𓃗
Not today Justin
#extradirty
oozey mess
ojovivo
The Bright Sessions
occasionally subtle
tannertan36
ellievsbear
Phantogram Three
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
Sade Olutola
The Bowery Presents
Fai_Ryy
izzy's playlists!
One Nice Bug Per Day
Cosmic Funnies
seen from Thailand
seen from Canada
seen from Venezuela
seen from United States
seen from Costa Rica
seen from Venezuela
seen from Russia
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Italy
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Nepal
seen from Türkiye
seen from Malaysia
seen from Indonesia
seen from Indonesia
seen from United States
@ficsstarringbarbie
۶ৎDrooling𝜗ৎ
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HIS AFRO IS CRIMINALLY UNDERRATED
he’s quite literally a ray of sunshine shut up
𑣲Doctors Orders🩺☤
˗ˏˋOne Shot
⋆˙✧˖°𓂃
⟢ Content: Sick!michael x gf!reader, established relationship, sickfic, TOOTH ROTTING FLUFF!!!, caretaking, mild kissing, bad tour, NO USE OF Y/N
⟢ Summary: Michael is stubborn, insisting he can follow through with the concert despite being sick. You take it upon yourself to nurse him back to health. Unfortunately, your patient is clingy, stubborn, and much more interested in being pampered than following actual doctor’s orders.
W/c: 1.7k
⤷ Requested by: @pmak2002 ‹𝟹
Masterlist
The sports arena is unbearably warm on this nippy November evening.
Backstage, bodies and equipment occupy every crevice— racks of clothing wheel through narrow halls, crew members duck beneath cables, and walkie talkies crackle over one another.
Beyond the walls, thousands of roars bleed together to form one uniform hum.
You’ve always enjoyed watching Michael just before he performs.
There’s something incredibly captivating about his transformation.
One moment, he’s gentle and clumsy, asking where he left something right in front of him and sneaking kisses when no one’s around. But when the lights dim, something switches; his alter ego— the formidable class act performer that leaves women and men spellbound.
Tonight, however, nothing has switched.
You find him in his dressing room in front of a mirror, half-dressed and unusually still. His curls rest perfectly along his hairline, buckles climb his pants, and his jacket hangs in a garment bag.
Yet he sits quietly— suspiciously quiet.
“There you are.”
The smile comes immediately.
“Hi, baby.”
A hoarse rasp came through.
You stare at him for a moment.
Apparently, somewhere between last night and now, your boyfriend had aged into somebody’s chain-smoking grandfather.
Your smile disappears.
You approach him slowly.
“Say that again.”
His eyebrows pinch.
“What?”
His voice sounds like it was dragged across concrete.
You stop between his knees.
“Michael.”
“I’m fine.”
“Don’t lie to me. I know when you’re not feeling well.”
“Just my throat.”
He strokes your hand in hopes you forget the subject.
You press the back of your other hand against his forehead.
He catches your wrist.
“I can still do it.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“I know what you’re thinking.”
“You sound like you’ve been a chain smoker for forty years.”
His mouth drops.
You bite your cheek.
“I’m serious.”
“That was rude.”
“And somehow still clearer than anything you’ve said all night.”
He tries not to laugh.
The attempt turns into a cough.
Your amusement disappears.
“See?”
“I just need water, is all.”
He reaches for the glass beside him.
You look toward the door.
“Where’s the doctor?”
Michael becomes suspiciously interested in his water, inspecting it like it might provide legal counsel.
“Michael.”
“He was here.”
“And?”
“He said my vocal cords are swollen.”
Your eyebrows raise.
“But—,”
“No.”
“You didn’t even let me finish.”
“Because whatever you were going to say was gonna be stupid.”
He narrows his eyes, “I can sing.”
“You can’t even argue with me.”
“I can always argue with you.”
It comes out so pitifully scratchy that you have to look away to keep from laughing.
“This is funny to you?”
“Nope.”
You bite down your smile but your eyes give you away.
“You’re laughing.”
“I’m— ha— no! I’m admiring your optimism, baby.”
He folds his arms.
You brush a curl from his forehead.
“Baby, you know you—“
“They’re already out there, though.”
Any bit of humor in the air disappears.
You can hear the thundering fans through the walls.
Thousands of people who drove here, waited outside, and bought tickets months ago.
“They’re waiting.”
“I know.”
“Some of them came from other states.”
“I know.”
“I did last night. I can do tonight.”
His voice cracks on the last word.
You give him a look.
Michael gives you one back.
A knock interrupts.
The physician enters with someone from the tour.
Michael straightens his posture before either of them speak.
His hand reaches for yours.
The show is postponed.
The arena doesn’t quiet immediately.
The crowd remains a distant roar behind the walls while backstage does— radios lowering, hurried footsteps slowing, the night dismantling itself around a show that never began.
✦❘༻₊⊹✿⋆˖᯽ ݁˚˖𓍢ִ໋ꕥ ˖° 𖥔 ݁˖ ❀ ⊹ ₊༺❘✦
Los Angeles passes beyond the tinted windows in smears of headlights and neon streaks while the arena gradually disappears behind you. Michael sits tucked into the corner of the leather seat, defeated, with his forehead resting against the cold glass.
“Sorry,” he rasps.
You turn.
“For what?”
“You came to watch me.”
“Me? There were thousands of people in that arena, Michael.”
“I know,” he sinks farther into his coat.
“But I wanted you to see it.”
“I’ve seen your shows.”
Your eyes soften at his disappointment.
“Besides, I’ve seen you rehearse it. I’ve seen you perform it. I’ve seen you do half of it in the bathroom with considerably less clothes—”
His head snaps toward you.
You smile innocently.
He tries not to laugh, producing some horrible wheezing noise instead.
“Don’t do that,” you scold, already laughing yourself.
“Your fault.”
“Shh— vocal rest.”
He rolls his eyes, but his hand crosses the seat and finds yours anyway.
You thread your fingers through his and let him continue to sulk.
✦❘༻₊⊹✿⋆˖᯽ ݁˚˖𓍢ִ໋ꕥ ˖° 𖥔 ݁˖ ❀ ⊹ ₊༺❘✦
The hotel room is just as bright as a November evening will allow, and considerably warmer than the arena.
Michael barely steps foot through the door before you dismantle what’s left of the show— his jacket lands on a chair, his buckles follow, then jewelry.
His curls fall onto his forehead after you combed your fingers through them.
He sits on the edge of the bed with thumbs drawing circles on your hips while you wipe his makeup.
With every pass of the cloth, another trace of the stage disappears— liner, powder, whatever remained of the man a venue packed with people had been waiting to see.
“Look up.”
He does.
You wipe under his eye.
“Close.”
His eyes close.
Another wipe.
“Open.”
They open.
You pause.
“So you can follow directions.”
Michael gives you the finger with a proud smile.
You gasp dramatically.
“Asshole.”
You shake your head.
“At least we know your fingers aren't affected.”
He raises his eyebrows with a proud smirk.
“Being sick has made you very disrespectful, sir.”
He shrugs.
Your face softens.
You catch his face between your palms, feeling the heat still sitting beneath his skin.
“My poor baby.”
You laugh and lean down to kiss him.
Michael turns his head.
Your lips land on his cheek.
You freeze.
“The hell? Did you just dodge me?”
“No.”
“You clearly did.”
“Don’t wanna get you sick.”
You try again.
It lands on his other cheek.
“Oh? Is that how it is?”
He covers his mouth.
“Fine.”
You kiss his forehead.
His nose.
One cheek, then the other.
Michael squirms away with shoulders shaking with a laugh he’s trying desperately not to let out.
“You said no mouth.”
“Baby—”
“Shh. Doctor said vocal rest.”
His raised eyebrows noted the audacity of your refusal to comply with his wishes.
The grin on his face wanted you to continue.
✦❘༻₊⊹✿⋆˖᯽ ݁˚˖𓍢ִ໋ꕥ ˖° 𖥔 ݁˖ ❀ ⊹ ₊༺❘✦
Ten minutes later, the nightstand resembles a small pharmacy— stacked bottles of medicine, tissues, water, a thermometer, and the tea you’re stirring honey into while Michael watches from under hotel blankets.
