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𝝑𝝔 21

𝝑𝝔 she/her

𝝑𝝔 college student

𝝑𝝔 have been writing fanfic for 10 years (eek)

𝝑𝝔 into lots of fandoms!!

𝝑𝝔 I go thru phases

➻ current is the Jacksons

𝝑𝝔 requests open (link in bio)

𝝑𝝔 comment on this post specifically if you want to be added to tag list

▬▬▬ rules / requesting ▬▬▬

▬▬▬ masterlist ▬▬▬

hiii, thank youuu mwah that makes me so happy

Sorry, I don’t write CNC buuttt I can see what I can do with dacryphilia!! Keep an eye out (I also have plenty of other things in my draft)

Mind Melt

pairing: Jermajesty Jackson x fem!reader warning: explicit MDNI genre: mature romance word count: 1,867 proofread: nope requests: open but slow taglist: @bonni-98 @flygirlarchivee synopsis: literally just filth, refer to req a/n: I hope I did this justice Queen, tytyty

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ ✎﹏﹏𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐎𝐎𝐑 𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐃 shut, slammed so hard, it shook the frame and threated to rip itself right off the hinges.

“Whatever,” Jermajesty had snarled just moments ago — maybe five, ten minutes?

You couldn’t remember what you said in response — probably a fuming string of words about how he was always in his head or was acting childish lately. Your body shook when you yelled back, the door pushing a gust of wind in its wake as he slammed it closed.

“If you think I just don’t give a shit,” he shouted back, “then maybe I should start acting like I fucking don’t.” The root of the argument was unidentifiable as his words ringed in your ears.

The apartment was quiet now, except for the low hum of the air-conditioning and the buzzing of the city just outside the window, blurring by. Your heartbeat still rings in your ear, the beat pulsating throughout your body.   

You were in your room now, still heated and trying your best to cool the burn in your heart. Your head was spinning, replaying what words could be recalled, all thrown out so carelessly. You two barely argued this bad, but he had been gone for a while, making you feel like some after-thought forgotten long in the distance. When things did tip over, it was bad and heated and hot.

You knew the true root of whatever the yelling-match was over was because you missed him. His touch.

“Fuck you,” you call out, not to anyone and not yelling this time.

You sit on the bed, trying to shake your head of this pissed feeling when the door opens. Standing and popping your head up, Jermajesty stands in the doorway, his eyes dark and jaw tight.

“Fuck me?”

At first, he’s motionless, minus the heaving chest from what you can only assume is left-over adrenaline. His face looks lost in thought, like he can’t decide if he wants to argue more over your last comment or make it reality.

He chooses the latter.

In just three, quick strides, Jermajesty is across the room beside you, hands cupping both sides of your face and his plump lips crash into yours. The way his tongue explores you makes you think he’s trying to win an entirely new argument with his mouth. It’s hard and hungry. You shove at his chest — half-heartedly, still very pissed — but he doesn’t move an inch. In fact, he seems to pull you in as he walks you back, the back of your knees hitting the bed and stumbling down onto the mattress. His lips never leave yours, even as he speaks.

“Still mad?” he mumbles against your lips, already tugging your shirt up.

“Yes,” you snap, even as you oblige and arms lift.      

“Good,” his smirk is sharp and knowing. “I’m gonna fuck the attitude out of you.” His words send a shiver down your spin, burrowing deep in your core as the wetness grows. It’s like the air has been sucked right out of you and your head is swimming. From heated words and both being left keyed up, the fight had twisted the adrenaline into something hotter, desperate and dark.     

Clothes come off in a blur — he rips off your shorts, fingers taunting you as they play with the trim of your panties — and his hands are everywhere. He’s filling up your breasts, sucking at your nipples, before he’s moved onto your hips, digging into the skin as a slap lands on your ass, the burn making your thighs press hard together. He lifts himself up, pushing you down as he pulls apart your legs, the crave just leaking out of you. He licks his lips as he looks you up and down, fingers spreading open your folds, glistening in pure sex.

He's so slow, the glint in his dark eyes telling you it being on purpose. It’s pain-stacking, but he wants you to give yourself up to him, and he knows you’re not at that point yet. You need to show him you want him, that this is what you’ve been missing. Without thinking, you start bucking your hips upward, just wanting to feel anything inside you.

A slap to the thighs echoes in the room. “No.” He pushes you back down.

Two fingers slip inside you and this feeling, alone, is other-worldly. You gasp and arch your back. “So fucking wet, baby,” he growls, moving his fingers in and out as the wetness oozes, scooping you out, “even when you’re pissed at me.” His voice is husky and deep, words laced with taunting-filth and pure ecstasy. You try to glare and say something sarcastic, but your words melt into a needy moan when he curls his fingers just right. Relentless and still painstakingly slow, he pumps you, your brain becoming fuzzy at the edges as you fail to form any coherent thoughts.

“Maj, fuck—”

“What, baby?” he breathes, leaning down and teeth grazing your throat. “Use your words,” he teases, it being obvious you are growing unable to the more he edges you, slipping a third finger to fill your tightness. The teasing settles deep and your words become mush as you try to answer, voice dissolving into a whimper as he chuckles darkly.

When he pulls his fingers out, your eyes glossing over with a high, he licks the sex off, eyes not leaving yours.

“Look at you, already gone. You haven’t even had my cock, yet,” he teases.

You watch as he rests on his knees, unbuckling his belt dramatically as he then slowly pulls down his sweats. His bulge is obvious even before he slides off his underwear, kicking the articles to the side. His cock springs out, a silent gasp escaping your lips just at the sight of it. Pre-cum leaks from the plump tip. As he goes to replace the emptiness in your core, you find yourself becoming embarrassingly eager, your hips chasing him once more. He widens your legs once more, mouth watering at the sight, and he presses himself into you, eyes locked onto your face the entire time his thick head digs into you.

“Shit, you’re so tight for me,” he winces out, eyebrows furrowed. “Fighting turns you on, huh?”

You try to retort, to say anything — something biting or stinging — but the feeling of his cock filling you up short-circuits your thoughts, and all that comes out are dirty, broken cries of pleasure.

Jermajesty, clearly satisfied at the contorted look on your face, bites back a smirk as he bottoms out, staying there with his hips flush against yours as he lets you feel every inch of him.

“What is it, my love? No shit talking?” he hisses out. He rocks forward once, shallow but deep. “My dick turning your brain off already?”

Heat flushes to your face as you shake your head, the motion sluggish and foggy. He feels too good. Too big. It hurts in a burning, delicious way. Your thoughts, and seemingly your clarity, was slipping away as all you’re able to focus on becomes the throbbing fullness of him being inside you.

He starts taking his movement seriously this time, slow, deliberate strokes that hit the perfect spot each time. Each thrust punches the air out of your lungs and melts away whatever anger is left, you being completely unable to recall what you were mad at to begin with.  

“Aw, look at you,” he coos, popping a thumb into your mouth to ease the stinging. “My angry girl’s gone stupid. Such cock-drunk.” His voice drips with mock sympathy.

You whine at him, scrambling to grip his strong shoulders as he looms over you. Words were hard. Breathing was hard. Focusing was hard. Everything was way too hard unless it was just lying there and feeling him feeding your hot core.

“Yeah?” He grabs your chin to force you to look into his dark, hungry eyes. “Tell me what my dumb baby needs.”

You open your mouth, but nothing even remotely coherent comes out — just a needy, garbled sound of desperation.

Jermajesty just laughs at you softly, vibrating in his chest. “That’s what I thought. Can’t even talk, huh? Just gonna sit there and let me fuck you stupid.”

He picks up the pace, hips snapping harder against you. The slapping noise of skin on skin and the stickiness of it fills the room — so filthy and exuberating, it makes your stomach twist as you release broken moans and cries of dirty, blinding bliss. Every thrust just melts away another layer of your brain, all you can focus on is the drag of his cock, the stretch — he way he fills you up so fully, you feel it in your throat.

Your eyes are glassy, vision splotching as your lips are parted and face flushed. Jermajesty drinks it all in like he’s never seen anything prettier. He hasn’t. The way you give yourself up to him makes his dick twitch, he can’t control himself.

“Fuck, you’re so gone,” he breathes, dragging a finger down your lip. “Drooling for this dick, my pretty dummy.”

You clench around him at his words, the action involuntary in response to him. The sensation makes him hiss and dig deeper into you.

“That’s it, good girl. Let it leak out,” he groans again, hands gripping your waist. “Don’t even think, baby. Just feel me. Take it.”

The pleasure is blinding, deafening as it builds up in your core. Your legs shake, toes curling, as you try to warn him, but only a high cry of pleasure echoes.

“Come on, baby,” he demands, voice rough. “Cum all over this cock and show me the dumb slut you get for me.”

His words are like sickening honey, enticing as a wave of heat and bliss wash over you. The orgasm hits you like a freight train — vision whitening, body shaking, pussy pulsating around him as you dig your nails into his skin. You choke out a noise — maybe his name or maybe just complete nonsense — and he fucks you through the waves, never slowing or stopping.

