deeper. Something more terrifying that draws you in.
You spiral.
How could I not see this? Any of this?
You’re Gamayun, a bird of prophecy. You know things. You’re entire relationship with Sylus is built upon you knowing and seeing things other can’t. It’s all you’re made for.
What good am I to anyone, let alone Sylus, when I can’t even do my job properly? When I can control my powers nor stay out of trouble? When I only see fragments of truth instead of the whole thing?
“How goes recovery?”
You blink. Once. Twice. Study the two men’s faces. Both drenched in worry. Both clouded by the past, seeing someone else where you sit and wishing they did better by them.
Glancing at Sylus in particular, guilt begins to creep in again. Twists its ugly hands into your stomach. Knots it in disgusting bows as you dart your gaze when carmine eyes lock with yours.
“Good, all things considered,” James arches an eyebrow at you, and takes a bite out of his food with an odd glint in his eyes, so you’re compelled to spill more. “When you think for more than a second of what could’ve—should’ve—happened.”
You pause, the sickness in your stomach snaking along your throat to try and close it. Sylus’ thread weaves around your wrist. It comforts you when its owner can’t. You breathe, and finish your statement.
“And I’m grateful for the support and care I’ve received as a result.”
To your surprise, James scoffs at your words. All the humor and glam and otherwise positive emotions drain out of him. His skin shifts in response; his Evol summons bits and pieces of past identities. A simple sound is all it takes.
His eyes, colder than you thought possible for a man as eccentric as him, lock on Sylus, “You’re suffocating her more than anyone could ever hope to. It’s impressive, in a way, for someone like you.”
“Someone like me?”
“A man who values freedom. A man who I thought knew better than anyone the harm of a cage others try to force us in.”
Sylus wilts in his seat. He motions to turn to you, to look to you for something, but stops himself. Another crack. In your heart. In your relationship.
“Don’t speak on things you have no understanding of, James,” it’s the first time you’ve addressed your guest with derision.
Said guest rolls his eyes at you. But, you sense that his venom is still solely directed at Sylus. Your Morana, who schools his expression and calms the power that simmers under his skin.
“I speak because I have the understanding necessary to do so. Another thing I find ironic; I heard from Kai and my beloved in-law all about your close relationship. I wonder if the current state of things has caused some wires in their brains to be crossed.”
James stares at Sylus and Sylus alone, “Because I’m otherwise lost on how the Devil himself could be so blind to the suffering of someone he claims to love. But that’s just par for the course for you, isn’t it? Letting others wither and fall for you while disregarding their care.”
Another other person would lunge. Snap. Anyone else would be disintegrated. Pulverized. Sylus does nothing. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t react. The life vanishes from his eyes. His thread tightens around your wrist, desperate and aching.
You can’t take it anymore. Rising from your seat, you slide next to Sylus and nudge him under the table with your foot. It’s the closest you’ve willingly come to him in some time.
I’ll change that for now. Until James leaves and I fix what he’s clearly broken.
You still love him, after all. You can’t be with him. But you can’t watch someone tear him to pieces when you’re already going to do that.
“Is there any real reason you’ve come here? Or was it just to ridicule my partner and meddle in our business with Kai?”
Sylus perks up at the word “partner”. One of his hand ensnares yours, not caring that James’ eyes follow the movement.
“There is, my dear.”
“Don’t call me that,” you manage to keep your voice even and your hands steady. “I’d prefer not to have words of endearment shared with someone who’s old enough to know better than to stoop so low with his words.”
“You say that, and yet, you side with the most childish man in this room. One who never knows how to treasure what he has and can only throw a tantrum when he’s lost it.”
James speaks with grace. Calm. Cool. Level-headed.
“I’d hardly call what my partner is doing a tantrum. Perhaps things were different during your time, but in our time, most tend to be on edge towards intruders in their home. In their territory with those who would support their enemies.”
You match his energy.
And to think I was planning on being around this man for much longer. I really have lost my touch.
“Agree to disagree,” James shifts in his seat, teasing smirk on his face and the light atmosphere returns. “But as to my answer for being here, I’ve said it before. It’s for you.”
“Why?”
“Because you clearly desire an escape from the monotony of your current way of life and I need a date, as I am but a chronically single man with little to no social life due to my chosen goal in life and my sister’s career.”
Again, blood seeps into his thread. Blood of his people. Blood of those who took them. Blood of a certain fiery artist who shares his grief (one failed sea god to another, even if one doesn’t remember who he used to be). The sight forces your mouth shut, hands making fists in your lap and teeth grinding in their cage.
You’re a little girl before this man. A foolish child. He sees through your mask. Through each act and excuse. Staring at your legs, trying not to squirm, you revert to your old way of defending yourself.
“Those wings of yours need to be spread, my dear. It’ll do your recovery good. Trust me.”
Sylus and you scoff in sync. James raises his hands in mock surrender.
“I’m well aware I’ve done myself no favors in earning the latter from you, Miss,” despite yourself, a warmth builds in your cheeks from hearing your name slip from such a mellifluous voice; he’s more of a siren than you’ll ever be. “But if you’d allow me to be so bold here, it’s just a simple mission. Something I did with my precious sibling-in-law a ways ago. Got their mind off of… everything.”
His broken thread whispers of Alex. A father and sister who don’t respect their identity (which worsened since their resurrection). Flakes of the decrepit twine press into your hands; tastes of Alex’s comfort foods (simple things when you consider the lavish lifestyle their wife and family provide: salad made of vegetables from their garden and dressing made by their hands, dragonfruit they grow in their home with Kai and James, and mango sweeter beyond your imagination), their hands weaving and crocheting pillows, and coasters, and blankets to fill the void in their heart.
A void lurks in them. One James recognizes in you and himself. Your tight fist loosens. Sylus’ gaze on you doesn’t waver, and he doesn’t touch you. Despite his thread and his eyes and his soul begging for you to let him.
”Let me in,” they say. ”Let me help you, Gamayun.”
He recalls your breakdown. You remember it too.
For that reason that you respond, “What’s the job?”
Not because of James; you don’t care for him anymore. Not because of Sylus; having him be your reason for anything and everything will make the future that much harder.
Your mind and heart, even now, recall his gentle touches. His tears. His broken voice when he spoke of praying for you. His desperation for you.
But I’ve already seen the future. And it’s one where I’m not needed.
For you have two options: one where he loves another, and one where he loves you but you lose all your meaning. The possible you from who knows how many days, weeks, months, or years from now flashes behind your eyes. She’s sprinting from Sylus again. Blurry vision and burning legs. A heart that sinks into the core of the earth and a heart that splinters with each movement of her body.
I can’t become her.
That would hurt far more than any heartbreak. So, you turn to James.
“I’ll go along with your little excursion if you give me your word to be civil to my partner from now on,” you tug on the ancient merman’s thread a bit as you talk. “For I know how your people value promises. It’s the same for me; currency, if you would, in our line of work.”
“You never made such a deal with my sister.”
She’s never seen me as you do. Never dug into my soul like you. Never confused me as you do.
It’s Astrid all over again: finding solace and connection with someone who hurts the man you love. Bonding with beings and people you should despise for how they make his thread tremble.
It’s no wonder I was born soulless when I’m this much of a monster: willing to hurt my Morana because I’m so starved for someone to know me.
“You are not Kai,” you say instead, and you get the feeling James knows all the ideas that float in your words.
“That I am not,” he smiles, setting his fork aside and pushing his empty plate forward an inch or so. “Your terms are amendable. I’ll refrain from commenting. And I apologize for any insult you took from my words.”
He bows his head to Sylus. Sylus makes no acknowledgement of his words. You narrow your eyes at the blatant empty sincerity, but bite your tongue. Sylus’ gaze burns into your skin; your lips stiffen from their intensity and your mind races.
“Are you going to tell me what it is you’re kidnapping my partner for? Or was your plan to bore me to death and steal her then?”
“I would never to think to bore the leader of Onychinus to death, Mr. Qin. Rest assured if I ever plan your demise, it’ll be one as grand as you deserve.”