“Angel.”
You pay him no mind and continue stirring.
“Baby.”
“I heard you.”
“Come back now, please.”
His pillow flattens his curls, and his eyelids are swollen, heavy with exhaustion.
“Can’t, baby. Making you something.”
“Don’t want it.”
“It’s just tea.”
“Want you.”
You pause.
“You can’t sweettalk your way out of being sick.”
“It’s not working?”
“Not at all.”
Your hands cradle the mug while you bring it over.
The second you sit down, both arms wrap around your waist, trapping your arms against your side.
“I need my arms, please.”
He groans and tightens his grip.
“How am I supposed to take care of you?”
His face buries against your side.
“Doing good.”
You laugh and manage to free one arm.
“Sit up. Drink.”
He reluctantly obeys, taking a sip before immediately scrunching his nose.
“Oh please— It’s just tea and honey, drama queen.”
Michael points at you accusingly.
“Yes, sure, whatever. Drink.”
His finger remains.
“I'm not arguing with a damn finger.”
By the time he finishes enough to satisfy you, his eyes are practically shutting themselves between sips.
You wipe the corner of his mouth with your thumb and press your palm to his forehead.
His eyes close completely against your touch.
“You really feel awful, huh?”
A small shrug.
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“Didn’t want you worrying.”
You brush a curl from his forehead.
“You know you’re allowed to need me too, right?”
His eyes crack open.
“Always do.”
You tilt your head to admire how adorable he looks in his needy position.
“Fever’s made you quite the charmer.”
A tired smile.
“Still got it.”
“Debatable.”
You reach for his medicine.
His smile vanishes.
“No.”
“Yeah.”
“Baby.”
“Shh. Open.”
He stares at you.
You stare back.
His mouth reluctantly opens.
“There we go,” you whisper into a smile.
You reward his suffering with a kiss to his forehead before pulling the blankets higher around him.
Michael watches you rearrange his pillows and tuck the covers around his shoulders.
“Done yet?”
His eyes are slits that sink deep into a drunk smile.
“Almost, why?”
“Good.”
His arms catch you before you can move again, pulling you beneath the blankets with him.
“You’re doing too much.”
“I’m taking care of you.”
“Mhm.”
He settles his head against you.
“Do it from here.”
You pretend to resist with a tickled laughter, but your fingers are already running through his hair.
Within minutes, the smart-ass comments end and his breathing slows against your chest.
Outside, Los Angeles still glows through the hotel curtains, completely unmoved by the concert that never happened.
Inside, Michael only burrows deeper against you, warm and heavy with sleep as his fingers loosely strum against your stomach.
Just before he drifts off, his hand lazily finds yours beneath the blanket.
“Pretty girl?”
The corners of your mouth dent into your warm flushed cheeks.
“Mm?”
“Thank you.”
You kiss his warm forehead.
“For what?”
His eyes stay closed.
“Taking care of me.”
Your eyes shut deeper into your smile.
“You hardly even let me.”
A lazy grin pulls at his mouth.
“Still liked it, though.”
Of course he did.
Thousands of fans had hoped to see Michael Jackson, the musical genius and world-class performer.
You got the sleepy, clingy version curled against your chest instead. You wouldn’t have traded him for anything— not even the show.
Hell yeah my show is on
HIS HAND??OH MY
something abt michael jackson under purple/pink lights during bad tour makes me so horny
(that last pic makes me drool i want to eat that cookie so bad)
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
I hate it when gross old men use tumblr, like please just go on facebook no one wants to see your racist rants
how it felt switching from wattpad to tumblr
WATCH YOU GET PRETTY
𝐌𝐈𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐄𝐋 𝐖𝐀𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐒 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐘 𝐁𝐁𝐘 𝐆𝐄𝐓 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐘 !
𑣲Doctors Orders🩺☤
˗ˏˋOne Shot
⋆˙✧˖°𓂃
⟢ Content: Sick!michael x gf!reader, established relationship, sickfic, TOOTH ROTTING FLUFF!!!, caretaking, mild kissing, bad tour, NO USE OF Y/N
⟢ Summary: Michael is stubborn, insisting he can follow through with the concert despite being sick. You take it upon yourself to nurse him back to health. Unfortunately, your patient is clingy, stubborn, and much more interested in being pampered than following actual doctor’s orders.
W/c: 1.7k
⤷ Requested by: @pmak2002 ‹𝟹
Masterlist
The sports arena is unbearably warm on this nippy November evening.
Backstage, bodies and equipment occupy every crevice— racks of clothing wheel through narrow halls, crew members duck beneath cables, and walkie talkies crackle over one another.
Beyond the walls, thousands of roars bleed together to form one uniform hum.
You’ve always enjoyed watching Michael just before he performs.
There’s something incredibly captivating about his transformation.
One moment, he’s gentle and clumsy, asking where he left something right in front of him and sneaking kisses when no one’s around. But when the lights dim, something switches; his alter ego— the formidable class act performer that leaves women and men spellbound.
Tonight, however, nothing has switched.
You find him in his dressing room in front of a mirror, half-dressed and unusually still. His curls rest perfectly along his hairline, buckles climb his pants, and his jacket hangs in a garment bag.
Yet he sits quietly— suspiciously quiet.
“There you are.”
The smile comes immediately.
“Hi, baby.”
A hoarse rasp came through.
You stare at him for a moment.
Apparently, somewhere between last night and now, your boyfriend had aged into somebody’s chain-smoking grandfather.
Your smile disappears.
You approach him slowly.
“Say that again.”
His eyebrows pinch.
“What?”
His voice sounds like it was dragged across concrete.
You stop between his knees.
“Michael.”
“I’m fine.”
“Don’t lie to me. I know when you’re not feeling well.”
“Just my throat.”
He strokes your hand in hopes you forget the subject.
You press the back of your other hand against his forehead.
He catches your wrist.
“I can still do it.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“I know what you’re thinking.”
“You sound like you’ve been a chain smoker for forty years.”
His mouth drops.
You bite your cheek.
“I’m serious.”
“That was rude.”
“And somehow still clearer than anything you’ve said all night.”
He tries not to laugh.
The attempt turns into a cough.
Your amusement disappears.
“See?”
“I just need water, is all.”
He reaches for the glass beside him.
You look toward the door.
“Where’s the doctor?”
Michael becomes suspiciously interested in his water, inspecting it like it might provide legal counsel.
“Michael.”
“He was here.”
“And?”
“He said my vocal cords are swollen.”
Your eyebrows raise.
“But—,”
“No.”
“You didn’t even let me finish.”
“Because whatever you were going to say was gonna be stupid.”
He narrows his eyes, “I can sing.”
“You can’t even argue with me.”
“I can always argue with you.”
It comes out so pitifully scratchy that you have to look away to keep from laughing.
“This is funny to you?”
“Nope.”
You bite down your smile but your eyes give you away.
“You’re laughing.”
“I’m— ha— no! I’m admiring your optimism, baby.”
He folds his arms.
You brush a curl from his forehead.
“Baby, you know you—“
“They’re already out there, though.”
Any bit of humor in the air disappears.
You can hear the thundering fans through the walls.
Thousands of people who drove here, waited outside, and bought tickets months ago.
“They’re waiting.”
“I know.”
“Some of them came from other states.”
“I know.”
“I did last night. I can do tonight.”
His voice cracks on the last word.
You give him a look.
Michael gives you one back.
A knock interrupts.
The physician enters with someone from the tour.
Michael straightens his posture before either of them speak.
His hand reaches for yours.
The show is postponed.
The arena doesn’t quiet immediately.
The crowd remains a distant roar behind the walls while backstage does— radios lowering, hurried footsteps slowing, the night dismantling itself around a show that never began.
✦❘༻₊⊹✿⋆˖᯽ ݁˚˖𓍢ִ໋ꕥ ˖° 𖥔 ݁˖ ❀ ⊹ ₊༺❘✦
Los Angeles passes beyond the tinted windows in smears of headlights and neon streaks while the arena gradually disappears behind you. Michael sits tucked into the corner of the leather seat, defeated, with his forehead resting against the cold glass.