As you come down from your intoxicating high, you feel light-heated and floating. Limbs heavy and clarity washing over your mind, blissfully empty. Jermajesty doesn’t pull out or stop fully, just slows as he deep, undone thrusts as he savors the way you flutter around him.

“There she is,” he speaks in a slow, hushed tone. He leans down to kiss along your jaw. “My sweet, fucked-stupid baby. Still mad at me?”

You manage just a small, dazed shake of your head.

“Didn’t think so.” A smirk returns to his swollen lips. “Cause I didn’t say I was done.” He kisses you messily and deep as his hips slowly roll against your soreness in laziness.

He flips you onto your stomach and pulls your hips against him, squeezing the fat of your ass as his sleek, throbbing cock smoothly slides back into your oozing warmness. You moan, biting into the pillow as your brain already slips back into that cock-drunken state of fuzziness.

“Round two,” he growls against your ear. “Wanna see how many times I can make you forget your own name.”

pairing: Jaafar Jackson x fem!reader warning: none genre: flufffff word count: 1,096 proofread: nope requests: open taglist: @bonni-98 @flygirlarchivee (join here) synopsis: you decide to film the "We listen, and we don't judge" Tiktok challenge with your boyfriend, Jaafar

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ ✎﹏﹏𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐀 𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐄 to you from your endless doom-scrolling. It was a Tiktok challenge where you and some other person would each say a confession or secret/truth, and the other couldn't judge you. It was mostly for laughs, but it seemed entertaining enough, and you hadn't posted a video in a hot minute, anyway.

Jumping up from your cozy spot on your bed, you grab your phone and head to the living room to find your boyfriend. Entering the shared space, there was Jaafar, sprawled out on the couch in nothing but grey sweatpants, clinging low on his hips as his long legs stretched before him.

He looked cute and dreamy, having just woken up from a nap. His curls were tangled, velvet ribbons as they frizz from the sleep, face a little puffy and eyes still hazy. He half-covers his body with a blanket.

He wasn't big on social media, especially when it came to trends or some kind of challenge, so you already knew getting him to agree to film this with you was going to be a challenge. His eyes flick up from mindlessly watching the TV, looking at you and softening.

“Hey, sleepy head,” you tease, approaching the couch and mentally thinking of how you were going to beg this man to agree to do it.

“Best nap ever,” he yawns out, sleep coating his words in a soft and warm. He pulls you down onto his lap and laces his arms through yours and snuggly around your waist.

“I can tell,” you joke as you ruffle his hair, a low laugh escaping his lips.

He snuggles into your chest, hiding his face in the crook of your neck. His lips tickle your skin as slow breaths brush against you.

“I need a favor,” you break the silence. He pulls his head back, still holding you, and a suspicious look flashes across his face.

He smirks. “Oh? My pretty girl wants a favor?” he asks as his lips find their way back to your neck. He starts to leave soft kisses and nibbles as he hums against your skin.

“No, J, not like that,” you protest, pushing his shoulders back as his grip tightens around your waist. “It’s better.”

“Hmm?” he hums against you, smiling. You roll your eyes and have to stop your mind from losing focus and going mush as his hands travel.

“I want to film a Tiktok together.”

Jaafar pulls himself back, a disappointed look plastered all over his face, disgust tripping as he smacks his lips in annoyance. “You are not serious. ”

“I absolutely am,” you argue, climbing off his lap and settling in beside him. He extends his arm out across the couch behind you.

“Babe, I don’t do those things.”

“J, come on. It’ll be so fun!” you plead with him, placing your hands on each side of his face and shaking. “For me?”

The way his eyes soften, and a sly smirk appears tells you that you’ve got him whipped. He throws his head back with a groan, playfully rolling his eyes in a dramatic way. “I can’t say no to you.”

You teasingly shrug and say, “I know.”

The next couple of minutes are spent explaining the trend to him and showing examples. He seems to think thoughtfully at the videos once he understands you’re serious about it. It’s obvious he’s only doing this for you, though, and wants to do it right for that reason solely.

“Okay, you understand it know? I’m about to start,” you say now, excitement running through you. He hated this but smiled despite himself and hummed. “I’ll go first.”

You click record and in unison, you both start, “We listen, and we don’t judge.”

“Sometimes, I steal your hoodies when you’re gone, even though you hate it,” you confess, eyes tracking his reaction in the camera.

He sarcastically says, “Like I don’t know. Girl, you’re literally wearing one right now,” he says, picking up one of the hoodie strings and letting it flop back down as the fabric wrap around you.

“Stop, I forgot, for real. They smell like you,” you admit, completely not aware you were currently wearing one. “Okay, hush, you go,” you finish, not giving him time to tease you.

You two say the same line in unison, and it’s Jaafar’s turn now.

“I read your texts over your shoulder all the time.” He stifles a laugh as your jaw drops.

“You’re literally so nosey,” you say, playfully hitting his chest. He smiles and takes your hand as you two continue.

“Sometimes when we’re about stupid arguing, I know I’m wrong, but I keep going to see how far you’ll go.”

He gasps. “Babe, that’s diabolical. I plead my cases into the dirt.”

“I’m just helping your acting career, you know,” you tease, planting a kiss on his cheek as he rolls his eyes.

“Oh, sure, sure.”

“I pretend to be asleep sometimes just because I know you kiss my forehead every night,” he confesses now, turning the conversation into one of softer truths.

“I actually knew this,” you eject, looking up at him.

“No way you did, how?” he wonders.

“You suck at hiding a smile.”

He shoves you in fake annoyance. “See, I try to be cute, and you tell me I’m a bad actor.”

“So dramatic, babe.”

“I pretend I can’t open jars.”            

Jaafar laughs this time and admits, “I also knew that. I tighten them on purpose.”

“What?”

“We listen, and we don’t judge,” he says, cutting your argument off before it takes off completely.

“Sometimes, when you’re looking for your phone, I already know where it’s at,” he says, it being his turn again.

“Wait, why would you do that?”

“I don’t know, it’s cute when you’re confused, and I get to spend time with you.”

You just blink. “That’s insane, J.”

“You’re judging,” he warns.

“Okay, well, my turn,” you start.

Jaafar nods.

"Sometimes, when you're talking...I stop listening."

He gasps dramatically.

"I knew it!" he goes as he pinches your side.

You smile and pause before finishing. "Because I get distracted looking at you."

He rolls her eyes, trying not to smile as he runs a hand down his face. "That was smooth."

"It was true." You shrug once more.

He reaches over and ends the recording. "I think we're done."

"Why?"

"Cause if you keep talking like that, this TikTok's gonna get gross."

You laugh as you crawl back into his lap, burying your face in his neck.

"I'll take that as a compliment."

pairing: Jermajesty Jackson x fem!reader warning: MDNI; drinking + suggestive genre: romance w/ strong erotica elements word count: 4,340 proofread: nope requests: open taglist: @bonni-98 @flygirlarchivee (join here) synopsis: you have recently gotten out of a long-term relationship that has left you cut-off and with walls up. with weeks of relentless persuasion from your friends, you finally decide to join them on a night-out; jermajesty can't keep himself away from you when he spots you a/n: def listen to sexy boy by air, trust

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ ✎﹏﹏𝐈𝐓'𝐒 𝐀𝐋𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐘 𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐍 a couple months since you last saw him — your ex-boyfriend of almost three years. And yet the pain in your heart still feels raw and anguished. Three years. Poured out right down the drain, like it simply never existed in the first place. Or that's what it seemed like to him.

He wasted no time dwelling on it, on your love, and was already busying himself with nights-out and drinking.

When you two argued for the last time, it was as if the world had cracked in two — straight down the middle — and swallowed you up. It came out of nowhere, leaving you completely blindsided as your world was turned upside down and shaken for all its worth.

When your friends heard of the news, they instantly went into comforting mode and became relentless in getting you back out there. If he can live it up, why couldn't you? You deserve it — to feel wanted.

The convincing and persuasion grew unyielding as the more time passed and the more miserable you became.

You were trying. Seriously.

But splits are never clean. The breakup was messy, the fallout leaving devastation in its wake. You felt cynical after it all and as if you were all boxed up, having nothing left to give, so you hid.

The final straw, though, was the Instagram story he posted right before you blocked him. It wasn't even enough time to fully recover from the pain, or so you thought, but there he was, posted up with some new woman. His skin was covered in bruises and lipstick. It made your stomach twist with hurt and disgust, for yourself and for him.

It shouldn't have mattered. Hell, you knew better than to even stalk. But you needed to see it. You needed to know the way he felt, solidifying that you meant little to nothing to him now. You needed that push.

After seeing that photo, it was enough of a catalyst to finally take your friends up on their offer and join them for what they claimed would be "the best night of your life." Your skin tingles with anticipation for what the night had in store.

You had no idea.

