𓋜 𓈒 ݁ 𝒑 ๋🌫️

lmfao everyone hates yuri (The girl from nowhere) and to me... Shes my wife guys. I actually love her so much its fucking insane???? I might yumeship with her???? We are married???? Shes my gf???? Hi???? Revenge anyone??? Yuri glazers??? Pls????

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— type : one-shot

— pairing : michael jackson x reader

— genre(s) : romance, smut, fluff

— tags : female!reader, thriller era!michael, friends to lovers, lesbian!reader, then bisexual!reader, pathetic worshipper boyfriend energy (michael is a yearner dayum)

— tw : smut, slighty ignorant michael (doesn’t really understand how sexual attraction works), oral sex (f!receiving), kissing.

— disclaimer : the one-shot is nearly inspired by the song "lost in the fire" by the weeknd, i recommend listening to it during the fic ! also this is my first time writing something + english isn’t my first language so…..(sorry in advance for the grammatical mistakes) this story is entirely fictional, and part of my intention in writing it was to address and denounce harmful attitudes like this through fiction, even when those topics can be uncomfortable or difficult to portray.

𓂃˖ ࣪⊹ you were always convinced that you loved girls, at least that's what you thought before your friend michael, who admits to having been in love with you for a long time, tries to make you say the opposite…

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being comfortable with your sexuality isn't easy, especially in the 1980s. few people knew that you were attracted to girls. if you had the misfortune of saying it in public or even to your friends, it was hard to escape the stares or the nasty comments.

however, there was one person who didn’t judge you for it; on the contrary, he couldn’t have cared less—michael. you met a few years ago when your mothers were extremely close friends. when you had to tell him you liked girls, he was more concerned with his monkey than with your sexuality, and that showed just how open-minded he was and that you could trust him—as if he’d already suspected it.

still, sometimes he acted as if he didn’t believe you, as if it were just a phase. he’d ask, “have you ever been in a relationship with a guy? even just once?” or “how did you know you liked girls?”. even so, he was a true friend you could trust completely.

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it was a summer evening; michael was home alone, since his family had gone to visit relatives who lived far away (he’d made up an excuse that he had to finish some recordings). as usual, he’d invited you to spend the night, just like the good best friends you two are.

you spent the early part of the evening playing twister, watching that charlie chaplin movie for the tenth time, and listening to music. then, as night fell, the atmosphere became much calmer and more soothing. you were settled on the living room couch, a tub of vanilla ice cream in your hand, while michael watched tv without really paying attention; you were in the middle of a gossip session—or at least, your session.

“so i asked who his ex was…” you took a bite of ice cream before finishing your sentence. “it was the girl from the movie!” you dramatized it by mimicking an expression.

“so the guy from the supermarket is dating the girl from the movie theater, who used to date the guy from the gas station?” he asked, summarizing the story and showing that he’d been paying attention after all. you nod before picking up a spoon again ; “what a story, huh…”.

even though he’d listened to your whole story—as he usually does, since he really enjoys it when you tell him all your silly stories and girl gossip—he seemed lost in thought. you noticed his behavior pretty quickly, so you took another bite before asking him if everything was okay.

"you look deep in thought. is something bothering you?”

“why do you like girls?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

you widened your eyes for a moment, surprised by the suddenness of his question, which had nothing to do with the original conversation.

“huh..i don’t know…i guess it’s my heart that decides ?” you simply answer, given that the question seems unexpected and, above all, complicated ; “why you ask?”.

“i don’t know… it doesn’t seem possible to just like the same sex out of the blue—there’s gotta be a reason, right?” at first, one might think he was trying to understand it from an emotional perspective and perhaps learn more about the subject.

“i find girls more attractive, and i’ve never felt that way about boys, so i guess i prefer girls?” you laugh nervously, still a little thrown off by the absurdity of the question and its lack of substance.

as he heard for your answer, he turned to look at you with a surprised expression and furrowed his brow; “haven’t you ever found a guy attractive?”.

“yes, but not to the point of being sexually attracted to him” you said.

“so is being a lesbian just about sex?"

“no…well… it’s attraction and sexuality.”

“so if you sleep with a guy one day, does that mean you become straight?”

you shrugged, confused by the turn the conversation had taken ; “no? i don’t know, i’ve never slept with a guy.”