Another blank smile. Another flash of danger in those darling eyes. Another pit in your stomach.
“Cease the death threats to my partner, James. Now. Don’t break your word right after giving it to me. Or any chance for a productive relationship will be severed alongside that deplorable tongue of yours.”
The ice in your tone freezes even your spine. James straightens his posture and Sylus smirks a bit. Embarrassment and pride clash within your body. You dip a metaphorical toe into the ocean of The Way, of the new expansive sea that growing powers open you up to.
Blinding stars. Swirling galaxies. Endless beaches and songs of a community James attempts to protect with what little personal power he possess. Whispering blades of grass brush the soles of your feet and you forces yourself to return to the present.
“Your wish is my command.”
Lies.
You want to stab him. You want to run away with him. You want to burn him. You want him to drown you with a beautiful song. You want, you want, you want.
He won’t be my salvation. But he can at least be my distraction. Something to play with like he wants to do with me.
“The job?” Sylus steers James’ attention from you; gratitude and guilt crisscross inside you.
“A low stakes mission far below either of our pay grades, but one that promises gems and the demise of pests neither of us will ever take a shine to,” he gestures to Sylus like an afterthought before continuing. “You can spectate if you so wish. But you can only spectate. I’m a ticket shy for you to be able to join us and having you make your usual noise too soon into this adventure will disrupt my plans.”
You nod in response. It’s the closest James has been to respectful to your partner since he arrived, after all.
Take what you can.
Chewing your food, you ponder. On one hand, James doesn’t treat you like some fragile flower who would wilt under a raised voice or harsh touch. On the other, he’s an ass; an ass to your Morana, more importantly. Conversation with those that dislike you flow like the rapids of a raging river even on your bad days. Talks with those who take issue with Sylus become Siphysus pushing his rock up his mountain.
But you need this mission. Not to bond with James. Not to break Sylus’ heart for his protection. Not even to shield yourself. Rolling your fork between your fingers, you choke back a sigh of frustration.
Stagnation and you have been best friends since Sylus’ breakdown. A relationship broken by the occasional training with Miss Hunter or work with Kai and Alex. It’s an unwanted partnership. One the Lemurian man before you has presented the ideal opening to escape from.
His cruelty lingers in your brain. Swimming in deadly waters, you lock eyes with him. Another chill swims across your skin.
Danger, the threads scream. Unstable. Monster.
A fraction of a second passes. You blink. Blood cakes James’ hands, dripping and forming rivers on the lines of his palms. You blink again; this time, the blood’s his own. The glass of an old beer bottle shatters across the back of his skull. Kai screams. You blink a third time. Reality returns to normal.
“What’s the dress code?”
James grins. Sylus doesn’t react, but his thread curls tighter around one of your wrists.
“Anything, my dear. I myself favor going with an oceanic theme, since we have to match and all, but as you can see, I’ll be able to mirror whatever you decide.”
You nod once more before getting up to leave, voice failing you. Except when Sylus attempts to follow you.
“I’ll be alright on my own, Morana,” you whisper the nickname, gaze flickering over to James. “I’m not about to collapse just getting a simple outfit. It’ll be a quick search of our closet.”
Disgusting.
You rub at your arms, skin alive with pricks and tingles. Your new powers move with it, brief images of people recovering from major injuries and living full lives crossing your mind before you will them away. You don’t want nor need the help. The foolish, foolish, hope.
I jump from man to man, person to person, far too easily. Do I even love Sylus, or do I just fool myself into doing so in order to have a reason to cling to him?
Diving into your side of the closet, you focus on the burn of your arms. Repetitive swiping of dress and suit after dress and suit coupled with the weight of said clothing worsens the tension. The back of your hand brushes Sylus’ apparel at times. Anxiety twists your stomach.
Before long, you have a nice spread to haul to your private room in the mansion. You pass the twins and Kieran waves to you while Luke appears to want to come to your side. His brother says something to him and he too waves. You smile and attempt the motion the best you can with how much is in your arms.
You disappear to your room prior to seeing them leave the hallway. Heart pounding and arms aching, you collapse onto the side of your bed. Some of the clothing crumples as a result. A heavy exhale that carries the weight of the stars sounds out of you.
“Let’s get this over with.”
As you press some dresses and suits to your body, you frown. For you know your eyes aren’t really on what’s before you. Rather, your focus flickers to your scars. Deep gashes on ribs; injuries only Sylus knows of and tends to with reverent caresses. Thick slashes where the vines pierced you; Alex’s face never fails to fall when they catch sight of those particular wounds. Circular blemishes crisscross your arms; Simurgh likes to play connect the dots with them before bed.
They say, ”I survived."
They say, ”I failed.”
They say, ”I’m a monster who shouldn’t be here.”
Cold tears fall across burning cheeks.
I can’t pretend like this. I can’t be their mother, her friend, his Gamayun, like this.
—
You dress with efficiency. Floor-length white gown with dark blue accents at the bottom that reach up to the middle; they look like screeching sailors clawing at the sirens that rest at the chest area of your piece. Those sirens bare an darker blue, with white pearls spotting there for a bit of variation.
Tying your hair in an intricate way, you place a crown of jewels made to appear as a shell and octopus tentacles upon your head. Finally, you slip on pearl-colored heels. You mean to head out as soon as you finish. You don’t; too caught up in checking yourself in a compact mirror.
Objectively, you’re gorgeous. Stunning. Anyone would need a second or third take to compose themselves when their eyes cross you. So why do you feel gross? The fabric, usually so comfortable, grates against your skin. The jewelry you wear, your pride and joy, become objects you want to hurl at the wall and watch shatter with satisfaction. The heels, built for beauty and sprinting, cramp your feet.
You stare at your reflection for the umpteenth time.
I should be going somewhere with Sylus dressed like this.
What changed to put you in the position for that not to be true?
If only she never came into our lives. If only it stayed me, Sylus, the twins, and Simugh.
You dig your nails into your palm and head out the door. Sitting here longer will bring more unwelcome ideas. Gliding down the stairs to the two men that await your arrival, you attempt to keep cool.
You’re level headed. You’re fine.
Each step widens the pit in your stomach. Bile bubbles at Sylus’ stoic expression. A glimpse of… something in his eyes soothes your ego. James offers his hand to you, and you take it.
Anything’s better than what’s cooking within your soul.
You hop into his car, not making note of the model, type, or color. You disregard any observations to assure yourself of your safety.
Run away, your body screams. Run, run, run.
—
James shifts his attire as he pulls out; they match yours to a T.
“What’s our story for this auction? And would you mind providing me some more details on the importance of tonight?” you ask to break the tension and get away from your feelings.
“Why do your presume there’s a story?” your snort gets a chuckle out of your companion. “We’re married, my dear. Theme of this auction is couples and romance, so I figured I’d kill two birds with one stone by taking your lovely self out on the venture.”
For once, you don’t feel the guilt you associate when someone’s implied to be in a relationship with you.
Is it because his soulmate was taken from him so long? I know he’s lived for quite some time. Not as old as Sylus or Astrid or Helios or Kai. But much longer than me. He’s been soulless longer than he’s had that kind of love.
Another thought crosses your mind: do immortals get multiple soulmates? You remember briefly reading an article of an older couple who both lost their soulmates as teens marrying as adults and later forming a soulmate bond a few years into said marriage.
You glance at your driver. At the man you still can’t quite decide how you feel about. A man who brings you comfort and strife. A man who both hides and freely expresses himself
Could he be given that love again with you?
Mentally, you shake your head and lean it again the cool mirror, still staring at the puzzle that shares the car with you.
Why would I even wish that? I just met him. He makes me uncomfortable. He’s horrible to the man I currently love. We’re nothing alike.
”Liar,” James’ voice echoes in your brain; his lack of reaction becomes the primary reason you don’t flinch.
Quiet.
“Should I mention to those that ask that the first time we met was when my boss tried to kill you? We’d need such a tale to explain why I’m at your side and not—“
James finishes for you. “By Sylus’?”