Your friend, Nicole, sent you a text about some new nightclub and their opening night. You knew that meant a crowd, but maybe, that’s just what you needed — to lose yourself in the crowd of sweaty, swaying bodies, a little buzzed, and engulfed by darkness with blaring music.  

You were currently over at your friend Nicole's apartment, along with your other two friends, Alexia and Bridget. The living room space has been converted into some sort of makeup-bar room as everyone gathers around, makeup sprawled around as everyone nurses their own drink. Music pulses as it leaks from the speaker sitting on the side-table, blending easily with the sound of laughter and easy conversations floating around.

It felt like peak girlhood, love and relaxation blanketing you. For the first time in weeks, your chest didn't feel heavy, like you were on the verge of another breakdown. It was light and effortless.

"No, I'm serious! He was, like, weirdly obsessed with my cat," Alexia urges, catching you all up on her latest date disaster.

"Your what?" Nicole immediately asks, shooting her head up and looking away from her mirror.

"Girl, no" Alexia grunts, pointing her mascara wand at Nicole threateningly. "Not like that. Like, my actual cat, Mochi."

"I'm glad she said something, cause I also thought it," Bridget chimes in, holding a hand up in the air as a sign of agreement, another hand on her chest.

"Me, too," you admit with a mischievous grin as you lean into your LED mirror to apply your eyelash glue.

Alexia throws a beauty blender at you. "You guys are awful!"

Laughter fills the space as you all go back to pampering yourself and listening to Alexia finish her ridiculous story.

"He would come over and, like, literally ignore me and go straight to Mochi," she says now, lining her lips with a nice, deep color.

“I mean, he did have a cat in mind,” Bridget jokes, earning another glare from Alexia.

“I can’t with y’all.” 

“Anyways,” you interrupt to change the topic, standing up and stretching, “I still have no clue what I’m wearing.” 

“Def something sexy, Friend.” Nicole eyes you as you head to your overnight back. You pull out your options and lay them across the floor for everyone to decide on. 

“Yes, 100%, I agree,” Alexia excitedly chirps, contrasting to your typical style of softness. 

“So then, we’re definitely not going with that first option,” Bridget says, waving a hand dismissively over a butter-yellow top you shoved into your bag last-minute because, knowing them, you needed a safe option. 

“What? I thought yellow complemented me,” you argue, picking up the shirt and rubbing the fabric between your fingers. 

“Not saying it isn’t, but it’s your first night out in a hot minute. Single, might I add. You need to show off a little,” Alexia says, standing now as she bumps hips with you. You roll your eyes as you shove the shirt back into your bag.

“I just hate my other options,” you groan, throwing your head back in defeat as you run your fingers down your face.

“Oooh, this piece Is cute,” Bridget coos as she holds up a random article of clothing that has stumbled its way out of your bag. She smiles innocently as all heads turn to look at the choice, and your heart drops.  

It’s a blue, silk dress that your ex bought you a long time ago, on the rare occasion he actually bought you anything to begin with. You were mentally hitting yourself upside the head for even keeping the dress in the first place. Maybe you accidently forgot it in your overnight bag from some other stay, but its presence alone was making that nauseous feeling reappear. God, it was so minute, and you hated yourself for feeling this way over some stupid, stupid cloth. It should be nothing, but why were you so stunned?

Nicole notices it first and immediately tries to hide it before you see. “No, Alex, that’s —”

“From him,” you whisper out, dropping your hands to your side now.

Alexia pales with guilt as she realizes the incident. “I’m so sorry, I had no clue.”

The tears start to swell up in your eyes before you even register them, only realizing once your vision was becoming fuzzy. You shake your head to pull yourself out of this pit that you felt you were finally escaping from. You gave him everything. He took everything from you, but this, tonight? It was yours.

“Not your fault at all,” you say now, wiping your eyes as you go to grab the dress from Alexia. “I hate blue, anyway.” You take one last glance at the dress and tap your foot on the trash-can stand, popping open the lid and tossing the article, much like how he did you.

“You okay?” Nicole comes behind you, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder. “You know, we can just stay in and order greasy food —”

“Oh, absolutely not,” you cut her off. It took me forever to do my makeup.” You reach out to the kitchen island, your hand grasping a cold bottle of whatever hard liquor Bridget decided on bringing. “Who wants to take a shot with me?”

The atmosphere seems to lighten as the girls share a laugh and all surround the island, each pouring a shot and tilting your heads back. The strong, burning liquid sickly coats your throat in a smooth yet stinging feeling as it makes its way down.

You go back to pregaming and finishing up your looks when Nicole says, “Girl, I actually think I have the perfect fit.” She uncrosses her legs and runs off to her room, stumbling as she rummaging around in her closet before returning.

Stepping back into the living room, she dangles a hanger in front of your face. A cute, shorter-than-comfort, dress stares back at you its slick black color hot and dangerous with its low-cut neckline.

“Girl, you know I don’t wear stuff that short,” you say in shock. “I couldn’t.”

“Oh, hell, yes, you could, and you so are.” Alexia says now, pulling you up by your arms as she drags you towards the bathroom. “Put this shit on right now!”

“Your girls are gonna look so hot,” Nicole says, passing you the dress as you flick the bathroom light on.

“And that ass, hello,” Bridget half-jokes, laughing dramatically. Clearly, she wasn’t the only one feeling the numerous shots from earlier as her whole face widens with joy that only could be elicited from inebriation.

You stare at yourself in the mirror, your face glowing as your hair cascades past your shoulders, shiny in the same way your lips are glossy. If you hadn’t known any better, you would have no clue that someone who looked this good was recovering from the worst heartbreak in your life. That this woman staring back in the mirror was the same one who just spent weeks crying on her bedroom floor. Where you healed? Maybe this really was exactly what you needed. There was no way of knowing if it was truth or if the lines were just simply blurred by the vodka, alcohol talking now. It was anyone’s guess as you stripped and began dressing in Nicole’s specially picked-out outfit.  

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

Your assumption about the club being crowded was nothing short of reality. Your uber rolls to a stop at the curb, the pounding music already settling deep in your chest as you thank the driver and open the car door, revealing yourself to the crowd before you. Opening night at any new spot, inevitably, draws large groups, and as predicted, tonight was no different.

“I’m so glad I took that last chug,” Bridget exclaims as you all stare at the buzzing scene before you.

 The line was out of the door and almost around the corner now, all waiting for the bouncer to hopefully let them in. The lights leaked out onto the sidewalk with each swing of the door, music hammering into your ears. You tug at the hem of your dress habitually as you all make your way to the front doors. To be truthful, the dress was a lot shorter than you would usually wear willingly, but something about it had stopped you from ditching the outfit altogether before leaving the house. Maybe it was the way it hugged your curves just right, devastatingly accentuating your figure. Or the way your boobs bounced with each step, pushed up just enough. Or the way the fabric tightened at your ass in just the right way. Or maybe it was the alcohol talking again.

“What’re you doing?” Alexia speaks in a hushed tone as Nicole’s dramatic stride parts the sidewalk and walks confidently up to the bouncer.

“Do y’all seriously not listen when I talk?” She sends a friendly, flirty smile at the tall, broad man, his muscles showing through his black polo. “I went to college with Benj,” she answers, referring to the bouncer.

They share a few short words, and with pure astonishment between the three of you, Nicole steps aside briefly as Benj opens the doors to the club, allowing a free entrance.

“I’m sickened,” Bridget says, a hand back on her chest as you all step inside. “I’m never zoning you out again.” The last comment earns a glare from Nicole.

The club is dark and intimate — velvet booths, deep bass, and lights that cut through the haze.

The music is now pulsating through your entire body; ears fill with the sound leaking aggressively from the speakers. The lasers look like liquid skies as they flash and change around the room, lighting up the space and then covering it back in darkness in a rhythmic pattern, in tune with the music. Bodies huddle together, leaving little room for privacy as you’re swept up into the chaos, pulled in further by your friends, etching deeper to the center of the darkness the club offers as the lasers cascade rainbows across faces, highlighting features before erasing them again. It swallows you whole.

“Let’s dance!” Alexia shouts.

You all give yourself over to the bassline and let the music carry you. You throw your head back as you lose yourself, letting the intense sound carry you somewhere else as the lights continue to shift around the club. For the first time in a while, you let your walls down, not worrying yourself with how you look or what you feel. For the time being, it was just you, the music, and the lingering taste of your buzz.

After a few minutes, Bridget yells out over the loud speakers, “I’m gonna go to the restroom!”

You’ve been dancing for about an hour, the edge of nerves melting away as you continue to sway amongst to wave of people.

“I’ll come with,” Nicole offers, following Bridget’s lead as they exit the edge of the floor you have migrated to.

You and Alexia stay behind, dancing together playfully as the music continues to vibrate your being, nestled deep in your chest as it rattled there. You paid no mind to what song was even playing as you just focused on swaying yourself, your curled hair swooshing as the frizz grew. The dress riding up didn’t seem to bother you, either, as you hold onto Alexia and move together. The heat of the crowd grew as the space tightened.