“never?"

"no, never."

"has it ever crossed your mind to try it? not necessarily for love or anything."

"no…i don’t think i’ve ever wanted to… "

"maybe you just haven’t met the right one."

"i just told you i don’t like men…" you sigh softly.

"but you haven’t even tried? how can you know if you don’t like it?"

he seemed irritated, almost annoyed that she’d say no. you find that weird, and it makes you dig in your heels even more.

“haven’t you ever wanted to try… at least… to see what it’s like? it must be different with girls, you know?” he looks at you more insistently, as if trying to make you understand and convince you.

“i don’t know… maybe? i’ve never thought about it…” you reply simply, taking another bite of your vanilla ice cream, which has started to melt.

you could feel the tension in the room shifting drastically and the atmosphere growing heavier.

“would you like to try it?” he asked, his gaze still fixed on you as he turned toward you.

“like , right now?” you asked in turn.

“i don’t know… whatever you want?”

you swallowed hard before realizing what you’d just heard. “are you asking me if i want to sleep with you, michael?”

“i just asked if you wanted to try it with a guy!”

"yeah, and you’re the guy!” he looked away, embarrassed and completely caught off guard. he’d just shot himself in the foot and put himself in a tricky situation.

“listen…” he began, turning down the TV so you could hear him better; “i know you like girls, that you’re apparently into girls, that maybe it was just a phase or whatever… that you wanted to keep your heart safe…” he paused before leaning closer to you, with a more determined and confident look.

“i know you're my best friend, that you like girls—or whatever you like—but i can't pretend anymore...”. he put his hands together lightly and looked at you with a pleading expression. “i beg you, at least let me show you what it’s like with me… please…”

your heart skipped a beat, and you felt a warmth rise in your stomach. did you just see what you saw? your best friend begging you to sleep with him?

“michael...”

“if you don’t like it, we’ll never do this again. at least you’ll be sure you like girls… i beg you… just tonight…”. his gaze grows more intense and pleading."

damn. you started to feel that sensation—a sudden dampness between your legs. the image of michael begging you to make love to him, trying to come up with an excuse to justify it…seemed more appealing than anything else.

you took a moment to look at his lips before gently moving closer to him.

“just for tonight?”

“yes.”

you nodded, and immediately he pounced on your lips, holding your face with the hands he’d used to beg you before. at first it was a chaotic, meaningless kiss, then it began to grow more intense, more passionate. in the heat of the moment, you slipped your tongue into his, and he let out a soft moan that made your core throb.

his hands move from your cheeks down to your neck, then he begins to run them all over you, as if he were exploring new territory—the curves of your body. feeling the warmth of his hands, you let out a soft moan into his mouth, which made him feel even tighter in his pants. he placed his hands on your hips and then gently pushed you onto your back on the couch. positioned on top of you, he continues to kiss you passionately, like a common cat in heat.

michael kissed his way down your jaw with a kind of reverence that made your breath catch, slow and deliberate, like he wanted to memorize every inch of you before moving on. hid hands traced your waist, your hips, your thighs—never rushed, never careless—touching you as if your body was something precious, something holy.

“you have no idea what you do to me,” he murmured against your skin, voice rough with want.then he looked up at you—really looked at you—with that aching, desperate expression that made your stomach twist.

like worship, like he’d spend hours right there if you let him.

he pressed lingering kisses along your stomach, each one softer than the last, his grip tightening on your thighs as though he couldn’t believe you were here, beneath him, letting him have you like this. every touch was hungry but patient, yearning in the way only someone utterly undone by you could be.

“you’re beautiful,” he whispered, almost like a confession.

and when his mouth found your skin again, lower this time, your fingers tangled in his hair instinctively. he groaned at the contact, the sound vibrating through you, and the look he gave you after—half devotion, half desperation—made heat flood straight through your body.

he wanted to take his time, wanted to make you fall apart slowly. wanted to hear every sound you made and drag each one from your lips like it was a prayer. he lifted his head just enough to look at you again, and the expression on his face nearly ruined you—like devotion had taken human form and settled into his bones. like he could spend the rest of his life beneath your touch and still die wanting more.

his thumbs stroked slow circles into the inside of your thighs, soothing and possessive all at once, and when you shifted beneath him—restless, needy—he let out the softest, most tortured sound, forehead dropping briefly against your skin as if the sight of you unraveling for him was almost too much to bear.