“Sorry,” he rasps.
You turn.
“For what?”
“You came to watch me.”
“Me? There were thousands of people in that arena, Michael.”
“I know,” he sinks farther into his coat.
“But I wanted you to see it.”
“I’ve seen your shows.”
Your eyes soften at his disappointment.
“Besides, I’ve seen you rehearse it. I’ve seen you perform it. I’ve seen you do half of it in the bathroom with considerably less clothes—”
His head snaps toward you.
You smile innocently.
He tries not to laugh, producing some horrible wheezing noise instead.
“Don’t do that,” you scold, already laughing yourself.
“Your fault.”
“Shh— vocal rest.”
He rolls his eyes, but his hand crosses the seat and finds yours anyway.
You thread your fingers through his and let him continue to sulk.
✦❘༻₊⊹✿⋆˖᯽ ݁˚˖𓍢ִ໋ꕥ ˖° 𖥔 ݁˖ ❀ ⊹ ₊༺❘✦
The hotel room is just as bright as a November evening will allow, and considerably warmer than the arena.
Michael barely steps foot through the door before you dismantle what’s left of the show— his jacket lands on a chair, his buckles follow, then jewelry.
His curls fall onto his forehead after you combed your fingers through them.
He sits on the edge of the bed with thumbs drawing circles on your hips while you wipe his makeup.
With every pass of the cloth, another trace of the stage disappears— liner, powder, whatever remained of the man a venue packed with people had been waiting to see.
“Look up.”
He does.
You wipe under his eye.
“Close.”
His eyes close.
Another wipe.
“Open.”
They open.
You pause.
“So you can follow directions.”
Michael gives you the finger with a proud smile.
You gasp dramatically.
“Asshole.”
You shake your head.
“At least we know your fingers aren't affected.”
He raises his eyebrows with a proud smirk.
“Being sick has made you very disrespectful, sir.”
He shrugs.
Your face softens.
You catch his face between your palms, feeling the heat still sitting beneath his skin.
“My poor baby.”
You laugh and lean down to kiss him.
Michael turns his head.
Your lips land on his cheek.
You freeze.
“The hell? Did you just dodge me?”
“No.”
“You clearly did.”
“Don’t wanna get you sick.”
You try again.
It lands on his other cheek.
“Oh? Is that how it is?”
He covers his mouth.
“Fine.”
You kiss his forehead.
His nose.
One cheek, then the other.
Michael squirms away with shoulders shaking with a laugh he’s trying desperately not to let out.
“You said no mouth.”
“Baby—”
“Shh. Doctor said vocal rest.”
His raised eyebrows noted the audacity of your refusal to comply with his wishes.
The grin on his face wanted you to continue.
✦❘༻₊⊹✿⋆˖᯽ ݁˚˖𓍢ִ໋ꕥ ˖° 𖥔 ݁˖ ❀ ⊹ ₊༺❘✦
Ten minutes later, the nightstand resembles a small pharmacy— stacked bottles of medicine, tissues, water, a thermometer, and the tea you’re stirring honey into while Michael watches from under hotel blankets.
“Angel.”
You pay him no mind and continue stirring.
“Baby.”
“I heard you.”
“Come back now, please.”
His pillow flattens his curls, and his eyelids are swollen, heavy with exhaustion.
“Can’t, baby. Making you something.”
“Don’t want it.”
“It’s just tea.”
“Want you.”
You pause.
“You can’t sweettalk your way out of being sick.”
“It’s not working?”
“Not at all.”
Your hands cradle the mug while you bring it over.
The second you sit down, both arms wrap around your waist, trapping your arms against your side.
“I need my arms, please.”
He groans and tightens his grip.
“How am I supposed to take care of you?”
His face buries against your side.
“Doing good.”
You laugh and manage to free one arm.
“Sit up. Drink.”
He reluctantly obeys, taking a sip before immediately scrunching his nose.
“Oh please— It’s just tea and honey, drama queen.”
Michael points at you accusingly.
“Yes, sure, whatever. Drink.”
His finger remains.
“I'm not arguing with a damn finger.”
By the time he finishes enough to satisfy you, his eyes are practically shutting themselves between sips.
You wipe the corner of his mouth with your thumb and press your palm to his forehead.
His eyes close completely against your touch.
“You really feel awful, huh?”
A small shrug.
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“Didn’t want you worrying.”
You brush a curl from his forehead.
“You know you’re allowed to need me too, right?”
His eyes crack open.
“Always do.”
You tilt your head to admire how adorable he looks in his needy position.
“Fever’s made you quite the charmer.”
A tired smile.
“Still got it.”
“Debatable.”
You reach for his medicine.
His smile vanishes.
“No.”
“Yeah.”
“Baby.”
“Shh. Open.”
He stares at you.
You stare back.
His mouth reluctantly opens.
“There we go,” you whisper into a smile.
You reward his suffering with a kiss to his forehead before pulling the blankets higher around him.
Michael watches you rearrange his pillows and tuck the covers around his shoulders.
“Done yet?”
His eyes are slits that sink deep into a drunk smile.
“Almost, why?”
“Good.”
His arms catch you before you can move again, pulling you beneath the blankets with him.
“You’re doing too much.”
“I’m taking care of you.”
“Mhm.”
He settles his head against you.
“Do it from here.”
You pretend to resist with a tickled laughter, but your fingers are already running through his hair.
Within minutes, the smart-ass comments end and his breathing slows against your chest.
Outside, Los Angeles still glows through the hotel curtains, completely unmoved by the concert that never happened.
Inside, Michael only burrows deeper against you, warm and heavy with sleep as his fingers loosely strum against your stomach.
Just before he drifts off, his hand lazily finds yours beneath the blanket.
“Pretty girl?”
The corners of your mouth dent into your warm flushed cheeks.
“Mm?”
“Thank you.”
You kiss his warm forehead.
“For what?”
His eyes stay closed.
“Taking care of me.”
Your eyes shut deeper into your smile.
“You hardly even let me.”
A lazy grin pulls at his mouth.
“Still liked it, though.”
Of course he did.
Thousands of fans had hoped to see Michael Jackson, the musical genius and world-class performer.
You got the sleepy, clingy version curled against your chest instead. You wouldn’t have traded him for anything— not even the show.
Hell yeah my show is on
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Heal the world
ᡕᠵデᡁ᠊╾━ 😡😤
: ̗̀➛ Daily Dose of My Fav Silly Goose🪿🤭ੈ✩‧₊˚
CUTIE PATOOTIE!!!!!!!! 😩😩😩🤤🤤🤤🤤
the sweat, the messy hair, the smudged eyeliner???? this man was just too beautiful
the eyes oh fuck
…Kinda Professional ۶ৎ
✎𓂃 One shot
‹𝟹 ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆—
➤ Content: Attorney!reader, Thriller era, established relationship, courtroom flirting, historical fiction— copyright trial, Michael being a cutesy menace, stern!reader, very lowkey soft!reader, secret touches, kissing/makeout, COURTROOM FLUFF, DOMESTIC FLUFF, EVERYWHERE FLUFF!!, no smut (pg-13), NO USE OF Y/N
➤ Summary: You’re an attorney for the Sanford v. CBS case (copyright over “The Girl is Mine”). You just so happen to be Michael’s girlfriend, making courtroom professionalism impossible.
W/c: 2.8k
☕︎ A/n: Thx to this king vv for the request! I think it came out pretty cute. The actual case itself is adorable if you want to Google it. Just a warning: I didn’t proofread thoroughly!! Anyway, as always, thx for reading, love you, and enjoy!
→ Requested by: @astralfragment88
Masterlist
Taglist: @memyselfandmikey @amazegumballz @mino99jksn @nimblejuggernauthorizon @iheartpizzamyheart @sssshahadddd @slavetotherhythmofluv @crystallineforestslayer
December in Chicago has a particular talent for making everything look miserable.
The sky is the same color of the dirty snow that litters the ground. The wind has spent the better half of the morning torturing anyone who passes by the courthouse doors.