Or maybe the heat wasn’t from the crowd.

At first you thought it was all in your head, like it was just a trick of the lights as they flickered and floated around. Shadows teasing you or the reflection confusing your sight. But as Alexia spins you around, now facing the VIP section near the bar, you were sure this couldn’t be some magical, optical illusion.

He was watching you.

And the way you’ve felt the burn in the back of your head or the goosebumps on your skin for the past hour, something tells you he’s been staring for a while.

You’re first instinct is to think he must be looking at someone else, or is mistaking you for someone he knows, but as the light flashes again, the look is undeniable. Your stomach flips. You do the only thing you know to do and pretend like he isn’t there. You had no idea what to do with this kind of attention anymore.

You quickly steal a glance of him — tall, handsome sharp jawline, curls relaxing against his forehead as a stubble grows on his chin, styled effortlessly as he stands with a small group. Your breath seems to hitch as you feel his stare bleeding into you, dark eyes locked on you. It was like he was daring you to look away, to break the contact first.

A flash of lights illuminates his face for a crackling second, and you can spot the smirk on his plump lips, his intense stare still unwavering. The lights cut out again, and it plunges everyone in darkness once more, coiling the tension tighter. Only the heat of his stare is left burning your skin.

It becomes intoxicating, a back-and-forth pull that lasts all night, growing with each stare and underlying desire.

With each fracture from the strobe light, you wait for him, searching for his dark eyes. It’s a game, and you find him watching you again and again. Each time the lights break through, colors of blues and purples splashing over everyone, he’s watching ­— smirking, sipping his drink, by his section.

There’s a wordless chemistry floating in the air. You can’t seem to help yourself and start to play along — swaying your hips, biting your lip, flipping your hair, skin glistening each time the light catches you just right.

“He is so eye-fucking you,” Nicole’s voice rings out, having returned from the bathroom hours ago and watching the exchange unfold all night.

“You think so?” you say, turning your head their way, trying to ignore the sensation of being watched as the strobes flash again.

He’s across the floor, sipping his drink, pretending to pay attention to his own group. But every time the strobes hit, there he is — eyes tracing down your body like he’s committing to memory every curve and sway.

The thrill of feeling seen and wanted excites you. You steal another glance back, boldly biting your lip, before turning towards your friends. The sensation of craving pools in your stomach.

“He’s just staring,” you admit innocently.

“Oh, we can tell, girl. It’s like he’s hungry,” Bridget jokingly says.

And as you put the eye-fucking game to the side, wanting it to build, the crowd moves in closer, tightening. Yet he still stands, even as the lights break up the room into snapshots. One second, you would be swallowed by the darkness, then you’re underneath the white light — skin glistening as you throw your head back in laughter. Every time the room blinked, you were somewhere else, but Jermajesty still found you. It was magnetic.

He needed you.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

The night carried on, and the staring became much less of a coincidence and more like a beckoning.

Your body was hot and your throat felt dried up from singing your lungs out, the buzz wearing off. As the song was transitioning into one you didn’t feel the need to dance to, you tap your friends on the shoulder.

“Hey, I’m gonna go grab a drink!” you shout over the speakers.

They all nod and smile mischievously. You choose to be oblivious and ignore it, breaking away from the group and heading to the bar. It seems the strobes become blinding when you’re actually trying to walk through them, and you almost feel the need to shield your eyes. You stumble across the floor, pushing through the crowd.

“Excuse me,” you try to say, some hearing and others just ignoring. Your head is angled slightly down as you duck between shoulders and raised arms.

“Can you please —” you start but your forehead brushes against solid muscle and the seductive scent of cologne cutting through the air as you stumble back, halted in your step. You quickly look up to start apologizing.

“I am so sor—"

He turns his head away from his group, and low and behold, there he is — the eye-fucker himself.

Your breath hitches again and for a beat, no one says anything. The music pulsates around you, lights flashing once more, yet somehow, standing just inches apart now, the background seems to melt away and all you feel is his hot stare and the burning in your core.

For the first time tonight, you get a good look at his figure. He’s tall, strong, and devastatingly handsome, possessing a charisma that turns heads without trying.

You dry swallow.

“Guess the lights weren’t playing tricks on me,” he breaks the tension. His voice is sweet and dripping with pure temptation. It’s dangerous, but it excites you, luring you in as the stares grow hotter.

Something new and aching takes over you. “Couldn’t look away?”

He holds his hands up in defiance, showing no shame for his actions. “How could I keep my eyes off a good show?” His voice is dark and low, bodies close now as the crowd pushes back.

You’re lightheaded as his cologne swirls around you, his chain catching the light.

You playfully push him back, feeling the toned skin underneath the shirt that clings just right. He laughs and watches you, unfaltering.

“Well, I hope it was worth your while,” you say now, half-directing your attention to the bartender. You decide on ordering just a lemon shot.

“Make that two, please.” Jermajesty watches as the bartender gets to work immediately, quickly sliding the tiny glasses to their respectful owners. “My tab,” is all he finishes with, turning his head now to you.

You felt your knees would give out beneath you any second.

“You look cute out there, though. I can tell you’re having fun,” he speaks earnestly. You lean on the bar together. The words feel more intimate than generic.

“I could say the same about you,” you respond, eyes flickering from his stare down to his plump, wet lips. The thoughts running through your mind are dizzying and hazed.

His eyes seem to be doing the same as you both look up at each at the same time. He smirks knowingly. “You know, I think I need to repay you.” He runs his fingers idly across the shot glass brim, tracing the wetness from the liquor.

“Yeah, you think so?” Instinctively, your thighs press together as the hotness grows in your core, longing to chase the starved feeling.

He licks his lips as he glances at your own. “Think I can make it worth your while, too,” He scans your face and searches for an answer.

High and breathless, all you can do is nod and mouth a yes. He leans in, his broadness shadowing you. His mouth is barely inches from your ear.

“Follow me,” he says, his words brushing against your ear and lacing the skin with a sickly burn. Your thighs press harder together as the heat pools deeper into your belly.

You jump up instantly, and his head nods in the direction of the bathroom. You get the hint and start to lead the way, his large palm burning into you as he places it on the small your back to guide you through the crowd. The music sounds muffled as blood rushes to your ears, feeling hot and flustered as you make your way to the room. There’s an unspoken understanding as the hunger grows between you two for what one another is needing — to taste each other.

He opens the door for you and before it even gets to click itself shut, his fingers are on the lock. The energy shifting from that gentle guidance to a darker craving. He pushes you up against the wall, the cool tiles stinging against your skin that pokes through the backless dress. His lips meet yours, and the kiss is hungry, wet and dirty. The taste of liquor mixes as his tongue explores your mouth, scooping you out.

One hand finds itself tangled in his hair, the other grasping onto his arm for stability. His large hand holds your waist as the other pushes your head further into the dirty, nasty make-out. Strobe lights leak out underneath the door, painting your bodies in erratic colors as the heat grows. His hand travels down, and soon, it’s lifting the hem of your dress, clawing at the fat of your ass. He smirks against you as a tiny moan escapes your lips, vibrating.

The sloppy, wet sound of your kisses makes your stomach twist, and you start thrusting yourself into him. Without thinking, he mirrors you, hiking a leg up against him for closeness. His mouth finds your neck, sucking and licking with pure, needy desperation as he marks you up. This was dirty and all so sudden, you could swear you were daydreaming when he picks you up effortlessly and plops you down on the sink. He lays a hand against the mirror as the kiss deepens, his strong arm beside your head. You need more of him, and your hand wanders down his chest mindlessly as you two moan into one another. Your fingers begin to inch dangerously low and start to play with his belt.

It’s all so intense and heavy. You feel so alive.

You two pull apart, lips red and swollen as they glisten under the light from the wetness of each other's saliva. The hunger in his eyes doesn’t leave as a smirk reappears. You smile back, still not believing it all. He was handsome and sweaty and hungry, curls ruffled and sticking to his forehead, clothes disheveled and dress riding up. You’re both breathless as he speaks first.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he says, staring into you.

You remove your hands from his jeans. “I think I have a pretty good idea,” you tauntingly counter.

“Cocky girl,” he whispers.

You shrug your shoulders, his hands falling to your waist. “Just observant.” Your eyes quickly glance to the bulge in his pants before looking back up at him.

He sits up straighter now, running a hand through his curls to regather himself, adjusting. “I guess your friends are wondering where you ran off to?”

“I think they already know,” you answer.

He lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah... probably.”

For a second, neither of you says anything. The music outside pounds through the walls, reminding you that this tiny room isn't frozen in time.

He reaches into his pocket, pulling out his phone.

“I don't really want this to end with us pretending this never happened.”

You raise an eyebrow. “No?”

“Definitely not.” A crooked smile tugs at his lips. “Give me your number.”

You take his phone, type it in, then call yourself so your phone vibrates and receives his number.

“There,” you say, handing it back.