You turn to peer out the window. He spits your love’s name out like it’s a curse. Like it taints his mouth and being just by rolling off his tongue.
There goes any hope of friendship. Perhaps the accident affected my judge of character as well as everything else? Or I slipped into some alternate reality? Or I’m dead and this is all a dream?
“You can do so, if you wish. It makes no difference to me,” you hold in a scoff at the arrogance in his voice and palm the crown in your hair to steady yourself. “For there’s much more pressing matters at stake tonight.”
You hum. James takes it as his cue to continue, “There’s something I’ve been looking for for a long time. Something precious to me and my illustrious sister. This auction is the best lead I’ve had in decades. And the one time I believe I’ll be able to prove myself as something more than a burden to Kai.”
James’ eyes, still on the road, droop. His shoulders sag as his face slackens. His lips tremble and press together, grip tightening on the steering wheel. It’s the most real emotion he’s shown since he shed his old man skin.
Is this the real him? Real body, real name, and real feelings? Or another mask?
Your eyes drift to him against your will.
Does he wonder the same when he looks at me?
James feels your eyes on him, “Of course, all this comes with the added and fantastical bonus of stealing you, my dear, from your dreadful dragon and his castle. And my sister gets to begin her rise to power on a more cheerful note.”
Relaxing in your seat, you’re thankful the regular James returns. You fidget with your hands for a bit while his thread sings with sorrow and past mistakes. You decide to ignore it. Or, try to, at least.
“How goes things with your sister and her business?”
The small bits of administrative work you’ve done for Kai don’t paint much of a picture. And what better way to get answers than a direct source?
“An ocean of complications and annoying gnats trying to dig their way in. My sister’s little vanishing stint is having a fallout your boss’ never did.”
The usual anger at Sylus seeps through the cracks of James’ jovial demeanor. You ignore it. No need to start a fight with someone who could end your life by swerving the wrong way.
Excuses, excuses.
“May I ask for some elaboration?”
James takes one hand off the wheel. You straighten in your seat.
“Kai controls her dominion with an iron fist none wish to encounter. One more akin to the earlier days of the fallen factions of our great homeland. Alex and I deign to stay out of it. Alex because I’m sure you’re aware where they prefer to give their time to. Me because I can never seem to wrap my head around the particulars of how she wants things done.”
He pauses. His mouth ticks into a frown. His hand returns to steer the car. You observe in silence.
“People will take any and all opportunity to dethrone my sister. It’s worsen since her partnership with your company. She’s working to deconstruct and reconstruct her empire into how it once was. Too much on her plate to the point where she doesn’t know what to consume first. So, I placed the burden upon myself to do this.”
He snaps his jaw to prevent more coming out.
His flirty self rears it’s ugly head a fraction of a second later, “I invited your beautiful self because I know the boredom of doing this alone would simply kill me faster and more efficiently than any explosion.”
Nodding your head, you return to pressing your cheek into the window as the world of your home flickers by. Buildings on the brink of collapse. The faint pops of gunshots. Scents of smoke brings a grin to your face. It screams of comfort, of Sylus.
And you can’t help but love it.
Part of you runs from these feelings. Do you deserve to be in such a state after all you’ve done? All the pain you’ve brought to Sylus and all the further suffering you’re willing to put him through to save yourself?
It’s for both of us, you fool. For everyone. We can’t work if we’re heartbroken.
“How could you tell?” when in doubt, distract yourself.
James requires no elaboration on your question.
“From experience.”
You narrow your eyes on the road ahead. His answer comes too easy, too flippant. Memories of your encounter with one of your physical therapists comes to mind.
Am I doing this? Prying him open?
Scanning your body, you search. For a sensation. For an inkling on what triggers the loose lips of those around you. It would be helpful to replicate in the field of your own volition.
“My beloved sister has been driving me insane since the explosion, since none of us know the cause or who’s behind it,” you lift your face to glare at him in suspicion. No reaction. “Alex’s return is shrouded in mystery and a worry she’s entitled to. However, much like you, I’m an adult that needs to swim freely in the ocean of this unstable world. And much like your dear partner, my sister seems to still see me as a little boy.”
“Is that why you despise him the way you do?”
Internally, you admonish yourself for your harsh tone.
I’m better than letting my emotions get the best of me. Or, at least, I should be. It’s why Sylus hired me. I can hate him, but he can’t know that. Not if I want to use him tonight.
James cackles, and you can’t repress a shudder.
“I have many reasons to “despise” that lizard you call a friend, my dear. Our similarities have nothing to do with it.”
He glances at you. You cross your arms and lay your back against the passenger door. The rest of your trip is in silence.
—
Unassuming and grand at the same time, the auction house casts the shadow of your past as well as an alternate future as James escorts you out of his vehicle. You take his hand with great reluctance. Your focus turns towards the sprawling carpet of trimmed grass—odd sight in the N109 Zone—and how you’d rather be frolicking in it with the twins or Alex instead of playing pretend wife to an asshole with interesting hands.
They’re rougher than you expected. Not like Sylus’ that dwarf and surround yours in comfort. Not like Astrid’s dainty but powerful, or Helios unbelievably warm ones. They’re scarred. A glimpse at them doesn’t show that; further examination reveals countless little cuts from glass.
Why would he keep the scars from his father when he change his appearance at will?
The exterior of the building becomes your new distraction. Flawless white paint covers it, the roof tiles near blinding you from their brilliance. Multitudes of windows line each section of the house. A pair of balconies on the first and second floor take you in. You can imagine sharing a flute of champagne with Sylus or Kai or perhaps even Astrid as all of you drone on about the boredom.
”I’d better not even see or sense a puff of smoke here tonight. The host deserves a better gift from you two,” you imagine snarking Sylus and Kai.
Sylus, in this version of events, chuckles and hands you another drink. Kai eyes flicker to the scenery around her for a second.
”And just what have I done this time to earn such little trust, sweetie?"
Swatting his arm, you’d reply, ”Be a fool.”
”What a shame you hold my best quality and seeming profession against me. I’ll have to make it up to you.”
”Again."
By this time in your imagination, Kai departs to mingle with the trees and find her spouse. You don’t notice. Why would you? With the laugh of lines on your Morana’s face, the spark that rages in his eyes, and his hands that twitch to hold you.
”Again,” he mutters in that soft tone that weakens your knees and makes you smile against your will.
You smell him in this memory. Fresh cut grass vanishes in favor of birch, bergamot, and an undertone of pineapple. Beneath the expensive cologne lies the sweetness of wine you two share every time before an auction and a floral aroma. Is it daturas, perhaps? You attempt to put a label on it; tonight’s different.
The feel of James’ hands become Sylus’. An ache pounds in tune with your heart.
“I’ve been privy to the whispers of Alex supposedly having a hand in the landscaping for this grand reopening.”
James’ words returns you to reality.
None of that can ever happen, will ever happen.
“Not good enough to get tickets on your own, I see,” you match his plastic charm of a smile and knick his shiny shoes with one of your heels.
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. But I’m quite skilled in other things. I’ll show you now.”
Something slips onto your finger and you rip your hand from James. His grin unsettles you as you gawk at the silver ring. A gaudy piece with a diamond carved into the shape of a conch shell as the center. Little pearls that resemble tears scatter the edges.
He waves his hand with a matching one on his left right finger, “We are married for today, my dear. Might as well go all the way. I can feel the lingering gaze of your dragon watching over you from here.”
Rolling your eyes, you switch your ring to your right hand and continue the walk by yourself while making passing observations. The perfect snowy white of the oval entrance has a single car parked on. The gaggle of couples giggle and argue as a thin, short, man (barely a man; he looks about Luke and Kieran’s age) reads invites and waves people in through the grand doors.
You search for security. Threads of well-hidden men and women with various Evols and weapons. Ones designed to deal with their biggest threats—overwhelming power for Kai, Evol-disabling weapons for Sylus, other little things for other players in the Zone.