Outside, a crowd has already gathered for a man who has yet to arrive.
You keep yourself occupied with the folder resting beneath your tense arm, bracing it like a paperweight that’s doing its job a bit too well.
A fidgeting associate towers in front of you, making the unfortunate decision to tell you something you don’t particularly want to hear.
“The tapes are coming.”
“They were ‘coming’ twenty minutes ago.”
“I know, but—“
“So where are they?”
He gulps before his lips fail even to stutter.
You sip your coffee with your stern eyes piercing through his.
“I’ll check.”
“Thank you.”
He disappears before you can count to three.
You aren’t rude— at least, you don’t think you are. You say please, thank you, you remember names, and you don’t raise your voice.
You simply have little patience for what you believe could’ve been done better the first time, or, for that matter, had you done it.
This case has consumed more of you than you'd like to admit lately.
Fred Sanford claims that CBS copied his song, “Please Love Me Now”, to create “The Girl Is Mine”. His argument rests partly on a demo he says was given to a CBS promoter in 1982 and could have made its way into Michael’s hands.
Your defense is much simpler— Michael wrote the damn song. However, the simplicity is a complexity of its own. How do you prove the song was conceived entirely in his own head?
You’ve spent weeks looking at dates, recordings, testimony, musical comparisons, and more than enough paper to deforest Illinois entirely.
Today, Michael testifies.
“Morning, counselor.”
A wind with a familiar cologne passes you up.
Michael stands several feet behind you in a dark suit, hands tucked innocently behind his back. It’s as if his tailor tried to send a message through his broadened shoulders and trousers, sleek to give the illusion of height.
Unfortunately, you’re reading that message way too closely, earning yourself a smugness only he has the audacity to give.
“Don’t call me that.”
His eyebrows lift.
“Thought that’s what you were.”
“You know my name.”
“I do.”
“Use it.”
The corner of his mouth twitches up.
“Yes, ma’am.”
You stare at him.
The smile wins.
It’s faint but terribly pleased with itself.
You hate to admit it, but you love it.
“Hungry, angel?”
“That name’s a bit unprofessional.”
You return to your folder.
“Did you eat?”
He slides a sharp elbow beside you, testing the boundaries of your personal space.
Your silence answers for you.
He sighs, pushing away your coffee cup.
“And coffee doesn’t count.”
You reach for it back.
“That’s mine.”
“I know.”
You give a menacing gaze that would frighten anyone but him.
“Why are you taking it?”
“Because that’s your second one?”
Your eyes narrow.
He takes it anyway.
Nobody on God’s green earth would dare confiscate something directly from your hand as he does.
Michael does it with the confidence of a man who knows you won’t kill him, then worse, he replaces it with a little paper bag.
You look inside— a pastry.
Your expression softens before you can stop it.
Michael notices. Of course he notices.
“There she is.”
Your lips pucker to avoid a smile. That would just make him cockier.
“Stop it.”
“Stop what?”
He inches closer. You didn't even think there was enough room for a ‘closer’.
You look over your shoulder for any observers.
The courtroom is still as empty as it was the last time you checked (a minute ago).
You allow him the sight of your contained smile.
“Thanks, baby,” you mumble just loud enough for his ears to catch.
His grin widens.
”You're welcome, pretty lady.”
You roll your eyes and pray no one heard.
.𖥔 ˖⋆𝜗𝜚˚❆.⋆ ❤︎𖥔 ݁ ˖⋆𝜗𝜚˚❆ ·˚
People trickle into the courtroom unhurriedly enough to irritate you.
Lawyers shuffle papers. Chairs scrape against the floor. Voices disappear into whispers as people sit.
Michael makes himself comfortable in the chair beside you while everyone waits— too comfortable.
His knee has been touching you for ten minutes. His hand appeared on your thigh not long after that.
You scrape his hand away and return your notes.
His hand follows.
A few seconds pass.
You cross your legs away.
It returns.
You slowly turn your head.
Michael suddenly becomes particularly interested in the front of the courtroom.
You tsk, then tear a corner from your legal pad to write, “STOP!”
You slide it towards him.
His chest bounces in a poorly concealed laugh.
He writes beneath it, “I'm just sitting.”
“Sit somewhere else.”
His large brown eyes indicate devastation.
“You want me to move?”
The tension in your eyebrow relaxes in guilt.
Big mistake.
He returns the paper almost immediately, “Didn’t think so.”
“Please be professional.”
He reads it, looks at you, and very dramatically straightens his tie.
You tuck your charmed lips between your teeth.
“Better?”
“Not really.”
“You’re so pretty when you're bossy.”
A heat crawls up your collar and flushes your cheeks.
In front of the entire courtroom? While you're at work? The nerve.
You turn to him.
The coward is pretending to be occupied with the paperwork in front of him. He hasn’t even touched it until now.
You lean just behind his ear.
“Behave.”
“I’m behaved.”
“No, the hell you aren’t. You’re flirting with your attorney in a federal court.”
His face stays in its position, but his eyes follow your lips from the corner.
“My attorney's cute.”
Your jaw tightens as you feel a harsher blush underway.
“Michael.”
“Yes?”
That particular soft Indiana lilt that he has becomes annoyingly unbearable when he wants something.
He reaches under the table.
His fingers find yours.
You immediately look around, keeping your flushed head down.
Nobody is watching. Thank god nobody is watching.
Your lips part to barely exhale a scold.
“Michael.”
His thumb circles your white knuckles.
“Relax.”
“I’m very relaxed.”
“That’s not what your shoulders are telling me.”
You lower them.
His lips part, then twitch.
You stop him before they spew out any more charming nonsense.
“Don’t.”
“Didn’t say nothing.”
“You were going to”
Just seconds later, he reaches under the table and kisses the back of your hand, then quickly adjusts his shoes to play it off.
Your eyes widen.
“Are you insane?”
You pull your hand back before he gets any more bright ideas.
His wicked lopsided smirk emits a proud response, “Kinda.”
Nobody else in this world could reduce you to a flustered blush in the courtroom like that— but Michael manages at nine in the morning.
And it strokes his ego everytime.
.𖥔 ˖⋆𝜗𝜚˚❆.⋆ ❤︎𖥔 ݁ ˖⋆𝜗𝜚˚❆ ·˚
By the afternoon, nothing is funny anymore. You’re scrambling to prepare, with the hotel dining table littered with what remained of legal pads and documents scattered like some sort of Easter egg hunt.
You’ve been staring blankly at the same page for atleast an hour.
Sanford claims his recording reached someone at CBS.
You have everything you need to establish independent creation— Michael’s chronology, recordings, testimony.
But still, something isn’t clicking.
How do you prove something that happened inside another person’s head?
Michael watches from the bed.
Your jacket is still buttoned.
“C’mere.”
“I can’t.”
“Angel.”
“I’m working.”
“Pretty girl.”
You’re sold.
Ugh, that bastard.
You sigh into a turn.
He’s lying on his stomach diagonally across the bed, chin supported by his arms.
“Just five minutes.”
“I don’t have five minutes.”
“Yes you do.”
He props his head with his palm, squishing his cheeks in an irritatingly irresistible manner.
“Please.”
You sigh and stand, instinctively bringing your legal pads.
He says, in a tone as if talking to a pet, “Drop it.”
You throw it across the table.
“Attagirl,” he says, shaking the bed with his proud chuckle.
You roll your eyes, reaching for the mattress.
Before you can properly lower yourself, he hooks around your waist and pulls you beside him.
He peppers your cheek with kisses before you can properly complain.
You gasp with a widened smile, failing miserably to seem like you’re opposed.
“Baby, my hair—“
Another kiss.
“My jacket—“
Another
“Mmhm.”
He lifts himself above your face, satisfied with himself.
You tilt your cheek onto the bed and push his face with just enough strength to tease.
“You’re annoying.”
“Then why’re you so giggly?”
“I’m suffering. Defense mechanism.”
“You look so pretty when you’re suffering, then.”
You cover his mouth with both hands.
He kisses the palm of each.