He glances at the contact before looking up at you again, smiling like he'd just won something.

“Good,” he says. “Because I'd like to continue this.”

Your stomach flutters.

“Not here,” he adds with a grin, nodding toward the door. “Somewhere we don't have a line of people waiting outside.”

You laugh, smoothing down your dress as he lifts you up off the sink.

“Text me,” you say, reaching for the lock.

“Count on it.”

You crack the door open, peeking into the hallway. The music crashes over you as you slip back into the crowd alone, leaving him behind in the bathroom for another minute to collect himself. He smirks as he watches you leave, leaning against the wall as ecstasy crashes over him.

Before you even make it halfway to your friends, your phone buzzes in your clutch.

Unknown: I’ve never lost a staring contest that fast.

pairing: MIchael Jackson (bad era) x fem!reader (model) warning: N/A genre: romance word count: 7,168 proofread: nope (needs it ugh) requests: open taglist: @bonni-98 @flygirlarchivee (join here) synopsis: you're a model who has created this little bubble of mystery and off-limit aura; Michael enjoys the chase a/n: obsessed with this song by Madonna currently

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ ✎﹏﹏𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐔𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐘 𝐖𝐀𝐒 no stranger to you. You were the hottest thing, your face seemingly plastered on every cover of any magazine and projected on any screen possible. You were the supermodel — every Vogue cover, every Versace runway, every luxury campaign. But there was one catch: you had a reputation.

The tabloids dubbed you the "Thief of Hearts."

Every week, it seemed there was a new article about some other celeb trying to earn your attention, the media practically clawing at a chance of catching you in some dating rumor — itching to be the first to report on it.

The thing was, you worked tirelessly, for years, to get where you were, so staying out of trouble and out of bad media was something you ensured:

Never photographed leaving a restaurant with anyone.

No scandals.

No rumored flings.

Never kisses anyone for publicity.

Doesn't flirt. 

Doesn't party.

Always arrives alone and leaves alone.

To help further guarantee that, you didn't do dating.

You made that very apparent, especially with the little wall you built around yourself. Despite knowing this, though, the media never stopped. They were relentless in finding anything worth reporting on.

Your reasoning for a no-dating rule wasn't because of some traumatic teen-love incident — it was practical. Your modeling career took off just when you were sixteen, and ever since, it felt like you were living out of hotels, always on the move — Paris, MIlan, London, Tokyo, New York.

Besides from your busy, unconventional schedule and lifestyle, you also saw the way relationships functioned in the modeling world. You had friends in the business, some in romantic spaces, and all the relationships you saw just seemed to burn up before crashing. That wasn't the most ideal situation you saw fit for yourself. 

In your eyes, love was just a distraction. Men complicate things. Your career didn't. So the decision was easy for you: no dating. It felt far too messy.

That was until Michael.

Just on the other side of the industry stood Michael Jackson, the King of Pop.

In his world, it seemed easy to get anything he wanted. Any clothing, any filming location, any song. Much like how people assume you live a lavishly expensive life, the media also assume it to be easy for Michael to get any woman his needs desire. With a look and the flick of a finger, whoever he wanted was his.

But what you see isn't what it always is.

Michael, in truth, was much more reserved. He was shy. Earnest. Sincere. Almost hopelessly romantic.

But he knew when something was worth the chase. Something about knowing you can't have it just at the simple request lit a fire of desperate longing inside of him.

Which is why, despite knowing your reputation, Michael found himself swooned by you. There was something just enticing about you that kept him coming back, wanting to unravel the layers of your mystery. He needed more.

There were just a few things he knew about you:

You don't do interviews that pry too deeply into your personal life.

You never attend after-parties.

You leave fashion shows earlier than everyone else.

You don't date celebrities.

You don't date at all.

He would see the buzz of tabloids starting up rumors of if you've ever even been in love. So often, in fact, he found himself wondering the same thing, and maybe, without admitting, wondering if he could do something about it.

The first time Michael laid eyes on you, it was the red carpet for an award show on a Saturday.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

The atmosphere was as lively as it could be — stars from all sorts of industries littered around, conversations filling up the space, camera flashes blinding as sparkles and lavishness leaked from the carpet. None of this phased you, though, long ago not worrying if cameras followed you. They still do, though, as you emerge from your car, body clad in a smooth, dangerous black silk. The fabric accentuates your body perfectly, hugging every carve and line, the fabric moving like water basking over you.

"She's here."

"That model?"

"The model.”

You were right on time, punctuation important in your eyes. You didn't come with a dramatic entrance, but the news of your arrival traveled fast. Whispers and looks being thrown your way instantly. You grew accustomed to this, and you hold your head high, silent confidence flowing through you as you walk with a strong, fierce stride down the carpet.

Michael easily caught wind of the commotion, currently in the middle of an interview. His head, along with practically everyone else’s, turns to take you in. Immediately, for a hanging moment, he stares with curiosity.

"...Sorry?" he has to ask the reporter, not hearing the question clearly. Distraction fogs his mind as his eyes trace the shape of the dress and linger on your legs for a beat too long, watching you part the crowd with ease.

The reporter's eyes follow his intense gaze and he laughs knowingly

"Oh."

"Who is that?"

"Y/n, Vogue's hottest new model. Would you like to share your thoughts on her look tonight?"

Michael coughs, a smirk growing on his lips as he adjusts his tie. "She looks stunning."

There you were. For months, Michael only saw your face on the front cover of monthly magazine editions or in just the quick glimpses he managed to steal of you in passing as you exited backstage before anyone could properly introduce themselves.

Tonight, you were just right down the carpet. Alive, in the flesh, and breathtakingly stunning. 

The interview wraps up, and just before any other media reporters get the chance to steal him away for another shallow questionnaire, Michael steps aside and immediately pulls the arm of his manager. The manager leans in, speaking first.

"Don't," he urges, noticing that damning look in Michael's eyes.

"I wasn't going to."

"I know that look, Michael, and I said no."

He chuckles, claiming innocence. "Just a quick introduction."

"Ple-ease,” his manager scoffs, “Last time I heard that, the media claimed you were in a secret marriage."

"They're idiots for not being able to tell the difference between platonic and romantic," Michael defends, his mind quickly landing on the month-long tabloid-fiasco.

"I worry you can't, sometimes."

He ignores the playful dig, and his eyes turn back to you, currently stuck in an interview with a tight-lined smile just barely on your lips.

The interviewer was adamant on getting even the slightest insight into your love life, not letting the topic drop after your obvious declines and avoidance. You always stayed kind and professional, but sometimes, you wished people would take a hint.

"Who do you have your eyes on tonight?"

"I'm excited to see what the night has in store."

"C'mon, there has to be some lucky one."

"I really enjoy some of the musical acts here tonight."

Michael's manager sighs at him, already knowing every last plea is in vain. "Please leave the mysterious supermodel alone."

But it was too late.

With a polite smile and head nod, you ended your interview and made your way down into the arena, walking right past Michael, his body shimmering with sparkles, eyes glowing in imitation.

He steps into your path with ease.

"Congratulations," he confidently says, his voice soft and cooling.

You blink. "Sorry, for?" You weren't a musical artist, so there was no award or nomination you were up for, no guest-act or speech, unless your manager forgot to inform you. Wouldn't be the first time.

"Your campaign. The one in Paris," he clarifies.

Recognition flickers across your face, relieved there were no surprises tonight.

"Oh."

Pause

"Well, thank you," you calmly say, sending another polite smile his way.

There's another pause as you get the urge to reciprocate the compliment. "Your latest album is doing well."

The words seem to come as a surprise to Michael, a softer smile appearing on his lips to replace the smirk and his doe-eyes starely intently at you.

"You think?"

"It was very good."

He sounds surprised, as if forgetting who he is. "Thank you."

With a simple nod, you excuse yourself and make your way inside, ignoring the roar of questions and the flashing of camera shutters. Michael stands, almost stunned. Your floral, jasmine perfume lingers in your wake, and the smell tickles Michael's senses.

"How'd it go?" his manager inquires, appearing by his side and shattering the trance.

"I think she complimented my album?"

Across the room, you accepted a glass of champagne, another designer immediately dragging you into a conversation about their up-and-coming summer looks. You offer the same, familiar exchanges of polite smiles and head nods, completely unaware that you just became the only thing on Michael's mind for the rest of the night.

For you, the rest of the night blurred into a constant motion, the memory hazy. Award after award as the night carried on. You sat in the front row, surrounded by designers and your own team. Your posture was straight and you sat with a leg crossed over, holding elegantly onto your glass as your eyes would follow yet another star up onto stage to do their thank-you speech.

Two hours later, Michael would take the stage to accept the "Artist of the Year" award, face sharp and glowing as the stage lights beam down on him. The award glistens as his eyes sparkle with gratitude, both hands having to hold onto the award.

"Wow, I don't know where to start," he begins, the choir of cheers and clapping blaring into his ears. He laughs bashfully. "I wanna thank my team, firstly, for the endless nights of labor and making this happen."