Guests and guards alike recognize you as James catches up. None stare for long. All busy themselves and part like the red sea when you get too close. You take it in stride. It makes arriving to the doorman all the faster.
“Welcome! Delighted you could join us, my lord, my—“ the young man welcoming the pair of in stutters upon getting a better look at you. “My lady.” His persona returns as swift as it went.
The awkwardness remains though. His eyes dart from checking your invites to scanning your face. He asks numerous questions with expression so plainly that you have no need to read his thread. Not that you would.
He’s practically a child and clearly has no power or authority. Nothing good’ll come from searching his soul.
“We’re recently married, good sir.”
“Ah, that explains the rumors.”
You mind goes blank.
Have I’ve been out of the game for so long that I’m not even aware of what’s being whispered about me?
“Rumors?”
You hope you don’t sound as desperate as you feel.
“Of you and Sylus… falling out, my lady.”
“There’s been no such thing, sweetheart,” knots and hands pound your stomach. “Don’t take stock in such ridiculous ideas.”
Another person, much older than you by a couple decades but with muscles any body builder would be envious of, guides you. You pass a smaller room, decked out with display cases of shells and gems perched on clothed tables. Stranger still, you spot a few preserved fingers. But it’s the grand hall that gives you the sting of nostalgia.
Circular tables, all pristine with their tableware placement, surround a round black stage. Lights turn towards where the head auctioneer will be standing at in due time. You glance at the second floor. An equally packed spread of chairs and miniature tables lay pressed against the railings.
Your head on a swivel, your escort leads you to a table closest to the stage. He and James exchange some words drowned by your heartbeat.
Thump, thump, thump.
I wish you were here.
You gaze floats to the stage, to the tables, and to the second floor. Tears sting and beg to be released.
Why am I such a fool? Why must I be so finicky? This is what I wanted, right? I chose this.
A commotion from the entrance screams distraction—some shouting before the shot of a gun. You call to the threads. An idiot attempted to sneak in, was warned and then executed a moment later. You read the desperate woman’s connection: soulmate who left her for her crippling debt, she entered the Zone a year ago. Came here for the chance that one of the various items could change her fate.
You allow a pang of pity to enter your heart before talking a seat at one of the various round tables, hardly noticing that it’s only once you do that anyone else sits. Tense air and unsettled stomach, you wave someone over to get you a drink.
James sits close to, rolling his eyes, “Humans never fail to surprise with their stupidity, darling.”
He stare intensifies. Your skin crawls. And the wrap of silverware on the table becomes your anchor.
Game on, then.
You paste on a pout, “But I’m human as well, sweetie,” the pet name feels like poison on your tongue. “As well as your lovely in-laws. Don’t be so hasty with your judgement.”
“Ah, but you are a gem amongst the coals of your species. As are your parents.”
He tacks the second sentence as an afterthought. Not nearly as much theatre or effort is put forward. Maybe he notices the clench in your jaw from the mention of your family? Or the new level of discomfort from him calling your kind “coals”? Either the case, you keep your mouth shut until a server arrives.
“What would you like, my lady?”
Guess the titles are part of the event.
The young woman, though nervous, is visibly older than the doorman. She’s able to keep consistent eye contact with you.
“Apple cider, for the both of us. I prefer not to drink on the job unless with certain company, for you see, my husband detests the act when it comes to his precious ones.”
James’ arm comes up for him to put his chin in his palm.
“Thank you, darling,” he makes a kissy face at you.
Fucking shoot me.
And yet, part of you enjoys this. The back and forth. The tension. The fight. The act. The leaning into James’ space at the right moment. The laughter you fake when he feeds you cake off his fork and you feed him off yours. The comments.
“How’d you two meet?”
“I thought Sylus kept a tight leash on you.”
“You two look so cute!”
You love it. You hate it. The experience of being called someone’s wife when you long to belong to only one man. The same who doesn’t notice how you flinch at his touch. The same man who bought you ring that’s wrong for you in every way. The same man whom sees you and yet decides to be blind to you.
I will never have the real thing, will I?
No impulsive morning kisses. No cuddling on the couch for hours, entertained by just hearing each other’s heartbeats. No one to cry in front of and carry the real you without judgement. No one to love you for you instead of your use.
Sylus, according to what you saw, couldn’t accept that version of you. He’s the only one you could imagine doing so. A tiny voice in back of your head urges you to trust him, that he’s worth it. You shut it down.
I can’t rebuild again.
”You won’t have to, Gamayun.”
You sink into another memory to escape from your shattering world. The first time someone made you question your relationship with your Morana. The first time someone thought you two were more than what you’ll always be: friends.
You were at round table back then as well. Three men, three women (including yourself). All playing a game of words and cards with and against each other.
The enjoyment of that game keeps you grounded in this one until the crowd dies down. Each couple seated. And you fall into the past as the lights dim.
Author’s Note: First, fuck Infold. Second, fuck Infold. Third, I hardly play the game anymore, but I will continue to write for Sylus (and probably Valko at some point if I’m honest) because fuck them and he’s rewritten my AuDHD brain chemistry to scream, “me love white haired mafia man~”. If anyone has any resources/petitions to get Fuckfold to listen us, feel free to comment or just dm me or anything. I have no idea where to start or go for this, but I don’t want to stand back and do nothing.
No thoughts just box jellyfish!reader working with the 141, right?
An oddity even amongst hybrids, your particular type of presentation had thousands of singers developing in your skin. Each one loaded with the poison to stop a mans heart. Otherwise, you look completely normal, the perfect weapon to do some real damage on missions.
Of course, this also means you get certain...privileges, on base.
No one dares to bother you, not with the government-mandated patch on your uniform at all times. A large warning symbol indicating harm at contact. Sure, you make sure every inch of your skin is covered, but no one takes a chance.
You spend nearly your entire military career unbothered by people so long as you get the job done.
Until you meet ghost.
Giant of a man, he towers over people in a distinctly hybrid way, though you can't tell what he is. He's a goddamn pain in your side. Doesn't hesitate to grab you, always pushing you to train or work on something. Hissing about improvement.
It's driving you mad.
Your final straw is him standing in the doorway of the gym, refusing to let you leave. He crosses his arms, eyes narrowed down at you "everyone else practiced sparring today, even price."
"Yeah, well find me someone will and I'll be glad to," you hiss, moving to shove him out of the way. "Anyone stupid enough to grapple me on the field will die anyways–"
The air is knocked out of your lungs so fast it makes your mind spin, spine knocking brutally into the floor.
"Not the ones immune to you," Ghost's face is mere inches away. Belatedly, terrifyingly, you realize he took his gloves off and his bare skin is wrapped around your throat without a twitch of pain.
"Wh– what–" you struggle, unable to fight out of the pin ghost put you in.
Ghosts other hand pulls his mask up just enough to reveal his mouth, opened to show off rows and rows of spiny teeth, all the way down his throat. "Leatherback sea turtle. Your venom does nothing to me." He leans closer "I could choke the life out of you and never feel a pinch."
Ghost leaves you lying on the floor, heart racing, gasping for air.
"We start sparring tomorrow. I won't have a liability on my team."
hey can you make a fic abt jaafar n reader having a private relationship and jaafar jus can’t wait to publish their relationship so jaafars like extra clingy 😍😛
Devoted
Jaafar x reader
Summary: You and Jaafar are having a private relationship and Jaafar's is extra clingy.
The heavy oak door of his apartment had barely clicked shut before Jaafar’s hands were on your waist. He pulled you flush against his chest, burying his face into the crook of your neck with a deep, dramatic sigh."Jaafar, wait," you laughed, trying to balance the takeout bags in your hands as his soft curls tickled your jaw. "Let me at least put the food down, handsy."
"No," he mumbled against your skin, his grip tightening playfully. "I’ve been acting like a stranger to you for six hours straight in front of my team. I think I deserve some attention now, my baby."You managed to set the bags on the kitchen counter before turning around in his embrace. Jaafar looked down at you, his warm brown eyes reflecting a mix of exhaustion and absolute adoration.