You surrender and wrap your arms around his neck, sinking beside him.
His arms rest comfortably at your waist.
You sink your head into his chest.
You sigh against the hollow of his neck, “I just don’t know how to explain it.”
“Explain what?”
“How you write your songs.”
He shrugs.
“Just tell them I hear it—,”
You cut him off,”— That’s too abstract to describe, is the problem.”
His lips press into a fine line.
His fingers begin tapping absentmindedly against your hip.
Three beats.
A pause.
Another.
Your eyes narrow, “Hold on.”
“Hm?” His chest vibrates against your ear.
“Do that again.”
He repeats it.
“Wait!” You shoot upright so quickly you nearly elbow his chin.
You hear it, then record it.
“Mhm?”
Your eyes shoot towards the table with a hand in your hair.
“That's it.”
“What’d I do?”
Your hands scramble for your legal pad. You frantically lick the pad of your thumb, flipping a sheet, then scribbling chicken scratch.
“You’re not explaining how you made the song tomorrow.”
You lean against the kitchenette counter with a supporting hand behind the pad.
“I’m not?”
“You’re showing them.”
Your pen flies across the page, leaving a streak of blue at the “g” you concluded with.
“The recordings. The rhythms. All of it. They don’t need a music lesson, they need to watch you create in real-time.”
You look up at him to find that proud grin again.
“I helped.”
“Accidentally. Don’t get too cocky.”
He creeps behind you as you write the exact game plan. Brushing the hair off your shoulder, he leans into you.
“You’re welcome, counselor.”
“Don’t start,” you try to keep a firm voice with a contradicting smile.
His chin settles over your shoulder and arms wrap around your abdomen.
You peck his clingy cheekbone once and continue writing.
.𖥔 ˖⋆𝜗𝜚˚❆.⋆ ❤︎𖥔 ݁ ˖⋆𝜗𝜚˚❆ ·˚
The following morning proves your theory right— Michael demonstrates his process better than expected.
Recordings play through the courtroom.
He sings, claps rhythms, and drums them against the weathered witness stand.
You spend more time watching the jury than him. They don’t just seem entertained, they understand it.
Yesterday, they dozed through a lecture explaining Michael Jackson to them. Today, they witness the birth of a rhythm.
You lower your pen.
Michael catches your eye from the stand.
You offer a slight nod and a subtle, encouraging smile.
His mouth twitches.
Your eyes narrow.
“Don’t,” you mouth.
He bites back his growing smile and swiftly looks away.
You hold a palm to your mouth to hide your teeth.
.𖥔 ˖⋆𝜗𝜚˚❆.⋆ ❤︎𖥔 ݁ ˖⋆𝜗𝜚˚❆ ·˚
The recess allows you fifteen minutes. You plan to use it wisely and productively.
You’re halfway down a quiet corridor when fingers catch your arm.
He pulls you around a corner, causing your folder to collide with his chest.
“Michael—?!”
He tilts his chiseled chin above you, revealing only his mischievous eyes and smile.
“What the hell are you doing?!” You whisper-shout.
“You just looked beautiful in there.”
His hands wander onto your tensed arms and into your shoulders.
You blink. The wrinkle between your eyebrows fades.
“So you kidnap your attorney?”
“Mhmm.”
His eyes are so drunk with desire. His smile is so arrogant, so pleased with itself that you can't help but fold.
“I should be very annoyed right now.”
“Mmhm.”
His hands inch down your waist.
“You know, we’re in a courthouse.”
“I know.”
He pulls you closer.
“During your trial.”
“I know.”
Closer.
“There are people not even ten feet away.”
His nose brushes yours. Your folder suffocates between your abdomen and his.
“You started it— smiling at me like that.”
You lick your lips while eying his down.
“I was encouraging my witness.”
“Oh. Is that what it was?”
Your eyes turn to slits.
He kisses you— soft enough to almost maintain your dignity.
The second kiss, however, ruins it.
Your fingers curl into the lapels of his suit and draw him in— the trapped folder slips to the floor.
Michael laughs against your mouth.
“So professional.”
“Shut up.”
You kiss him again, sloppier, with much more drive than his.
Your back is abruptly forced against the wall.
Three minutes ago, you were Attorney-at-Law.
Now you’re chasing his mouth every time he pulls away.
“Counsel?”
The man probably meant to say, ‘get a room’, but decided to keep it professional.
Your hearts drop. You separate so quickly Michael nearly hits his head.
He wipes his mouth.
You smoothen your jacket.
You collect your folder and whatever spread out of it.
“They’re ready.”
You straighten your posture and clear your throat.
“Great, thank you.”
He dismisses himself with mildly scarred eyes.
Michael snorts.
“Not a word.”
His mouth only ever wants to disobey your wishes.
His lips part.
You give him a quick peck to silence whatever he would’ve said.
You straighten his crooked tie.
“Let’s go.”
He catches your hand.
You let him keep it just until the courtroom doors.
.𖥔 ˖⋆𝜗𝜚˚❆.⋆ ❤︎𖥔 ݁ ˖⋆𝜗𝜚˚❆ ·˚
You stand beside your defense team as your heart drums out of your chest.
Your eyes scan them for any sign.
Nothing.
Then, the jury returns.
You fold your arms tightly, leaning forward just enough that you can hear every word.
Sanford’s claim is rejected.
Your shoulders drop. The breath you’ve held for three days now releases.
People begin moving around you immediately— hands shaking, voices rising, somebody already discussing reporters.
Michael's eyes find you first. Well, to be frank, they never left you.
The smile he gives is small, private.
You allow yourself to return it.
.𖥔 ˖⋆𝜗𝜚˚❆.⋆ ❤︎𖥔 ݁ ˖⋆𝜗𝜚˚❆ ·˚
By the time the evening dim settles outside, the hotel room looks like the aftermath of a legal explosion— folders litter every surface, your heels are toppled over miles apart, and your jacket hangs by a thread off the chair.
You, meanwhile, are stretched across the bed in Michael’s shirt.
As he unclasps his watch, he tilts his head sideways to look at you.
“You took over my side.”
“My side now,” you bury yourself into however much of the blanket you can hold between your arms.
He crawls onto whatever remains of the bed.
You immediately roll toward him.
Your leg tangles through his. Your cheek finds his chest. One arm drapes lazily under his arms.
His fingers disappear into your hair as his face melts from the sight of your sluggish self.
Your cheek vibrates at the chuckles he didn’t even try to conceal.
“What’s so funny?” You murmur into him.
“Nothin’— just wondering where that scary woman from court went.”
You lift your head an inch with a frown weighing down your bottom lip.
“Scary?”
“Terrifying, actually.”
“For doing my job?”
“‘Mr. Jackson, please answer the question.’”
You shove him.
“I do not sound like that.”
“‘Mr. Jackson, this is a federal courtroom.’”
“Shut up.”
His laughter follows you as you crawl farther over him, practically lying on top of him now.
You cover his mocking lips with your hands.
He holds them by the wrists and sets them behind him before his arms close around you.
For a while, neither of you care to move into a more proper position.
Your fingers fiddle lazily with his shirt buttons. His trace meaningless shapes along your back.
Then your freezing feet slide beneath his legs.
He hisses with a jolt.
“God!”
You laugh while forcing them in despite his resistance.
“They’re freezing!”
“I know.”
“So you put them on me?!”
“Mmhmm.”
“You menace.”
“I’m your menace though,” your smile disappears into his chest.
He kisses the top of your head.
“You did amazing today,” he mumbles.
“Hmm,” another smile,” so did you.”
“I know.”
Your head lifts to roll your eyes.
“This is why I don’t compliment you.”
You sink back into him.
Tomorrow, the heels go back on, your hair returns to its slick appearance, and your shoulders straighten like they always do.
Tonight, your papers stay scattered while you lie tangled beneath the blankets, pressing sleepy kisses wherever they happen to land. Nobody in that courtroom would recognize you like this.
Michael does, and from the stupid smile on his face, you can tell just how much he loves being the only one who gets to.