His eyes scan the crowd, and that's when he spots you again, your skin glowing and hair cascading down your shoulders in waves of perfectly pinned curls.

Something seems to take over Michael as he leans back in to finish off his speech.

"I also want to thank whoever designed that incredible black dress over there," he points to you, "it's really...distracting." The smirk returns.

The cameras all quickly turn to you, a confused look on your face as it lights up the screens. 

You offer a polite yet puzzled smile. 

Your assistant leans in and whispers, "He's talking about you."

You frowned ever-so-slightly. "...Why?"

"Thank you all for believing in me, love you and goodnight!" he finishes with, bowing as he exits the stage, leaving the sea of tables in pure shock and excitement, confusion seeping into you more deeply.

That night, you would become the most-talked about individual.

You wouldn't learn about this, though, until in the morning.

You're waiting in the conference room for your team to arrive to discuss your newest magazine feature over breakfast.

The large doors swing open with such a force, they seem like they'll fall off their hinges as a gust of wind breaks their way.

Your assistant and one of your designers enter, each holding a large stack of newspapers. Your manager waltzes in after, dropping a paper right in front of your face, a grin plastered all over their lips.

In big, bold letters reads:

"𝙰𝙻𝙻 𝙰𝙱𝙾𝚄𝚃 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚄𝙽𝚃𝙾𝚄𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙱𝙻𝙴 𝙼𝙾𝙳𝙴𝙻 𝚃𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝙷𝙰𝚂 𝙼𝙸𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙴𝙻 𝙹𝙰𝙲𝙺𝚂𝙾𝙽 𝙳𝙸𝚂𝚃𝚁𝙰𝙲𝚃𝙴𝙳"

Your heart skips a beat at the photo plastered on the front cover — you and Michael seemingly sharing a smile on the carpet. It looks more incriminating than reality, but you don't bother. 

Everyone knows you don't date.

"As in the Michael Jackson," your assistant clarifies.

"I am aware of who he is, who isn't?" you idly answer, taking another bite of your toast. "I, apparently, have a new celebrity boyfriend every other week, are we forgetting?" you sarcastically ask, not understanding why everyone was making such a big deal with this one in particular.

"This is different from the others," your manager urgently speaks, waving a hand in the air.

You huff in annoyance and push your plate away, crossing your arms. "Can we please just focus on my campaign?"

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

The following months bleed into years, and all were nothing short of utter pursuit — mainly on Michael's part.

It seemed that you two kept crossing paths, unable to stay away from one another and pulled by an invisible force — Grammys, fashion week, Oscars, Charity galas, MTV Awards. Over time, you two naturally became familiar faces, and Michael never missed an opportunity to make his attraction towards you unknown:

At first, much like the beginning of it all, it was just simple acknowledgments during his award speeches —

"I want to thank God, Quincy, my family," he pauses, his head dipping lower and his voice drops into a flirty, sultry tone, sunglasses tipping, "and a thank you to a very special friend, Y/n. She isn't here tonight, but if she's watching at home...hello." He flashes a charming smile and a failed attempt at winking before placing his glasses back on to conceal his eyes. He blows a kiss and exits the stage.

You are, in fact, at home, wrapped up in a cozy blanket and sipping warm tea, a familiar look of confusion written all over you, taken aback. "...What?"

Then, came the gift-giving. At first, your assistant thought you had some crazed fan, what with the amount of floral arrangements and chocolate delights that kept arriving on what seemed like a set schedule, every Wednesday was 'flower day,' your team would joke. Hundreds of orchids littered throughout your agency building, and you had to take home the ones that wouldn't fit. It looked like your apartment was being turned into a floral shop if you didn't know better.

Bouquets.

Rare books.

Perfumes.

Custom jackets, even.

And letters, all signed by their sender — Michael J. Jackson

Before the reveal, you really had thought, for a split second, it had to be someone who knew you deeply, a stalker even. Because the gifts seemed absurdly specific, not just some careless item in an attempt to sway you. It seemed like the person had put in real thought about each present.

In truth, Michael hated fruitless gifts. They had to have meaning. That's why he put in the effort to learn about you, working with what little information he had or his manager was able to find out through conversations.

You, being the kind and genuine person you were, would send back thank-you letters that all followed a similar wording —

Dear Michael,

Thank you. It's lovely. It was not necessary. 

Sincerely,

Y/n.

But he was persistent and would only focus on the fact that you referred to the gifts as 'lovely.'  And he kept every last night, always having the urge to frame them and seal them forever. 

Then, there's interviews. It was like Michael stole every chance he could to change the subject and bring up your name —

"So Michael, how's the new music video coming along?

"Oh, it's really great. Have you seen what people are saying about the music? That model Y/n said some lovely words. I'm going to take it into consideration."

When he feels he needs to reel it in, other interviews show that reserved side of Michael.

"There seems to be one model you keep mentioning, Michael."

"Who?"

"Y/n."

He tries to act casual. "Oh, she's...very talented."

Aside from just simple interviews and gifts, the pursuit falls into the business world as well. From some time ago, Michael had his manager ask yours for your phone number, and never one to give out personal lines, he could only get ahold of your assistant's number.

It made no difference to him, though. Being one to love phone calls, once Michael got a number, that was all he needed. It seemed every month, there was a new voicemail from Michael's team or from him himself.

It was either dinner requests —

"Dinner next week?"

"Sorry, she’ll be in Milan."

"That's okay, what about the week after?"

"Tokyo."

"After Tokyo?"

— or requests for you to be a part of one of his projects. The ideas were exciting, but your life was just as booked up as his, and sometimes the artistic view felt not like yourself. You were never one to simply fake it for the camera, either. Though still feeling incredibly honored, it felt like you were always politely declining requests to appear in MV's, studio visits, after-parties. He wanted you in everything — 

"She'd be perfect."

"Michael, she does fashion."

"I know that."

"She doesn't really do music videos."

"So? Ask anyway."

Every project, every year, same answer — no.

And maybe it was because of your demanding schedule, or maybe because you just didn't flirt, that you never fully registered these acts of kindness as more than that. You assumed, much like everyone else, Michael was just simply networking. It's show-business, after all, and you understood that well.

But the people around you seemed to think differently.

"He is so flirting with you," Sasha, one of your fashion friends, suggests eagerly.

"Is not. Everyone knows Michael is very sweet."

"Girl."

You look up from mindlessly thumbing through one of your own magazines. "What?"

"The Michael Jackson has sent huge bouquets of flowers to three separate countries because you moved for fashion week.

"He's generous."

"They're your favorite flowers, and each has a personalized letter attached." She crosses her arms at you with a smug look plastered on her face.

"So what? He's thoughtful."

She throws her hands up in the air in frustration. "He's in love with you."

"Don't say that," you demand.

"Why? Because you know it's true?" she smugly asks, laying her head back against the cushion in your apartment."

"He's a good friend," is all you offer.

"Sure," she picks at her nails as she responds. "All I'm saying is, this one is different." It's a mumble, but you can still hear it.

You close the magazine and stare at the glossy, front cover — your own face stares back, a dark, fierce look with a sharp cats-eye. You look cold, untouchable. A title the world had given you for years, and you flaunted it just as proudly. You were unreadable, and had spent years perfecting the very image staring back at you. 

Yet somehow Michael never seemed intimated by it, never felt you to be too out of reach. 

What Sasha said stuck with you, almost stinging. Maybe she was right. To be fair, no other guy in your life had ever taken the time to figure out so many things about you. But was it because they knew you wouldn't let them in, they stood no chance? Almost like it was a lost cause or dying battle. Or was it something they didn't have, that Michael was clearly so sure of? Was there something that Michael had that prevented you from shooting it down immediately? Patience, perhaps? No infatuation had ever lasted this long in the past. Maybe there was truth to Sasha’s words. 

The thought made panic and uncertainty rise in you.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

It was the night of the MTV Awards once again, and the atmosphere was buzzing with news and excitement. You just wrapped up a shoot in Milan. It was new and bright, but the shoot ran overtime and ended later than expected. So you felt a little exhausted and not quite like yourself. Nevertheless, you popped a polite smile on your lips as you made your way down the carpet and into the arena.

Usually, you are made aware ahead of time about the sitting arrangement, who will all be around you for the night. However, approaching your area, it hits you that your assistant forgot when your eyes land on him — a nice, fitting black suit and curls. Michael was seated right next to you.

For an odd reason, your stomach flip-flops as you get closer. You two seemed to only have passing conversations or short exchanges through letters. But the nonverbal exchanges, like the gifts, made things feel much more vulnerable and intimate, which must be why you were feeling a little off or on edge. That had to be what it was. Right?

"Hi," he greets, his soft-spoken voice a sweet sound in contrast to the chatty crowd.

"Hi, Michael," you nod back, taking your seat.

You look straight but can feel his eyes burning into you. He coughs and decides on speaking first.

"You look beautiful tonight," he says, eyes glistening under the lights.