He leaned down, pressing a lingering, sweet kiss to your lips that made your knees go slightly weak."You were great today during the interview," you said softly, running your fingers through his hair.Jaafar’s expression shifted, a subtle pout forming on his lips.
"I hated it. The host asked me if I was seeing anyone, and I had to sit there, look straight into the camera, and lie. I wanted so badly to just say your name.""Jaafar, we talked about this," you reminded him gently, tracing his cheekbone. "Just until the album drops and the media circus calms down. We want our privacy.""I know, beautiful, I know," he sighed, resting his forehead against yours.
"It’s getting harder every day. When we were walking to the car and the paparazzi were flashing their cameras, all I wanted to do was grab your hand and show everyone who you belong to. I don't want to hide you like a secret I'm ashamed of. I want to brag about you." He was being exceptionally clingy tonight, shadowing your every move.
When you walked over to the couch, he followed right on your heels. The moment you sat down, he didn't just sit next to you—he pulled you right onto his lap, wrapping his long arms securely around your middle and resting his chin on your shoulder."You're like a koala tonight," you teased, leaning back into his warmth."Just making up for lost time," Jaafar murmured, kissing your shoulder through your shirt.
"As soon as this press tour is over, I'm posting you on my feed. No warnings. Just a picture of us, so the whole world knows you're my girl." You smiled, turning your head to kiss his cheek. "I can't wait for that day either, Jaafar." "Good," he whispered, tightening his hold on you just a little bit more. "Until then, you're not leaving this couch. You're stuck with me."
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in which rookie!reader helps Ghost find the right skincare to get rid off the stains from the eye paint he uses
cw: fluff, tf141 cameos, platonic/romantic, very silly and fluffy
————
“We’re going Tesco, c’mon.”
The door shuts behind him as he disappears into the bathroom with muffled grumbles echoing around the room. Sure, you did go with him grocery shopping every now and then, but you didn't have anything to buy right now. Plus, you were on the third day of your period and Soap’s training course had you knocked out.
It’s a few moment later when he comes out, surgical mask in place and a black cap covering his head as he stands over your bed. “What are you doing? Come on.”
You’re sprawled like a starfish, eyes barely closed as you stare up at the ceiling. “Body hurts, don't wanna.” You wait for the door to shut again as he leaves without you, but instead you feel two hands on your legs dragging you off of the bed.
“Hey!”
————-
You follow him through the aisles, occasionally stopping to grab a thing or two to add to your own basket. “So why did you suddenly want to go shopping anyway? Didn't we go a few days ago?”
The shelves of chocolates are full for once, probably because everyone is mourning the fact they melt so fast in the summer heat. Oh well, at least you can grab some ice cream instead— if that’s not bare already. You turn to face him where he’s checking something on his phone, walking over to sneak a Haribo bag into his basket.
“Lt you got a bit of—“ His eyes lock onto your frozen finger on his cheek, as if realising what you had just done before instantly recoiling it back to your side. “Think you forgot to remove all your paint.” You manage to stammer out, cheeks burning hot as you look away.
“It won't come off.” He grumbles himself, turning away from you almost like he’s embarrassed himself.
“Oh, so that’s why we’re here.” You have to hold in your giggle, because it was quite comical that he couldn't remove it from his face, and also it explains all his annoyed cursing in the bathroom earlier. “Alright, let’s go to the skincare section then.”
—————
After chomping down the cookie you got from the bakery, you start unpacking the cotton pads and micellar water he bought, as well as the brand new cleanser. Just in case it wasn't enough. He’s standing in the bathroom, since you insisted on helping him, keeping his eyes fixated on the mirror and his arms crossed over his chest.
“Mm okay, so first you’re gonna wash your face.” You swallow down the last bite, and place the bottles down on the counter, the tap running as he follows your instructions. “Okay, now a bit of this micellar water on a cotton pad..” You hold it between your index and thumb, reaching up like you had before to do it yourself before pausing.
“Go on.” He sighs and you grin, swiping it across his face until most of the paint comes off. Unfortunately some bits are still a little stubborn. “Hm, okay, guess this cleanser will have to be done too.” You pump two blobs of the liquid into your hands, rubbing them to create the foamy result before smiling up at him.
He rolls his eyes before reluctantly letting you lather it across his face, ignoring the way your thumbs rub it gently across his cheeks and minding his eyes. He rinses it off after, checking his face in the mirror to find it totally clean like you promised.. maybe a little bit brighter.
“Thanks.” He pats the water away with a towel, ready to just head to bed until you tug him back. “What?”
“In the nicest way possible, your skin is drier than bushes before a wildfire.” You frown, reaching into the small box of products you keep in the corner for your moisturiser.
You reach forward, trying to smear it in his face but he backs up, swatting your hands away. “I don't need that—“
“You do!” He manages to slip past you back into the room and you groan, following after him. “Dont you get annoyed with how dry it is? Come on, just a bit.”
“No.”
“Fine. Have ashy skin for all I care.” You stick your tongue out at him, rubbing the moisturiser into your arms instead before making your way back to the bathroom. Great, your whole body still hurts, you finished your only sweet treat, and it wasn't even Friday today. Plus you’re pretty sure you might’ve just gotten on your Lieutenant’s nerves by being way too friendly there. You splash the water across your face and grab your cleanser, practically the only step of your skincare routine since life is way too busy for the million step ones on social media most days. Even if you do have a bunch of bottles waiting to be used.
You step out of the bathroom soon after, feeling the exhaustion weigh down your bones as you kick your socks off by your bed.
“You’re sulking.” He’s sitting on his bed, phone open though he’s not really paying attention at all, in fact his shoulders seem a little stiff.
“I’m not.” You huff, shaking your sheets before letting them settle on the mattress again.
“You are.” He scoffs, the bed creaking as he slowly stands and approaches you as you clean up your bed. “ Y’mad at me?”
“If you didn't want my help, I don't know why you dragged me all the way to Tesco. Some people don't have the nice privilege of a fancy office and a comfy chair.” You grumble back, even though you most definitely are still a little scared of him; you’ll definitely regret this all at 2am tomorrow. Then again..he’s been acting real mean lately, always teasing and embarrassing you. It’s not fair if you cant quip back once or twice.
“I also work in the special forces, the chair is a small comfort.” He rolls his eyes, though he cant deny he did essentially drag you out just to pick out a few products you easily could’ve just shown him a picture of.
You want to say more, maybe something really sarcastic he can tell, but you clamp your mouth shut and suddenly that feels worse than anything else. “I’m going to bed. Goodnight.”
“Now you just look like a pitiful mutt on the side of the road or something.” He grabs your hand, stopping you from climbing into bed and essentially forcing you to look up at him. “What d’ya want from me, woman? My lunch money?”
“That’d be a start.” You frown and he groans, pinching his brow between his fingers. He’s exaggerating it too much for once, proper rolling his eyes and all.
“Fine. You can put your stupid skincare stuff on me, but no more sulking. And no one hears about this, alright?”
———————
He’s laying down as per your instruction, mask discarded and dressed in his pajamas; the only thing different is the fluffy headband keeping the hair out his face. You’re sitting next to him with an arrangement of bottles, ones he’s sure haven't seen the light of day in months but you’ve pulled out just for him. Great.
“Is this really how you want to spend your evening?” He says as he watches you pull out a packet, one that looks oddly like a face mask.
“No take backsies now, Simon.” You smile and he groans for the fifth time that hour. “Close your eyes.” He listens though instantly winces at the coldness of the clay mixture you spread across his face, instinctively opening one eye.
“This is freezing you know.” You roll your eyes at his complaints, continuing to spread it across his cheeks, nose and forehead. “Why’re there little bits in it? I thought it was s’posed to be smooth.”
“To exfoliate your skin, idiot. Hell, you need it with how long you keep that mask on.” He frowns at your words, making you grin just a bit wider as you spread the last dollop on his chin. “Okay, gotta let it sit for ten minutes now.”