⌞The Distance 𐀪 Between 𐀪 Letters⌝
✎ᝰ.Pt. 1
ᯓ ✈︎
ᯓ Content: Michael x fem!humanitarian worker!reader, established relationship, fiancé!Michael, Lebanese Civil War setting (later mention of other countries like Afghanistan and, very briefly, Ethiopia), situational angst, hurt/comfort, FLUFF!! FLUFFY ASH AND WILL ONLY GET FLUFFIER!!, separation, mutual devotion, protective Michael, war and displacement, mentions of death and injury, blood, emotional distress, flashbacks, eventual SMUT, eventual sickfic, eventual happy ending, NO MENTION OF Y/N
ᯓ Summary: You’re a humanitarian communications delegate for the International Committee of the Red Cross, working on the front lines of international conflicts. During your prolonged stay in the eye of Lebanon’s civil war, a missed phone call and lost communications send your fiancé into a panic—and when waiting for answers becomes unbearable, Michael decides to come find you himself.
A/n: I wanted to write about MJ’s humanitarian side— this story will get emotional and contains some sensitive topics. I won’t be going too much in detail, but if you don’t think you can stomach war, please dni. This will have four parts and I’ve already finished most of it. Idk how this’ll be received but idc it’s the ugly things in life that bring out the love & humanity in us.
W/c: 2.8k
Masterlist Here
Tags: @memyselfandmikey @amazegumballz @mino99jksn @nimblejuggernauthorizon @iheartpizzamyheart @sssshahadddd @slavetotherhythmofluv
Michael groans at the digital clock at his bedside that mocked his inability to sleep.
Instinctively, he reaches for the right side of the bed, only to be reminded of its frigidity—the reason behind his sleeplessness.
The red smudge visible behind his eyelids revealed itself as 4:31 a.m. as soon as he gave up trying.
He hadn’t slept—well, not really. His eyes shut a few times throughout the night, but he was humbled as soon as he was just barely close enough to reach sleep status.
You were still there— directly in harm's way, while Michael tried not to let the guilt eat him alive for allowing it.
You promised to call yesterday.
You always called.
Why didn’t you call yesterday?
Even if it were only a minute due to a poor satellite connection— even if it was one of those where he could only hear your breathing— anything. ‘God, please, give me anything’, he whispers to himself.
He sits on the edge of the mattress with elbows to his knees and a knot in his abdomen. Between his thumb and index finger is a letter folded neatly— softened from being opened so many times.
He unfolds its creases, holding down the photograph that slips out every time he opens it.
The photo—an orphan girl, holding your leg like a koala bear, while you grab your stomach in a belly laugh.
The letter reads;
“Little Maha here nearly lost her breath when I told her who I was writing letters to all the time… I gave her one of your T-shirts, hope you don’t mind. She’s a strong little baby. You would’ve loved her.
Miss you, love you,
Your fiancé♡”
He smiles faintly.
His heart skips a beat when the phone rings, and he immediately pounces to lift it.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Jackson.”
His stomach sinks. That’s not you. His mind races.
“This is the International Committee of the Red Cross.”
His grip around the handset tightens, almost enough to snap the phone clean in half.
“Is everything alright?” His adam’s apple bobs a few times for such forceful gulps.
The man on the other end responds with silence. Too much silence for nothing to be wrong.
The room seems to spin as he waits for a response.
“We’ve unfortunately lost communications with her regional office.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means they missed their scheduled transmissions yesterday morning. We haven’t been able to reestablish contact.”
“Is she alive?”
Another pause.
“We have no information suggesting otherwise. But right now, Mr. Jackson, we can’t confirm the team’s status.”
Impossible. Just weeks ago, you two couldn't be apart for even a moment—wrapped up in each other until you could feel his heartbeat through your own chest.
Now, the anticipation of every piecemeal letter and phone call makes it impossible to eat, drink, or sleep.
Drifting without purpose, he paces around each room in deep thought.
Everything at Neverland reminds him of your absence.
Draped around his dining room chair is the sweater you took from him from time to time when the AC made you too cold. He holds it to his chest, lifting its neckline to his nose to breathe some of your delicious perfume— the one-of-a-kind parfum that he bought you from a rural vendor during your time in France.
He lasts no more than twelve hours before buying a plane ticket.
꧁⎝˗ˏˋ𓊆ྀི❤︎𓊇ྀི´ˎ˗⎠꧂
The journey to Lebanon punished anyone stubborn enough to attempt it.
Every step of the journey depended on someone who knew a little (well, a lot) more than him—an aid contact arranging transportation , a pilot deciding where it was safe enough to land, a few drivers who knew which roads had suddenly become unusable overnight.
For once, money and recognition meant nothing.
He simply went where he was told and hoped every person passing him along knew how to get him one step closer to you.
His flight landed well north of the fighting where commercial aircraft could still safely arrive. After that, safety was far from guaranteed.
A helicopter carried aid workers farther south, rattling violently against mountain winds strong enough to make every bolt in its frame sound temporary.
The pilot shouted in broken English over the thundering engine that they’d have to divert twice because of shelling.
The helicopter descended onto a grassy yard, no larger than a fast-food parking lot, in front of an abandoned shack.
This was only half the journey—he still had to chase a taxi to drive him to your location.
To American standards, it was barely a taxi, as doors only shut with the force strong enough to break them, and the back windows were replaced by a plastic film that fluttered during accelerations and clung through loosely applied duct tape.
The driver drove as if signs were suggestions and without regard to the damage.
Around villages with stone walls, piles of rubble drooped into mountains— waving drying laundry that still gripped their clotheslines amidst the destruction.
Life continues despite their landslides. Children play ball in the streets, and women walk side-by-side to chatter.
He holds his head with his hand, hoping you’re just as unshaken.
꧁⎝˗ˏˋ𓊆ྀི❤︎𓊇ྀི´ˎ˗⎠꧂
The ICRC field office is an ocean of humanitarian workers, with the noise resembling the cracking of tsunami waves against a metropolis.
Maps adorned with pins and yarn embellish every wall, and his vision blurs as the dashes of motion that follow everyone fade into a haze.
Everyone is in some rush— with shuffling and pushing in every direction.
Michael spots the first person wearing an ICRC vest.
“‘Scuse me, please? I’m looking for—“
The woman cuts him off, “We’re looking for everyone.”
“My fiancé.”
She pauses to get a look at him. She suspects she’d seen him before volunteering in the past.
“Do you know what team?”
“No.“
He looks down at his fidgeting hands, then tells her your name, hoping it rings a bell.
Her face lights up.
“I saw her this morning.”
Relief floods him so suddenly he has to steady himself against the table.
“Where?”
She points to a distant village nestled beyond hills.
“She’s supposed to be documenting aid deliveries,” she smiles, “knowing her, she’s probably doing anything but that.”
꧁⎝˗ˏˋ𓊆ྀི❤︎𓊇ྀི´ˎ˗⎠꧂
You were.
The afternoon sun tired itself from its relentlessly hostile light, fading into a dimmed shadow of its former self.
One heavy water jug dug into your forearm while another rested against your hip.
An elderly woman shuffled beside you, refusing help with far more determination than strength.
She insisted despite her frail self, “Khalini se’idik (Let me help you).”
“La’, wala hemmik (no, don’t worry about it),” you smiled at her.
The woman finally surrendered the third jug.
When you reached her doorway, she placed a weathered hand over her heart.
“Allah ykhaliki (May god protect you),” her lips that thinned with age wrinkled into a smile.
Before turning to leave, you ask tenderly, “Fi shi ghayr, habibti (is there anything else, dear)?”
She shook her head. “La’. Yislemo ideyki, ya binti (no. May your hands be blessed, my daughter).”
You smiled once more before lifting the empty containers.
There were still three more houses to reach before nightfall.
Someone had warned your team that fighting could spread toward the village soon— weeks, days, or even hours— you weren’t sure.
People needed water before they fled—there was no time for breaks or rest.
You had spent days watching children pack a life’s worth of belongings into small school backpacks, spending nights helping families prepare to leave their livelihoods behind.
Still, not every memory you gathered was miserable.