You look back at him and almost want to say the same. Almost. "Thank you," you say.

"Have you gotten the bouquet with the pink bow yet?" he wonders. His full body is turned now, awaiting your answer.

"I did, and yes, pink is my favorite color. But again, Michael, the gifts are unnecessary," you urge.

He just simply shrugs and relaxes against his seat. "I know. Just think pretty women deserve pretty flowers.

The remark is so straightforward, if you were anyone else, you would have melted into the floor. 

But you were you, and flattery was no stranger.

“Then, why do you keep doing it?” 

He sits with the question, as if really pondering his answer. The smirk on his lips and the glint in his eyes tells you otherwise, though. “I like making you smile.” 

“You have no idea if I smile when I open them,” you respond puzzledly. 

He shrugs again. “I like to believe you do.” His lips curl into a softer smile, genuine and sincere. 

It’s a soft and gentle moment, lacking the harsh intensity shown from previous admirers. You feel like smiling for a fleeting moment. 

You shake your head. “You are impossible.” 

“I’ve been called way worse.” 

“Oh, I believe it.” 

“Do you at least like them?”

You hesitate for a moment before sighing dramatically. “They are beautiful, and I’m sure you know they’re my favorite.” 

His grin widens with triumph. “See? It’s worth it.” 

You can’t stop the roll of your eyes as he answers so matter-of-factly. “Don’t let it get to your head.”

“Too late.”

You laugh.

He notices.

You notice he noticed

You quickly compose yourself.

"You're very sweet, Michael," you say back, returning your attention towards the stage.

"Just for you," is all you catch as the night begins. And as you watch the show, your mind lingers back to what Sasha said because things were feeling different.

Throughout the night, you could feel the grogginess, leftover from your shoot, wash away as you sat with Michael. For the first time in forever, you actually weren't bothered that someone was talking with you, typically wanting all focus to be on the show.

You two seemed to pass comments between commercial breaks, shared thoughts on performances, and to Michael, it felt like you were giving him little privileges, like your guard was coming down just slightly.

And to your own surprise, once the show concluded, you weren't one of the first to exit. You stayed just a beat longer to congratulate Michael and wish him well, and as you finally made your exit, Michael knew something was different about you tonight.

You were realizing, too. You felt like you were coming undone, and there was something there, beating and demanding attention.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

The next time you were blessed by Michael’s soft, lacey voice would be just a few weeks later. The phone calls from his company were ever-lasting, and each time, they were either piling up in the voicemail box or answered with a polite decline from your assistant. You never answered the calls yourself. 

But since the MTV’s, you felt different about certain things. Which is why, when your assistant’s phone rings, and she tells you it’s just Michael’s team again, your reaction isn’t the expected rejection 

“Michael’s office.” 

Usually, it would always be a similar string of words, like you were busy. But this time, you hesitate. For a suspended moment, you stare, and your assistant senses it. 

“I’ll put him through,” she says, voice almost whispering. Disbelief is written all over her face as she clicks the button to transfer the call. 

You’re back at your own phone, waiting for the line to transfer. 

“Hello?” Michael questions, his voice almost hitched as he waits. 

“Hey,” you say casually, even though this was all entirely new. 

“You answered?” 

You shrug to no one. “Figured it’s easier than playing telephone with my assistant constantly.”

Michael laughs that soft, airy laugh, and you can’t help but imagine the way his eyes wrinkle at the edges and his mouth becomes ajar when happiness reaches his lips. “You’re telling me.” 

“Oh? Should I hang up, then?” you playfully threaten. 

“Please don’t, I have no clue the next time you’ll answer.” It’s playful, no doubt, but there’s something underneath that tells you he’s also being earnest. 

The shared conversation wasn’t long, maybe five or ten minutes — what you were each currently doing, how your day was going (Michael insisting he wanted to hear it all), the flowers he recently sent. Nothing important or too time-consuming.  But it was something you found your mind wandering off to for the rest of the week. 

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

Your schedule was almost always booked up for months out, and public appearances seemed to be just as important as shoots. So here you were, yet again, at another award show. You were at so many so often, the names commonly would scramble into your mind and fade into the void. 

You wear a cute, simple yellow piece tonight, your curls bouncy with each dramatic stride down the red carpet. You never failed to make any carpet your own, personal runway, and the cameras seemed to notice too as they follow you down and flicker frantically to get any last-sightings before you enter the arena. 

You entire the space and are immediately engulfed in darkness, aside from the flashy stage lights. Nonetheless, your eyes don’t fail to spot him, immediately drawn to the flashy dramatics of his suit and his long, sleeked curls.

Michael stood off to the side of the arena entrance, waiting to take his seat once the show started. Unfortunately, you two weren’t seated by one another, surprisingly much to your own dismay. It was ridiculous, since you hardly knew the man. However, the conversation you shared last time at the MTV Awards really stuck out to you, pinging your heart, even if it seems he is the one who always seeks you out first.

Which is why what you were doing felt different, unexplainable. Instead of heading straight to your seat as usual, your feet pivot and suddenly you’re standing right in front of Michael, feeling magnetized. 

You stand, and all eyes are on you. You feel flustered for a split second, new to you. “Sorry, can I borrow you for a second?”

He blinks, seemingly just as taken aback as you are. “...Of, course. Excuse me, guys,” he says, exiting the group without hesitation. He loops arms with you as you guide him further into the darkness, your stride parting the way with ease. He enjoys watching it every time. 

Michael effortlessly falls into your pace as he breaks the silence first. “This is new.” 

“What is?

He grows sheepish as a smile tugs at his lips. “You usually wait for me to come find you.” 

“I suppose I do.”

He smiles to himself. “I like it.” 

It wasn’t anything romantic, but it was enough for one another to understand something was developing, change cracking through. For someone who has a reputation of “never arriving with anyone and always leaving alone,” Michael knew this was new for you, huge, even if you didn’t understand it yourself.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

The next time you would see Michael, though, would be nothing short of pure, lacklustring disappointment. 

You found yourself searching for him the minute you stepped out of the car. Your eyes never seemed to focus on the reporter or the cameras completely, always scanning for someone else. 

And when you were ushered inside by your team, that’s when they finally rested on him. 

Michael was surrounded by his own team, some producers, and buzzing executives. They seemed to be in deep conversation about what you can only assume is some new, exciting project that’s coming up. Michael was laughing at someone’s comment, fallen deep into the exchange. 

For whatever reason, your heart ached with hurt. You weren’t sitting by one another tonight, again, so you knew if you wanted to talk with him, now would be the only time. Yet there he was, busy. Too busy. 

Michael’s team begins directing him to his seat, planning on carrying the conversation once settled in. That’s when he finally looks up and spots you. He smiles and just sends a wave in your direction. He keeps walking, furthering the distance between you two. 

Doesn’t come find you. 

Doesn’t interrupt. 

Doesn’t meet up later. 

Nothing

You politely smile back and direct your body away from him, towards the stage. It was weird. Why were you feeling this way?

 It was disappointment.  The realization settled in heavier than it should have and you caught yourself. On the way home, you just silently stare out the car window, sitting with whatever it is you’re feeling. 

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

Time seemed to fly by as you and Michael grew closer. It was odd for you at first, with much reluctance. You couldn't tell what made Michael so different from others, but he was.

Somewhere between the Grammys and another fashion week, you found yourself lingering after events because your conversations always seemed to run a little longer. Somewhere along the way, you began saving him the seat beside you without even realizing it.

It wasn't outright romantic, but it was comforting, and Michael would take all he could get. He understood your reputation and how too much change at once can be disastrous.

Then, one day, you and Sasha are having lunch together and sharing a conversation.

"Your latest Vogue edition is mwah, to die for," she says as she munches on more french fries.

You laugh softly. "Thank you."

After a moment, Sasha brushes the salt off her hands and places her chin onto her knuckles as her elbows rest on the table.

"Okay, let's cut the bullshit. You've changed."

You almost drop your fork against the glass plate. "What?"

"Are you serious?"

"As a heart attack," you joke.

"Is it because you finally have a crush?" she asks, poking you in the shoulder teasingly.

"I don't, Sash, and we're not having this conversation again." You focus back onto your plate, poking at the vegetables.

She rolls her eyes and scoffs."We had that conversation months ago, you never let me talk about it, and things are very different now."

You look up. "How so?"

"Hm, well, let’s see. World's biggest supermodel, Y/n, appears to have found a worthy love-interest. Does that ring a bell?" she asks sarcastically.

She was referencing the latest tabloid article that was front and center, titled above a photo of you and Michael sharing a laugh at some award show. It wasn't anything crazy or scandalous, but it was new to the media. It didn't just look like your polite smile. It looked real. Genuine.

"Michael is very kind to me."

Sasha is growing tired of your denial. "Honest, do you seriously think he does that for just anyone?"

"I don't know."

"Well, I do, and no, he does not. Not like this. He knows your favorite color, flower, your collection of photography books. He knows your birthday, sends books you've mentioned one time, looks for you at every event. Hell, the man has invited you to every premiere and project for, like, years. Come on now." She lists items out on her fingers.