“Ten? I have to wait for ten whole minutes?” He opens his eyes properly again, staring at you in disbelief and you just chuckle as you reach for your laptop.
“We can watch something in the meantime, or I can get us something to drink?” You offer, tilting your head and he’s about to scoff and insist he can make himself something when he realises how stupid he must look with this on his face. Great.
“Put channel four on, or something. Must be something on.”
You end up watching ten minutes worth of police interceptors, which mostly consists of you both criticizing how stupid the criminals are until your phone buzzes. He watches you hop off the bed towards the bathroom, dampening a tissue before you return to his side once more. “Gonna wipe it all off now.” You hum, watching the hardened clay come off his face as you swipe it across.
“Didn't realise how stiff that made me..” He mutters as he moves his jaw and you snicker, knowing weird how those masks can feel sometimes. “Do feel a bit fresher though.” He sits upright, checking his phone alarm is set at the right time but you shake your head insistently.
“You’re not done yet, Simon. Still got like four more steps to do!”
“For fucks sake..” He sighs, allowing himself to be pushed back down onto the pillows as you spray something onto a round cotton pad.
Surprisingly he keeps quiet this time as you use the toner on his skin, tracing the curves of his face until you’re satisfied. The sound of glass bottles clink by his ear before a cold liquid drops on his cheeks, making his eyelashes flutter though still shut like you instructed him to do. Again, your fingers spread the cool serum across his skin, refreshing each part of his face. You hardly even hesitate on the scars though he expects you to, instead making sure the product is spread evenly.
“Alright.. now we wait for that to sink in and then moisturiser.” You mumble to yourself, packing up everything else into the small bag you usually keep it in. It takes a small effort to get it to fit before you finally huff in relief, heading over to place it back in the bathroom cabinet.
You put two dollops of the cream in your hand before returning to him, the lights dimmed when the hour ticked closer to ten. “Don’t worry, this won't be cold.” For the last time that night, you let your hands glide across his face, mapping every curve and dip and show of bone. His eyelashes barely twitch, so you must be doing something right, even if you do linger a little too long on the smallest amount of pudge on his cheeks.
You smile to yourself as you finally finish, satisfied that you gave him a proper routine, and feeling rather happy despite your shitty day. “Okay, okay, ‘m all done now. I won't bother you anymore.” You say with a feigned huff, although he doesn't respond… not once. “Simon?”
You poke his cheek gently, only for his nose to twitch the slightest amount, head turning towards the touch but nothing more. Somehow, in the midst of your quiet chatter and gentle touches, Simon Riley had fallen asleep in your care.
Even though you’ve woken up countless times in the night to see him asleep, and even found him collapsed in bed after a mission, somehow this was different. He looked really relaxed, the creases in his face gone, and the usual frown in his brow evened out. Almost cute.
You giggle to yourself quietly as you slide off the bed, step carefully as you grab the duvet folded at the end and unravel it to bring him over. Today was a cooler day compared to the heatwave last week, and he did in fact grumble a lot about having to sleep with the blankets off.
Just watching him like this is a little creepy you think, but that doesn't stop you from snapping a picture on your phone like he always does to you. Finally, some damn good payback.
——
The rec room door opens easily with the key you snagged from his coat, your water bottle in hand. It’s not your fault they had freezing cold water in there and your throat was absolutely parched. You unscrew the cap, emptying out any old water before refilling it with the fridge dispenser. You check the water levels inside, seeing that they’re a bit low and deciding to refill it for the next person.
“Heat gettin’ to you too?” You jump immediately, spilling some of the water on yourself and on the floor.
“Shit— Captain- I- i didn't know you’d come by this late-“ You scramble to wipe up the spill, using practically your trouser leg at this point since you had no idea where the mop was— or if they even had one.
He chuckles, pressing his own glass to the dispenser until it fills halfway before gulping it down almost immediately. It’s quite a sight to see the Captain dressed in a plain black t-shirt, the hem of his plaid pajama bottoms peeking out of a pair of trousers he must’ve haphazardly pulled on. Though his room wasn't more than a minute walk from here. “Didn't mean to scare you, I'm pretty sure that’s Simon’s job. Where… is he?”
You blink, but to be fair it was a completely reasonable question since you’d never usually be caught dead in here without him. “Oh, um.. he fell asleep.”
That does surprise Price, making him raise a brow at you immediately. “Really? I didn't think our training today was that intensive— guess he could’ve done more in the gym on his own.”
You swallow a large gulp of your own water, nodding along to his words. “I dunno, he came back earlier and insisted we go to Tesco. I was confused, i mean not gonna lie, i’m bloody tired but he dragged me! So then i realised his eyeblack he uses under his balaclava hadn't come off properly so i figured he needed some better remover ‘n i got him some micellar water n’ stuff.”
His lips quirk up in a smile, one hand brushing his beard down as he tries to hide the very clear amusement on his face. Simon wasn't some dark force, but you had a way of describing him that he couldn’t help but find hilarious. “So that’s it? He just needed to clean it off?”
“Well— no, I said he needed some moisturiser too, and he wouldn't let me put any on him!” You huff at the thought of it, one hand coming up to cover your mouth as a yawn slips through. “Anyway, I managed to convince him to let me do his skincare. Just a face mask and a few serums.. before I knew it he was fast asleep.”
“Well, now I have to see this.”
——————
Simon woke up the next morning way easier than usual, not like he doesn't usually get up almost immediately anyways. But today it was like he had gotten a full eight hours, which was weird since he always somehow felt he underslept. You’re fast asleep in your own bed, since he always wakes up an hour before you anyway, and so he takes the opportunity to take the first shower.
He decides to stop by the rec room for his coffee, tapping the keycard against the door as he enters. He pulls out the drawer beneath the machine, choosing out the usual pod he goes for and clicks it into the machine.
“Morning, Simon.” He hears Kyle chirp as he enters the room, grabbing his porridge from the counter and emptying it into the bowl. The Sergeant is dressed in his pajamas— most of them got to lazy by Friday morning’s anyway.
“Mornin’ Kyle. Sleep well?” He taps the counter as the coffee machine blinks at him, still not done even if it’s finished dispensing.
“Aswell as i can with that mission comin’ up, but i’ll—-“ His words are cut through by a sudden choke of laughter, forcing Simon to turn to where he stands before the fridge. “Oh my days—“
Stuck with a cookie monster magnet is a picture of him sleeping or rather, him snoozing through Price and you posing beside him with cucumbers laid across his eyes. You bastards.
“Simon oh my go—“ Johnny must’ve snuck in at some point, currently standing near the small notice board where there’s another picture stuck. Simon grabs the picture before quickly marching over to where Johnny is, trying to ignore the rising flush on his cheeks. This one consists of him still sleeping, although you’ve surrounded him with plenty of your plushies to the point he must’ve instinctively turned and curled into them. He grabs this one too, huffing at the two sergeants.
“I’m gonna kill ‘er.”
“Oh come on— it’s a bit funny, no?” Kyle reaches for the picture in his hand but he moves away, only making him follow him around the room for it. “Can’t I keep it Simon? I think it’d look great tucked into my cap, maybe I'll look at it lovingly on my longer deployments.”
“Unfortunately that’s the only copy.” Price enters the rec room with his lips pulled into a casual smile like he hadnt just ruined Simon’s entire week. Maybe month— no, year.
“Morning, Captain.” He grumbles, crushing the picture in his fist.
“Your coffee is going cold, Lieutenant. Though your cheeks look like you’ve been drinking it already.”
“Woah, Lt, i didn't know you could go pink!” Johnny makes his way over though he doesnt make it before Simon pulls his mask on properly, sending him a glare before huffing his way out of the door with a quick slam.
“Was that really the only copy, Cap?” Kyle turns, holding his bowl up to his chin as he swallows down a scoop of the oats.
He practically snorts, shaking his head immediately. “Oh, absolutely not, there’s even different angles. I’ll only share a peek for every extra lap you do though.”