You’d been overfed by women who refused to let you leave without another plate, beaten horribly at card games by children who most certainly cheated, and got pulled into conversations over coffee that lasted much longer than your breaks allowed.
Even with war threatening to swallow everything people found reasons to laugh, gossip, argue, cook, and carry on.
That was partially why leaving them behind felt so impossible.
You hadn’t slept, because you couldn’t.
Michael spots you before you could spot him.
For a moment, he wishes he hadn’t. Your clothes are dusted with dirt, with a streak that’s managed its way up your cheek. Your eyes are sunken with a shade of purple magnifying your heavy eyelids. Your rolled sleeves reveal scattered bruises— some yellow, some maroon.
You walk with a hurried stride that contradicts your tired appearance.
He smiles anyway, pacing towards you.
You walk right past him to lift another crate.
His smile disappears.
“Angel?”
No response.
He feels sick to his stomach.
His mind races once again.
‘Did she hit her head? Brain damage? Amnesia? Something?’
He calls your name loud enough for the other workers to turn their heads.
He holds his heart as he waits for a reaction.
You stop in your tracks and turn around with a gulp. You stare for a moment, narrowing your eyes, before they bulge out with a gloss in recognition.
“Michael?”
Your eyebrows raise and push against eachother.
The crate slips from your hands, with your legs already pushing you towards him before you hear it thump.
He barely has time to open his arms before you cannonball into them, leaving your legs wrapped around his torso and arms around his neck.
After weeks of settling for the scent of you through a sweater, his senses fully envelop you.
You bury yourself in the nape of his neck and let the gloss make way for a stream of tears.
With your chest pumping, you let it all go— the kind of cry that comes from a period of holding it together for way too long.
“Baby, I can’t— I can’t do this anymore.” You sob.
“I know.”
With one hand he holds you upright, and with the other he sways into your back.
“The children—“
You can hardly force the words out.
“There are so many— all asking where their parents are.”
You shake your head violently against his shoulder.
“I’m— I’m trying— it’s never enough.”
He sighs, partially in relief, and partially in agreement.
“You’re doing what you can. It’s more than enough for one person.”
“I know I'm only one person. That’s why I feel so useless.” Your voice softens, with your eyes shutting properly for the first time in three days against his skin.
He pulls back just enough to look at you.
“You carried half the village’s water today.”
He drops you carefully, thumb swiping the tears that fell onto your cheek.
“You haven’t slept.”
The same thumb brushes the dirt off your cheek.
“Look at you, baby. You can barely keep your eyes open and you’re still worried about everybody else.”
He pecks your forehead, lingering just long enough for him to close his eyes in relief.
“And you’re calling yourself useless?”
Your shoulders relaxed before wrapping your arms around him once more.
“I took a few days off.”
You feel his gulp against your ear.
“What?”
Your eyebrows furrow.
“For you.”
“But why?”
He rests his forehead against yours.
“I couldn’t sleep wondering if you were safe all the time.”
Your noses brush against each other, closing the small gap between you for a slow, lingering kiss that he could memorize before you parted ways once more.
You let yourself believe that you were secure— with him, in his embrace.
For the first time in weeks, this is the safest you’ve felt.
꧁⎝˗ˏˋ𓊆ྀི❤︎𓊇ྀི´ˎ˗⎠꧂
You don’t recall much of what occurred on your return to the tent, but you do remember Michael’s refusal to let go.
His fingers remained locked over yours, fearing that if he released them, he might lose you again. They held on even as you stepped over broken masonry, and despite the children bidding you farewell.
Every so often, he would squeeze your hand and brush his thumb over your knuckles, just to make sure that you were really there.
Unsteady canvas tents stretched along browned blades of grass with stitched doors flapping in the evening breeze. Just a sliver of blue was left in the sky, brushing a dulling backdrop onto stars. Glowing lanterns looked like fireflies from a distance, with the silent sun making way for a muting of chaos. Someone stirred a communal pot over an open fire. Someone else wrapped bandages over a little boy.
It was almost peaceful.
“My tent,” you point with loose hands.
Michael ducks inside before beholding the disheartening state of your current home.
There is barely enough space for the both of you.
Your single sleeping bag curls inward at its end— just long enough to reach your ankle.
One backpack oozing with your belongings is pushed off to the corner, alongside an empty crate that held a few candles like some sort of bedside table.
You unroll a second sleeping bag beside yours.
“I’m sorry.”
You don’t have the heart to look him in the eyes.
“For what?”
His eyebrows furrow.
“Making you come all this way to sleep on the floor like this.”
“You didn’t make me do anything,” he kneels behind you and massages your neck.
“I did.”
“No.”
“I made you worry.”
“You always do.”
You push an amused puff through your nose.
You blow out the wick across from you, with the warm golden atmosphere that its light brought vanishing in a blink, leaving just a trail of ashy smoke curling above it.
The friction against your sleeping bags squeaks with the sound of nearby crickets and distant explosions.
Michael lies behind you, taking the same position that he would were you in his bed.
His arm slips around your waist.
You instinctively back into him before the gap is nonexistent and your spine is against his chest.
Holding his arms, the warmth in your abdomen travels up your chest. For the first time in weeks, you feel at ease.
Your lips parting make a clicking noise.
“It’s never been this quiet.”
He smiles faintly.
“It’s not even quiet.”
“I know.”
A pause to assess how to release his obvious strain.
“I think that taxi driver almost killed you,” your smile pushes an entertained wind through it.
A soft laugh vibrates against your back.
“He was sure as hell trying. He must’ve broken at least ten traffic laws.”
“Ten?” You turn around just enough to look at him with your cheeks briefly touching the tip of his chin. “Michael, baby, there aren’t any traffic laws.”
“Apparently not.”
“I’m serious,” you turn back with a settled smile.
“I know.” He sighs. “I'm happy you can still laugh.”
You don’t respond.
You don’t know how to.
You can’t laugh—not honestly, at least.
Your smile disappears as soon as he isn’t looking.
Your eyes are blank, fixated on nothing at all on the wall of the tent.
You glide your fingers over his that swayed against your abdomen.
“You know, I keep seeing them.”
His fingers stop moving.
“The kids.”
A pause.
Your voice lowers, “When I close my eyes, they’re still there.”
He becomes so quiet you can hear his blinks.
“Still asking where their parents are.”
Your throat tightens, urging you not to speak another word or you’ll cry again.
“I don’t know what to tell them— even after weeks of them asking me.”
“You don’t have to know the answer.”
He whispers above your ear.
“They need to know someone cares enough to respond.”
He tucks a loose strand of hair off your face and behind your ear.
“You show them exactly that, though.”
“It’s not enough.”
“No, it’s not.”
His response surprises you, enough that a line forms between your eyebrows.
“Like I said, you’re only one person. You’re doing enough for you.”
You exhale and relax into his embrace.
You flinch at an explosion— closer this time- no less than a quarter mile away.
“I’m here.”
He intertwines your fingers.
“I know.”
“Go to sleep.”
“I don’t think I can.”
“Shh.”
He kisses your temple.
“I’ll stay awake.”
“No.”
“I will. You deserve to sleep more than anyone.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
He draws circles into the backs of your hands with his thumbs.
“I love you.”
“Mmm,” you hum into him.
“You can say it back.”
“I can.”
He tsks.
“I was waiting for you to shut up.”
With a smile, he leans in and kisses your cheek, feeling the dimples.
“There’s my angel—“
His cheek rests against your temple for a moment.
With a softer tone, “—my beautiful fiancé.”
You roll your eyes into a genuine grin.
“Goodnight, Mikey.”
“Goodnight, baby.”
You finally manage to rest your eyes decently after weeks of twisting and turning.
꧁⎝˗ˏˋ𓊆ྀི❤︎𓊇ྀི´ˎ˗⎠꧂
Your eyelids fight to stay shut against the stomping you hear outside your tent.
Eventually, someone yanks the flap of your tent open and shakes your shoulder—hard.
The force wakes your fiancé with you.
“Up.”
Your superior’s voice is urgent, firm, and controlled.
“We’re moving.”
You blink against the darkness.
“Jennifer? What time is it?”