“god,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “look at you.”

not cocky, not teasing, awed .

as if he genuinely couldn’t believe he was allowed to have you like this. he kissed your thigh with unbearable tenderness, then another, each press of his mouth lingering long enough to make your pulse stutter. his hands never stopped touching you—stroking, holding, grounding—like he needed constant proof that you were real, that this wasn’t some fever dream he’d wake up from aching over.

“you don’t understand,” he said, almost breathless, words muffled against your skin. “i think about you all the time, about this. about making you feel good….i love you so much oh my god…all these months i tried to hide it…"

your fingers tightened in his hair, and he shuddered, actually shuddered.

the reaction seemed to tear something loose in him, because suddenly he was pressing desperate kisses everywhere he could reach—your stomach, your hips, the sensitive inside of your thighs—like restraint was slipping through his fingers one thread at a time.

every touch said the same thing ;please let me…let me worship you the way i’ve wanted to for so long.

when he looked up again, his lips swollen from kissing, his eyes dark and glassy with want, there was something almost pleading in his expression.

“tell me if it’s too much,” he murmured. “tell me if you want me to stop.”

but the way his hands trembled where they held you gave him away completely. he was already gone. already lost to you.

and when you answered by pulling him closer, by threading your fingers deeper into his hair and parting for him with a breathless sound, the broken moan he let out sounded almost reverent, like you’d given him the thing he wanted most in the world.

he kissed the inside of your thigh like a vow. slowly. deliberately. as though every press of his mouth was an act of devotion, something sacred, something he wanted you to remember later when your pulse had steadied and the room had gone quiet.

his hands held you gently but firmly, thumbs stroking absentminded patterns into your skin as if he needed the contact as much as he needed air. when you trembled beneath him, he made that ruined little sound again—half groan, half prayer—and turned his face into you for a moment like he was overwhelmed by the simple fact of being allowed this close.

“you have no idea,” he whispered, voice frayed at the edges, “how long i’ve wanted this.”

he looked up once more, eyes dark with hunger but softer than they had any right to be—too open, too earnest, too devastating in the way yearning always is when it’s laid bare.

then he buried himself in you with reverence. not rushed. never rushed. he treated every gasp he drew from you like a reward, like something precious; every shift of your hips seemed to make him even more undone, more desperate in that quiet, pathetic way of a man who had spent too long wanting and was now being trusted with the thing he’d ached for.

his grip tightened when you tangled your fingers in his hair. the sound he made at that—muffled, wrecked, shamelessly pleased—sent heat straight through you.

“that,” he murmured against your skin, breathless and adoring, “do that again.” and when you did, he all but melted. he let you guide him without protest, without pride, following every movement like he’d gladly let you ruin him if that was what you wanted. there was something almost embarrassingly earnest in the way he devoted himself to it—like making you fall apart beneath him was not just desire but purpose.

as if your pleasure was the only thing in the room that mattered. as if he would stay there for hours if you asked.

“you’re so beautiful like this,” he whispered, drunk on the sight of you. “god—look at you. letting me—”

his voice broke off into another wrecked sound when you arched beneath him, and whatever composure he had left seemed to vanish entirely. from then on there was no pretending he was in control of himself; every movement, every touch carried that same desperate worship, that same aching devotion of someone who could never quite believe they’d been chosen.

and when you finally came apart with his name on your lips, he held you through it like something precious, like something holy—like the trembling of your body in his hands was the closest thing to religion he had ever known.

when he rose back up to kiss you, dazed and flushed and smiling like he’d been given the stars themselves, he rested his forehead against yours and laughed softly under his breath.

you were still breathless when he kissed his way back up to her, slower now—soft, almost shy, as though the urgency had burned itself into something gentler and infinitely more dangerous. because this was no longer just want. this was tenderness. the kind that made your chest ache.

he pressed his forehead to yours, smiling in that dazed, helpless way of someone who had just been handed something they never thought they’d deserve. his hands stayed at your waist, not possessive now, simply there—warm and grounding and careful, as if he was afraid you might vanish if he let go.