----------------------------------------
Rookie masterlist
OK LAST ONE B4 I START WORKING ON OTHER FICS i swear, also rookie defo woke up and yawned like nothing happened meanwhile simon is HUNTING her ass
They were always too big, considering his behemoth size above the rest of his peers. Long, spindly fingers that over the years in the military, became thick with callouses and scars. Yellowed with cigarette butts, a knuckle here and there slightly out of place from all of the fractures and breaks.
The palms of his hands were completely webbed with delicate lines from both age and the extensive length of times he had worn his fingers in a fist. He had tried to make them look a little better, had gotten tattoos, would lotion when he could remember. The ink ran deep, little swirls and designs eating up the thick, aged skin on the back of his hands, fingers blotched on the first knuckle with little images or letters. It had started to bleed and fade that strange sort of navy that tattoos do after a prologued time under the skin.
But no amount of ink on the planet would erase the blood that they carried each day. Breaths silenced by those jagged palms, lives ended with just one pull of an index finger. His hands were dirty. Worse than the muck constantly tucked under his trimmed nails. They were forever stained crimson with decisions he would never be able to take back.
Right now, he was fighting hard to stop his fingers from trembling. He’d never felt his heart race this way. His palms were tense, outstretched to minimise the age lines that spanned them, and waiting for when the weight settled between them.
His breath stopped.
Bundled up in blankets and a tiny pink hat, those same hands that had carried grenades and guns and knives, was now so carefully balancing a tiny baby girl. No bigger than the length of his hands held open side by side, weighing nothing more than just a small few pounds and ounces.
Just her face was visible. Still a little smushed up from birth, peach fuzz coating the softest, pinkest skin. Her eyes shut, tiny lashes splaying across little rosy cheeks. She had his nose. Well the one before it has been broken four times. A little button nose, a little long, with a tiny bump down the bridge. But she had the poutiest little lips on the planet. Glossy with salvia, undoubtedly a carbon copy of her mother’s.
Simon was breathless and speechless.
This tiny thing, no bigger than this calloused, ugly hands… it had come from him. And the fact somebody loved him so much to give him one.
He could feel the hot sting of tears in the corner of his eyes.
His daughter stirred, her little face scrunching up even more before she yawned. Simon only watched, how her tiny pink tongue flexed in her mouth, how the fat of her cheeks shifted to accommodate that teeny tiny jaw to open as wide as it could go. Then, she settled back into the blankets, clearly comfortable in Simon’s hands. She squeaked quietly before settling in completely.
The first tear streamed down Simon’s cheek. Then the next. And the next.
His hands. Those calloused, ink stained, bloodied evil-doing hands. He had hated them for as long as he could remember.
But now, holding the smallest, most delicate, precious being in the world.
Accidentally walking in on Tenya after his shower and he barely can cover himself with the towel, just clutching it where he needs it most, his face is flushed and his chest heaves nervously before his nerves calm down.
He sighs and properly wraps it around his waist and you're practically lost in the sight of him, his hair drips water and it perfectly falls down from his collar bone to his chest, the water glistens off the scar on his bicep.
he takes big steps towards you, breaking you out of your trance with a kiss to your cheek and meek apology for being jumpy before heading into the bedroom to change.
with no shame you follow behind and practically jump him the moment he takes the towel off.
this was supposed to be longer but i rewrote it like 4 times because i felt like it was too dramatic and gave up
Reader getting the worst callsign on base despite the fact you're not even a soldier.
No one knows your name, but everyone knows you're "ghost whisperer" which, in your opinion, is a shit nickname.
Why that name? Because you're the only one ghost listens to.
If anyone needs anything from ghost, reports, papers, signatures or anything else, they go through you. Because through you it actually gets done instead of brushed off or on rare occasions spitefully burned.
The current rumor is that, being prices kid, you're protected by the captain and ghost has to listen to you.
Other rumors include you and ghost having a...different kind of relationship.
The truth?
Nearly every Saturday you and ghost meet up late into the night at one of the gyms your friend owns, and you beat the shit out of him. As it happens, the way to earn ghosts respect is to accidentally send him to medical at least once every few months.
You still tell people he's sleeping with you, but that's mostly to piss off your dad.
Wait what do you think about shy reader where they have never had a boyfriend before and Michael is there first while Michael has had many girlfriend before and I think it could be angst or fluff where reader gets insecure about being new to being in a relationship but Michael reassures them <3
— ᨳଓ . Experience | Michael x reader
⋆.˚ Summary : Your boyfriend has been in multiple relationships before you, and it starts to make you wonder if being inexperienced makes you boring.
⋆.˚ Warnings : none !
It was odd.
Michael seemed to always know the right things to say, the right things to do to make you feel comfortable, while you on the other hand couldnt find the right words, maybe it was because he'd had more girlfriends than you'd had boyfriends.
Well, actually, he was your first boyfriend. It was embarrassing to admit then, and it was embarrassing to admit now. And for some reason, it weighed heavily on your mind tonight. It made you wonder if you ever got boring. It made you wonder if maybe Michael wanted someone more experienced, someone he didn't have to teach the little things to.
You never had the experience of hand-holding, those soft kisses that felt like they lingered, leaving your skin tingling, that love that made you feel like you were living in paradise every time you thought about it, until now.
So there you were, lying awake at night. Eyes flickering constantly from the smooth surface of the ceiling to your sleeping boyfriend laid beside you with his arm comfortably settled around your waist, his breathing even with the soft rhythmic movement of his chest rising and falling, hair a complete mess as a yawn spilled from your lips, your eyes getting heavier by the second before slipping into sleep, the sound of rain pattering against the window fading out completely.
Throughout the day, it sat on your mind, outweighing all the other things that stirred around your head. Your hand held a book that you most definitely weren't reading. In fact, you hadn't even flipped the page yet because you were too deep in your own thoughts, staring at the words that seemed to blend into one big blur, making them unreadable.
“What's wrong? You've been staring at the same page for over ten minutes,” the sound of Michael's sweet voice startled you, snapping you straight out of your daze as you looked over at the seat next to you.
“Huh? No, I’m fine,” you reassured him, your fingers instinctively moving to flip the page like you’d been reading the whole time, hoping to make yourself seem less suspicious.
“No, you’re not. Come on, I know you too well by now. Talk to me.” He scooted closer to you, fingers grasping gently on your wrist like he was pleading with you to just talk to him, tell him whatever was weighing on that mind of yours.
You closed your book with a soft thud, the pages coming together, as your eyes met with his own before looking away. “Look, it’s not you,” you started, your eyes darting around the room, like you were afraid of seeing his facial expressions.
“I just think it’s me, I don’t know.” You weren’t really sure how to put the words together. Maybe it was because you didn’t want to hear what he had to say, or maybe it was because you were too afraid that the thoughts that swam around your head would be true and he really was bored of you.
“Why are you avoiding looking at me? What’s wrong?” A look of genuine concern spread across his face, his heart racing because he was worried that he’d made you uncomfortable in some way and you were too scared to tell him.
“Do you ever get bored of me? I mean, you’ve had all these girlfriends.” The question fell out into the air, leaving a lingering effect afterward.
“Baby, why would you ask that?”
“I don’t know, don’t you ever wish you could be with someone more experienced? Someone who you don’t have to teach all the time?” You spoke quietly, your fingers tracing endless circles around your knuckles out of nervousness.
“What? No? Do you really think I care about someone who knows all the ‘rules’ of dating? Who cares about you being less experienced? It doesn’t make you less of a burden, okay?” The words came tumbling out almost instantly.
“Being with you, I learn new things, I experience new things, you teach me how to love you.” His fingers stopped yours from fidgeting, both of his hands grasped in your own.
“You really don’t mind?”
“I don’t. I love you for you, not how experienced you are.” He shook his head, a laugh falling from his lips, those soft eyes boring into you, giving you pure comfort as you finally let out the breath you had no idea you’d been holding in, and for the first time all day your mind finally settled.