“Three.”
You don’t ask questions. You get to packing.
Outside, engines are rumbling, and people shuffle between tents with backpacks slung over their shoulders.
Closing the flap of your tent, you look at Michael, who is already packing for you.
He doesn’t ask questions. He simply gets moving.
He understands that in places like this, it’s better to follow directions than to stick around long enough to find out.
Pt.2
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PECK FOR PECK
f!reader (first gf reader) / pre-otw michael (1978)
(lowercase INTENDED!) & not proofread ! fluff fluff and flufffff, michael simply can’t stop kissing you while he’s tipsy/drunk.
preview: after accidentally trying a little bit of alcohol from his older brothers, michael simply couldn’t stop kissing his pretty girl.
A/N: smoked, went on here, and saw someone post an idea to this so if it was you PLEASEEEE LMK!! bc i can’t find ur @ again n im losing my mind 😭😭 hope you guys enjoy this short lil thing tho !! (I GOT IT!! it was based on this post!!)
🏷️: @sighrns @cinnamoncunt @chmpngekisses @thatgurlmiso @syrraj @gingerrsnapp @tenderlyboundlessparagon @khxna @anglfac @neverstreett @judesboots @mjismybaby @a-motherfcking-fish @faerieglitter555 @whimsywalker @thatkid-ivory @slickdickwitchbitchh @pytforever @brownsugarbaee
the front yard lights from hayvenhurst flash from below michael’s bedroom as you quietly watch him, his brothers, and a few of their friends run across the path from their respective vehicles and towards the house.
the once silent environment now booming with laughter and loud chatter as you place your palm below your chin, still looking at the front yard from michael’s bed quietly and in peace. you spent the entire day doing some own work before heading over to michael’s place.
you had your own key after knowing the family for so long and being his girlfriend that you decided to spend the rest of your evening relaxing in his room, nothing out of the ordinary whatsoever while you waited for him to fully arrive back home from an event with his brothers.
you listen carefully to the sound of jermaine and tito laughing at something michael said before hearing more chatter echo through the house—the sound of loud footsteps going up the stairs and inching closer towards michael’s door before it cracks open to michael with a cheesy grin plastered over his lips.
as his eyes finally latch towards the sight of your body sprawled out over his bed comfortably, you fix yourself on the bed before smiling at him and leaning your head. “hi baby.” your voice gentle as michael stumbled a little to the edge, making your brows furrow at the sudden act.
“my pretty girl is hereeee!” his slender fingers gripping onto the comforters as he leans down and bounces up a bit with the bed. his afro covering his brows a bit more than usual as you watch his face more closely. michael giggles to himself as you continue to watch his mannerisms and the way his finger now tucks below the band of your bra suddenly.
“michael are you..?” he pouts his lip upwards before placing one finger over yours, catching you off guard before letting a smile crack. “sshhhh let me love you mama. i’ve missed ya.” at his words you laugh before letting your free hand come across his hair, pushing his fro up a bit up to touch his cheek.
michael’s skin was burning hot as his eyes were glossy, the flutter of his lashes now moving in a slow manner as his cheeks were dark in a crimson color—only visible by how close you got near his face. the scent of fruity liquor bouncing off of michael hits your nostrils momentarily as you wince at the sudden smell.
“did you… michael are you drunk?” your lips part a bit taken back as he moved away from your face before planting it into the bed comforters with a slight groan. slowly, you sit back up on the bed now crossing your legs together next to him before feeling michael’s palm come across your knee. the feeling so warm and soft as his face is still down towards the sheets while his palm now rubs across your skin slowly.
his fingers hot to the touch as they continue their soft rubbing against your skin. “michael?” your voice now laced with slight concern as you’ve never seen michael drunk before. you both knew eachother since your early teen years, being the innocent lil’ couple you both ended up to be—however the sight of him so intoxicated only made you worried yet also giggle at the sight.
“mhmm im here mama ‘m here..” michael mutters, still face planted over the bed as you let your hand rub the side of his face and letting him turn his head to now look at you. “i didn’t think you’d have that much fun tonight.” you laugh as you now place your hand over michael’s own, still over your bare knee.
michael watches as your hand wraps over his before he slowly lifts himself up with his elbow and leans in to place a soft kiss over your knuckles and soon after your knee. “i..did jus’ wish you were there.” michael continues to kiss your soft skin as you wrap your other hand behind him to touch his hair, letting your fingers curl over his fro before smoothing his back gently.
the feeling making michael melt like putty as he continues to slowly lift himself up. his lips never leaving your skin as it inches upwards towards your hip making you giggle at the ticklish feeling.
following soon after a gentle peck placed on your hipbone as michael lifts himself more and kisses your ribcage, following the band of your top. “michael it..tickles!” your voice shaky as you giggle at michael’s lips still leaving random pecks across your thighs and lower stomach. his hands now pushing below the sheets and under your legs to feel your lower thighs over him and parting his face away from your skin to look up at you.
“lemme love you mama.”
“don’t you always?” you tease making michael kiss his teeth before shaking his head and placing another slow yet sweet kiss on your skin. “yeah but i wanna love you now specifically baby y’know…”
peck.
then another quietly.
and another till michael finally is fully up towards your chest. the necklace michael had gifted you awhile back hanging nicely against your sternum as michael pauses his kisses before sitting up now fully.
you carefully watch your drunk boyfriend tip over to his side a bit before letting his slender fingers touch the bottom of your necklace gently. the chain swirling around his finger carefully before michael leans back down and kisses the chain, then your collarbone, and soon after kisses the middle of your chest—the direct placement making you shiver. “may i?”
his voice is muttered and gentle across your body as you look down to face him. his brows scrunched up with his lips ready to kiss you once more as you nod slowly without speaking, soon seeing michael smile and kissing you like he’s never kissed you before.
michael places his lips now back towards your chest, placing perfectly over your heart as you shut your eyes at the sensation of his lips feeling so tender over you. “so beautiful.” kissing the base of your neck soon after—quickening his kisses with each spot he indulged in.
the soft touch of his palms on your sides making your body warm with the mix of his wet sweet kisses all over. “michael…” more pecks placed on your skin as michael reaches soon the side of your face. your giggles softly echoing through the room under your breath as he continues.
“god i love you.” his mouth close to the shell of your ear, feeling his breath trickle down as you let your hands find his pants with a gentle grip. mouth parted at the feeling as you keep your eyes shut enjoying the moment. michael continues his small pecks before suddenly pushing your back towards the bed carefully.
hair now sprawling against the pillows as michael kisses the arch of your brow, the bridge of your nose, and lastly the corner of your eye—feeling your lashes flutter closely against him as you giggle at the sudden feeling of his lips kissing an area he’s never kissed before.
once your eyes snap back open, michael smiles down at you before placing his lips finally over your own. the sweet taste of cherry swirling from his tongue at the heavy liquor as you let out a soft moan from the taste you’re indulging.
michael suddenly pulls back watching you before smoothing his palms up your body and close towards your lower boob, grasping your side. “so in love with you.”
“and i love you.”
at your words, michael shuts his eyes before shaking his head and sighing out loud. before you could open your mouth to speak another word, you’re caught off guard with michael placing his lips on yours again and kissing your cheeks and temple. “can’t…stop you’re jus—god please.” his silent beg towards the ceiling making you smile as he suddenly attacks you with more kisses, never getting tired of feeling you against him.
“michael! too… much! i—oh my gosh!” you giggle now feeling light as you gently try to push him away jokingly, only to fail miserably at michael’s hands grabbing your own and placing them over your head. “girl stop you’re jus’ all mines i have to kiss you.” you continue giggling with your failed fighting attempts as michael doesn’t stop giving you more pecks, making his lips hit every free spot on your body.
enjoying every bit of his lips over your skin as he made sure you felt his love on every inch of your body, feeling you let yourself loose at his touch so perfectly amongst his.
because for michael, kissing you wasn’t simply JUST kissing you—it was something that made him feel so blessed, so loved, and so wanted and he’d be crazy to never let you feel it even if it’s for a split second.
I NEED HIM OMFG