“you okay?” he whispered. you laughed weakly, still trying to catch your breath. “more than okay.” the look on his face was almost enough to destroy you. he stared at you like your happiness had become the axis his world turned on. and suddenly, horribly, devastatingly, you understood.

the way michael had looked at you all night. the way he had touched you like reverence and longing wrapped into one. the way every kiss had felt less like desire and more like devotion. this wasn’t casual to him. it had never been casual.

something tight and terrified unfurled in your chest. he must have seen the shift in your expression, because his smile faltered immediately.

"what?” he asked softly, too softly. “did i—did i do something wrong?”

“no,” you said at once, reaching for him. “no, it’s not that, i just—” your voice caught. because how were you supposed to say it? how were you supposed to explain that your entire understanding of yourself felt like it was tilting on its axis because this man, this sweet, pathetic, yearning man who looked at you like you hung the moon, had somehow slipped past every wall you’d ever built?

he went very still beneath your touch. and then, in the quietest voice imaginable, like he was confessing something shameful, he said ; "i know.”

you blinked. “know what?”

his laugh came out strained and self-deprecating. “that this complicates things for you.” he looked away then, jaw tight, like forcing the words out hurt. “i know what you’ve said about yourself. i know who you are. i know this probably doesn’t make sense and i never wanted to be the person who made things harder for you—”

“hey,” you interrupted, cradling his face until he looked at you again. “stop.” his eyes were already glassy with too much feeling. too much hope he clearly thought he didn’t deserve.

“i didn’t mean for this to happen,” he whispered. “i tried not to—i tried so hard not to—” his breath hitched. and then, with all the helplessness of a man who had lost this battle long ago:

“i love you.” the room went still. his whole body seemed to tense afterward, like he regretted saying it the second it left his mouth—like he was bracing for heartbreak.

but all you could do was stare at him. because every terrifying, impossible thing inside you suddenly made sense.

the fear, the ache, the fear, the unbearable tenderness clawing up your throat.

“oh,” you whispered.

his face crumpled slightly, misunderstanding at once. “you don’t have to say it back, i know this is—”

“no,” you said, almost laughing through the tears stinging your eyes. “no, idiot, that’s not—” you kissed him hard enough to cut him off. he made the most broken sound into your mouth. when you pulled back, your hands were shaking where they held his face.

“i love you too.”

he stared, blankly, like his brain had simply stopped functioning.

“you…what?”

you laughed then, helpless and giddy and terrified all at once. “i love you too, michael."

his entire face collapsed into raw, disbelieving joy.

“don’t joke about that,” he breathed, voice cracking. “please don’t joke about that, i’ll actually die.”

“i’m not joking.”

he made a sound somewhere between a sob and a laugh before crushing you against him, burying his face in your neck like the force of loving you had physically overwhelmed him.

“you love me,” he kept murmuring, disbelieving, wrecked. “you love me? you love me?”

“yes michael.” you smiled into his mouth when he kissed you again. he grinned against your lips, helplessly, brilliantly happy.

“good,” he said. “because i’m never getting over this. ever.”

from now on, you're going to wake up to two pieces of news: you're bisexual, and you're dating your best friend….

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A Normal Holiday

Kirari Momobami x Sayaka Igarashi x She/Her Reader

A/N: Ignore the fact that it’s January please. If I didn’t have fifty requests to sift through, I would have tried to have this one done earlier. Anyway, hope you like it! Word Count: 2,555

“(Y/n), what is your favorite winter holiday tradition?” Kirari asked out of the blue. Presumably because she was looking for any excuse to not look over the dull election challenge propositions Sayaka had placed before her.

“My favorite tradition?” (Y/n) sat back in her chair as she thought, “I guess I like decorating cookies, the food in general is really good. Sledding can be fun too if there’s enough snow, watching movies, hanging out with the family… it’s too bad, with the election still going on, I’m not going to the family get-together this year.”

“You shouldn’t have to skip out on family time to monitor election matches,” Sayaka voiced, her brow furrowed in concern, “Do you need me to talk to Yomozuki-san to get you time off?”

“No, it’s fine. Besides, I wanted to spend the holidays with my two favorite people. I thought it would be nice.”

[‼️slight spoiler warning‼️]

Huntr/x SNL Art