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゛𝒔ynopsis ⨾ extremely pregnant and thoroughly over it, you're navigating swollen feet, thinning patience, and a husband who has decided “helping” means treating you like spun sugar.
゛𝐜ontains ━ soon2bedad!michael ༝ pregnant!reader mentions of pregnancy and discomfort domestic fluff lots of physical affection ( lotssss ) michael is completely whipped ◞ 𝟬.𝟴𝟴𝟰𝓴
you’re six months pregnant. your feet are swollen and you’re tired of everyone treating you like you can’t do basic things. michael has decided that helping means hovering constantly.
he’s following you around the house with a glass of water, even though you just finished one. every time you reach for something on a high shelf, his hand is right there next to yours. when you pick up the laundry basket, he takes it out of your hands.
“michael,” you say, stopping in the living room. “i’m pregnant, not broken. i can carry a basket. i can reach a shelf. and i don’t need you following me around with water, mikey.”
he sets the glass down carefully and steps closer. he puts both hands on your belly, thumbs stroking slow circles, and rests his forehead against yours. his breath is warm against your skin.
“i know,” he says softly. “you’re so capable. it just makes me want to take care of you more.”
he kisses the corner of your mouth, then your nose, then the space between your eyebrows. his thumbs keep moving over the sides of your stomach, why? he’d say “just incase the baby kicked.” he leans in and presses another soft kiss to your cheek, then nuzzles against your temple.
“let me do the laundry, michael.”
he holds you there in the middle of the living room, swaying a little, his cheek resting against your hair. every few seconds he presses another soft kiss to your forehead or the side of your face. the laundry basket sits by the couch, as afternoon light comes through the curtains showcasing your glowing and beautiful brown skin.
“not a chance,” he murmurs against your temple. he keeps one hand spread over your belly and the other rubbing slow circles on your lower back. “you’ve been on your feet all day. i’ve got it.”
he kisses the top of your head again, then the side of your neck, then the soft spot just behind your ear. you place your pedicured hands against his chest and reach past him toward the couch, trying to grab the full basket of white clothes that still needed washing. you wanted to handle it yourself. the first—and last—time you let michael help, after he’d begged and begged, he mixed the whites with colors. you ended up with enough pink clothes to last a lifetime.
with his quickest reflexes, he snatched the basket back and away from you. a pout took over your lips after you sucked your teeth, leaving an irritable expression on your face as your shoulders slouched.
“michael, i can do it myself!” you whined. your hormones mixed with the irritation had tears forming in the corners of your eyes. his free arm wrapped around your waist, holding you close while the basket sat forgotten on the floor behind him. he pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head, voice dropping even quieter.
“i know you can do it yourself. i just didn’t want you liftin’ anything heavy right now. c’mon… sit on the couch with me.”
before you could protest again, he gently guided you backward until the backs of your knees hit the couch. he sat down first, then carefully pulled you into his lap, settling you sideways against his chest. one hand rested on your thigh while the other kept stroking your back in slow, calming circles.
you try to keep the pout going. you really do. but the second you’re fully in his lap, the baby decides this is the perfect moment to practice soccer against your ribs. a sharp little kick lands right under michael’s palm.
he freezes as his whole face softens into a stupid, lovesick look that always ruins your righteous anger.
“oh my god,” he whispers, like the baby just announced world peace. “did you feel that? that was a big one.”
“yes, michael, i felt it. it’s happening inside me.” you shift, while trying to look stern. “and don’t change the subject. the laundry—”
he cuts you off by gently lifting one of your swollen feet into his lap and starting to rub it without asking. his thumbs dig into the arch. he watches as you let out an involuntary moan. he absolutely knew that you couldn't help it, but god did it feel good to hear.
“see?” he says, far too pleased with himself. “your feet are screaming, mama. rest. let me handle the laundry situation again—”
you narrow your eyes. “absolutely not, michael.”
“why not?”
“remember what happened last time?”
he leans in and kisses the tip of your nose. “look, i learned my lesson. this time i’ll separate everything. reds in one pile, blues in another, whites in a third… maybe even a fourth. i’m basically a professional now.”
you open your mouth to argue, but another kick lands—harder this time. michael’s eyes go wide with pure delight as he grabs your hand and presses it over your belly.
after a few moments, he carefully slides you off his lap and settles you against a pillow on the couch. he kisses your lips sweetly before bending down to grab the basket and heading toward the laundry room.
“don’t you get up, girl. i’m not playin’.”
he smiles as he watches you roll your eyes. “fine.”
Okay so boom i was thinking a fic where reader(curvy) has never sat on anyones face before and michael practically begggsss for her to sit on his face 👀👀👌🏾👌🏾👌🏾👌🏾preferably off the wall era 👀👀👌🏾👌🏾
݁ — ᨳଓ . Ride a cowboy ! | otw!Michael x reader
⋆.˚ Summary : you've always been more curvy than other girls, which leads to another problem: you're too scared to sit on your boyfriend's face, but Michael assures you it's okay to take a ride !
⋆.˚ Warnings : face sitting, use of mama
You can't say that the thought of sitting on your boyfriend's face didn't cross your mind. In fact it crossed your mind often, more often than it should've, but the thought lingered almost daily.
The only problem was the fact that you were too scared to sit on your boyfriend's face; part of it was the fact that you were too worried about hurting him or suffocating him to death with your thighs.
“C'mon, Mama, come sit on my face." His eyes were full of that lust that seemed to take over him every now and again. His lip tucked tightly in between his teeth, breathing all heavily from what felt like hours of grinding against each other on his bed.
“I don't know, Mike." You bit onto your nails, your legs still on each side of his body, straddling him, your free hand pressed against his chest as you stared into his big round doe eyes. The dim lighting from the moon shines through the gaps in the blinds.
“What if I hurt you or something? I'm just worried, y'know. I've never done anything like this," you spoke, concern dripping from your voice.
"No, you're not gonna to hurt me; I want it so bad. Thinkin' about you sittin' on me makes me all hot." His hands rested on your hips. Eyes silently pleading with you to just sit on him just this once.
“Please, just this once, gonna to make you feel s'good," he begged, his voice getting all whiny, desperate to have you on his tongue—to have you on his face.
“Okay, but tell me if I'm hurting you," you spoke, watching his face light up, your large hand sliding from your hips to your waist as you lifted yourself, giving him room to lie down fully, your cunt hovering prettily over his face, his mouth damn near salivating at the thought of you as his fingers dug into the fat of your thighs that sat on either side of his head, forcing you to stop hovering and just sit comfortably while his tongue got to work, licking long strides against your folds, a gasp falling from your lips and into the silent emptiness of the room.
Your fingers made their way to his fro, tangled in the messy curls as he sucked on your clit, the suction almost becoming too much and mixed with his tongue flicking repeatedly against the sensitive spot. Your head was instinctively lolling to the side, eyes closed in order to focus on every sensation of pleasure he was giving you.
“Mm, fuck Mikey, right there," you whined, legs squeezing around his head like a python, but Michael didn't seem to mind, his mouth sloppily making out with your clit, his face covered in your arousal, turning him into a complete mess in between your thighs.
Your body moved almost on its own, your body writhing against his tongue, hips bucking as his lips created another suction around your clit as you grinded against his face.
“Oh… it's s'good, I can't... you're going to make me cum." You attempted to lift yourself off him, only for him to force you back down.
“Mm, don't run from me, please. Cum f'me," he spoke in between licking at your cunt, the desperation in his voice muffled.
Your body felt too hot, like you could barely control yourself, heavy whines and moans falling from your lips repeatedly as you tried to use your hand to muffle your noise. That hot coil snapping as he coaxed your orgasm out of you, your body feeling exhausted as pleasure hit you in intense waves. You couldn't even form a sentence properly; all your words just became one long run-on sentence as you babbled randomly.
Soon, whines and random words turned into heavy breathing, your high finally washing over you replaced with exhaustion as you ultimately lifted yourself from him.
“Wait, come back, I want to do it again," he begged, hands wrapped around your thighs still.