You swallow harshly, your throat seemingly very dry and a sinking truth settling in. Sasha doesn't pry for much longer and you two finish up lunch.

Later that night, when you return home, it seems to hit you. Your enter your apartment and look around at it all — the orchids, books, letters of adoration, one of the many clothing items he has personally made for you hanging on the back of the door. You realize you've been surrounded by him and yet, you never noticed, even when it has been so clear for everyone else.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

The following week, you're back in your company's building, in an office looking over portfolios for the newest look. That's when your assistant pages for you through your phone. You exit out the room and stop at the edge of her desk.

"Michael's team left another voicemail, shall I decline again?"

Typically, you would agree. You didn't have the time. The idea wasn't fitting.

But something in you ticks and you tell her to replay the voicemail instead.

"Michael's team again. Look, we're filming next month, and Michael is very, very persistent that you join us. We'd love to have you."

The voicemail stops, and the phone blinks red, meaning another voicemail was currently being 

left.

This time, though, it's not the rough, gruffy sound of Michael's team lead. It's much softer, 

almost sheepish, and quiet. He was asking about another music video in the future.

"Same response?" your assistant asks. She begins to reach for the button.

"Wait!" you almost shout, your assistant freezes.

"...No. Just...just transfer me," you say, rushing back to your own office.

Your assistant, still frozen from shock, transfers the call.

Michael answers. "Hello?"

You pause, not believing what is happening. "Hello, Michael"

"...Y/n?"

"If the offer is still available, I'd love to be apart of your music video."

All you hear on the other line is radio silence.

"Michael?"

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

You arrived on set with great anticipation and nerves. You knew what was being asked of you, having gone over the rehearsal papers endlessly before your arrival. Yet you still felt off. This was Michael's world, his kingdom practically, and even though you were only needed for the day, you didn't want to mess that up. 

For the first time in your life, you felt nervous over a man.

His warm face comes out behind the curtains and greets you and your team. He pulls you in for a hug, and it oddly feels casual. Or maybe that was the way he made you feel.

No facade. No flashing cameras. Just you.

"Today's gonna be great," he reassures, thanking you earnestly for being here. On the outside, he looked as calm as can be. But internally, there was a different story.

After what felt like a century, you were finally here. In the flesh. He couldn't believe it. It was like an actual dream come-true for him, and he wanted to make today worth it for you.

The first couple of hours shooting was rough, to say the least. Michael was a perfectionist, so every angle, lightening, movement, sound, had to be perfect. Seeing him in this kind of setting was like seeing an entirely different person. It made a deeper appreciation for him and his passion bloom in you.

"Sorry, can we just try that again? I really want it to just flow," he says, raising his hands to stop the music.

No complaints surface as the dancers reset to their starting marks, lightening adjusts, and the track restarts where it left off. 

“Thank you, everybody,” Michael called, offering a soft, apologetic smile. “I know we've done this millions of times.” 

“One more won’t hurt,” a dancer responds, and a floating laughter spreads around the room. 

You even find yourself fighting the urge to smile. 

They all start on beat, and everything falls into motion. 

It would’ve been easy for someone of Michae’s stature to simply bark orders or let others do his work for him. You see it all the time, but you were starting to understand what made Michael so different. He thanked everyone before every take, always checked up on the dancers, and had nearly every crew member’s name memorized. Maybe that was why you seemed to be so caught up by him. 

His kindness wasn’t performative. It was who he was. 

Lunch took place shortly after, and you sat off to the side. You were idly picking at your fruit cup when Michael, carrying a tea and an orange juice, took the seat beside you. 

“Thought you might want this,” he says, sliding the steaming cup your way. 

It was exactly what you were searching for as the warm liquid coats your throat. “How do you know how I like my tea?” 

He earnestly smiles. “Fashion week column in one of your old Vogue editions. You don't drink coffee.” 

“You remembered that?” 

He looked genuinely confused. “Shouldn’t I?” 

And again, you found yourself unexplainable intrigued by him. You grew so used to people just simply complementing your looks or whatever was on the outside, never caring much for your words. But Michael made it seem like everyone should know what you had to say. 

After lunch, you went back to watching rehearsals. The environment was buzzing and fun, contrasting many of your more moody shoots. 

You stood off-set and just felt completely captivated by him. He must sense it, as he keeps smirking over in your direction. You coolly avert your eyes.

Soon, though, averting is no longer an option as you're needed back on set for your last scene. This one called for closeness, and at first, you felt prepared for it. The concept seemed easy — Michael would just follow behind you, almost like a chase, and then pull you close to his chest. Simple.

But it wasn't.

The most skinship you shared was a few hugs, one of which happened just earlier today. So when you step on your mark, your stomach twists in nerves. Anticipation rises, and you find yourself feeling more nervous than calm. The music plays, and your autopilot takes over, walking with that strong stride iconically yours. Suddenly, you feel Michael's hand grab your wrist, and it sends a shiver down your back. Before you can even ponder on the first for too long, you're tucked securely into his chest.

Contrasting your typical aura of mystery and danger, you feel small against him. It makes your heart flutter as his breath softly brushes the top of your head. His cologne swirls around you. His grip is strong and grounding. 

You were coming undone.

The direct yells, “Cut,” and everyone relaxes. Michael immediately lets go — nothing dramatic or awkward. 

“You okay?”

You feel breathless. “...Yes.” 

“Good. I’ll change anything you’re uncomfortable with. Just let me know,” he says, sensing the edge. 

You watch as the care in his eyes looks down at you, steadying you as you two are still close. You feel safe, relieved, and even more aware of what this means. 

Thankfully, the rest of the day blurs away, and finally, it's just you and him.

"That was really inspiring," you say.

"Thanks to you," he compliments.

You hear your team calling for you, and you hesitate.

"I hope to see you soon."

Michael smiles and nods his head. "You will."

And as you leave the set, your job here done, it's when something hits you — you feel comfortable around Michael. Maybe that's another reason why he was so different.

He's the only person who treats her like a normal woman instead of "the supermodel." He's one of the only people who makes you laugh. You feel safe around him because he never pushes past your boundaries. He gives you a space where you don't have to be "on."

You hoped he would see her sooner than just soon.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

And he wasn't lying.

Three months later, you would be attending the same musical award show as Michael.

The music video had done better than either of you could predict. The media was absolutely eating it up, and it was still all anyone seemed to be talking about. Even though you hadn't seem him since, you couldn't stop thinking about that shoot and what it caused you to finalize.

Which is why, tonight, you weren't just dressed in a typical silk or lacey piece. Tonight was different.

Stepping outside the car, the crowd roared and familiar whispers spread about your appearance. All eyes seemed to be on you as the cameras light up the space. But they weren't just looking at you  — their eyes also seemed to be glued to the bedazzled, blue jacket that clung nicely to your figure.

Michael's Jacket.

It was your favorite piece he had sent over, the blue complimenting you well, or so Michael assured in the letter he sent along with it.

"Excuse me, who are you wearing tonight? It's stunning," a reporter asks, pushing the mic into your face.

"A piece from a very special friend."

You waste no time entering the arena and take your seat. Unfortunately, you wouldn't be sat by Michael tonight, but knowing him, he would find you.

You sat front row and grew impatient as you waited for Michael. You knew he would win in his category, so when his name echoed throughout the arena, it came as no surprise.

What was surprising was just how speechless he became when trying to give his speech.

He stands before the large crown, and his eyes go instantly to find you in the mesh of faces. 

When they lay on you, his heart almost stops at the sight. You're beautifully glistening and his jacket hangs unignorable across your shoulders. One of his team members nudges him forward to speak and only then does he, not without stumbling over his words.

No one else would know the importance of the jacket. It was nothing. But to Michael, it was monumental. It was confirmation. It was everything.

As he exits the stage, he makes a face at you, mouthing 'look at you.’

You shrug innocently, laughing a real laugh.

The night seemed to end too quickly, and before you knew it, you were back outside waiting for your car to pull up.

"You are dangerous, woman." Michael's voice fills your ears.

"You always have an odd way of knowing exactly where I am," you tease, your walls lowering as comfortability falls into place.

"Just keeping tabs," he says, rocking on his heels. "You look incredible. I knew I was right about the blue."

You share a laugh and then silence blankets you two. Finally, your car comes down the strip. As you step closer to the door once it slows to a stop, you look back at Michael.

"Aren't you forgetting something?"

A puzzled look engulfs his face. "Am I?'

"Aren't you supposed to ask me to dinner?"

He just blinks. "No crazy schedule?"

"I am completely open tomorrow."

His face lights up. "So..."

"So I think we should go to dinner. Besides, I've kept you waiting long enough."

He laughs in disbelief. "I've only been waiting for years, no biggie."

She starts to enter the car. "I know." She looks over her shoulder with the tiniest smile.

Michael gleams back, knowingly.