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is there anymore MJ in the works? I’m trying so hard to be normal about that idea you posted or the part 3 to baby be mine 💖
Oh yeah! I’ve got two I’m still working on and hopefully i can get one of them posted this week if my job doesn’t kill me 💔💔💔 baby be mine may be delayed cause im working through plot 🥶
What if…. You were the up and coming Popstar and Michael was sort of your assistant???
Thinking about him encouraging you through it, being your biggest fan to boot. He loves your music, your style, and believes that you’ll make it big— bigger than you are now. He books every little gig he can find, calls and sponsors whatever you need. His mother makes your outfits, sometimes his brother’s backs you up on stage. Without him, there is no you.
And sure, he knows everyone likes you for who you are, some like you more than they let on (Jermaine thinks he’s slick but Michael stands in the way of that) Only issue he has? He might have a crush on you too… ouch.
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Review ・・ Michael has a crush on his next door neighbor.
⠀ Sound Check・・ Deep thanks to my pookies @confetti-cakemix and @vampgothicz for enabling me to write this! I said I would never write a rpf but the Michael movie has been on my mind and his music is currently being injected into my brain. Read part 2!!
⠀ Credits・・ General audience! Fluff. Light teasing. First kiss. Post Off the wall/ Pre thriller! MJ Era. not proof read , I am free. wc. 3k
Disclaimer ‼ I’m basing this on Jafaar's performance of Michael. That means his personality is taken straight from the movies portrayal! This is all purely fictional. Thank You .ᐟ
It wasn't often that Michael had people over to his house. Sure, he had Managers and musicians come and go. The mailman and other various company movers ride through, but he doesn't ever remember a time when somebody so normal, someone whose main task wasn't to appeal to the Jacksons, came through here.
Michael didn't have friends, not human at least. He had Bubbles, Louie, Muscles— but none of them was a girl— a human girl— who was currently sitting in the stables of Louie's pen. Waiting for Michael to introduce another one of his exotic friends.
You waited patiently, eyes filled with sparkle, cheeks blooming with warmth. You came over, your first time, usually only conversing through the cracks of the walls or by mail due to the massive amounts of fans outside of his gates.
It happened by coincidence, a mistake that turned into a blessing of sorts.
You had packages delivered to his front door, a mishap by the mailman, but you didn't seem to mind it too much. You simply found the perfect opportunity to catch him while he was leaving from his recording studio, calling for someone to answer because you've been trying to get past the gates all week.
He heard, remembering that Latoya had mentioned that there were a few packages that weren't meant for the Jacksons a few days ago and he followed the tune of your shouts.
After another helpless call, he answered.
"I think we have your packages," he said, your voice immediately stopping.
He heard silence for a while, the breeze brushing through the trees. "Um, Hello?" He said. The sun was slowly making its way down to introduce the night. He was getting cold, and he had a meeting to get to in the morning.
He thought you left, but you spoke up.
"Y-Yes! I'm sorry, I've been doing this every day, I thought I started to hear things!"
He chuckled lowly, finding it all amusing. "Sorry, the front gates are always guarded, but I can have someone deliver it to you tomorrow."
"Oh, that would be perfect! Thank you!"
It wasn't the last time he got your packages, occasionally getting them every few weeks. But it was all cleared when he had the mailman return them.
"Do you really read through all of this mail?" Latoya gasped, opening a red envelope with decorated hearts. "There are so many, it'll be next year by the time you finish."
"I don't mind, it makes me feel important to people when they take the time to write to me."
He picked up a white envelope, his eyes immediately drawn to the last name.
He's seen that name before, on the wrong packages often delivered to his front step.
He opened it, turning away from Latoya who was still in awe of the thousands of letters scattered around on his floor.
He finally got your name— a pretty name at that. Handwriting that was cursive and bubbly, penmanship you don't see often decorated the paper.
You thanked him. A few sentences written about how grateful you were that even with the mishap, he didn't mind sending the packages back. You also mentioned how you were amazed at the fact that you could see a giraffe from your bedroom window sometimes, a sight you don't see often but felt delighted by it.
"I would love to see one up close the same way you do. But maybe when I'm much older and can travel the world on my own, perhaps I will. Thank you once again!"
And that was it.
He probably read the letter ten times before he realized that for the first time, you didn't want to see him as everybody else did— hoping they could get something out of him like a picture or an autograph— but you didn't mention any of it. You simply stated that you wanted to see his animals.
Not him.
His animals.
And that is what started his deep infatuation with you.
He wrote a letter back in the dead of night. The Pen scratching off certain words, frustration hitting through him, and then he was crumpling the paper once more, a fresh sheet already settled under his hand. It's been an hour, the fifth paper so far, and he tried his best to make sure the letter was perfect. It's easier sending a fax to businessmen about his ideas and new musical ideas regarding his career and the next album of his life, but sending a letter to somebody so… regular felt like the hardest thing in the world.
And sending it out was even harder.
But it happened.
And he kicked himself for it.
When he got his fan mail in two large bags, the only thing he wanted to read was yours.
The dial rings once before the line is picked up, the receiver immediately placed against his ear. You greet him first, voice trembling. “Oh! H-Hello? Im S-Sorry, is this the Jackson’s residence?”
“Depends." Michael was lying on his back, the cord stretching from his night stand. “Missing a package again?”
"Michael? Oh goodness, I thought I got the wrong number. I thought that, maybe you were pranking me or something—"
That was a few days ago.
"Why would I give you a fake number?"
"Why wouldn't you?"
There's some hidden underlying fact in your words, like this wasn't the first time you've gotten somebodies number and it was fake. But Michael wasn't like that. He was kind and genuine— he liked having someone to talk to, even if they were animals sometimes.
"No, this is real. My own personal number."
"O-Oh, I see."
It went quiet on the other line.
"I hope I'm not bothering you, I know it's late but you said if I needed anybody to talk to you… you were always free—"
"Did I say that?" He sounded dead serious.
"Huh? I think so? Wait— I'm pretty sure?" You gasped in distraught. "Oh my gosh, did I read that wrong? I'm so sorry, I-I thought the letter —"
Michael laughed behind the line. "I'm joking with you."
“Hey! Come on, don’t be a tease!" you whined.
He found comfort like this, something he only truly found in his family centric circle— besides Joe.
"So, what's the matter?"
He heard you shuffling, the line going quiet.
"I um…needed to hear someone other then my parents… I guess?"
Michael sat up, the tension hardening. "What's wrong with your parents?"
"They think it's okay to control your life," you sighed. "I understand, respect your parents, blah, blah, blah— but I have dreams too you know? I wanna be an actor! Or maybe a journalist? I'm not sure yet, but I'm working it out."
He could relate to that. All of his life has been controlled by Joe. Singing, dancing, shows, music— all of it. His last album was probably the first time he's felt free and the thought of making another one gave him hope but that heavy presence has never left.
"I get it. I have issues with my parents too."
The connection sparkled.
You both talked for hours afterwards, bubbles sleeping besides him, curled up against his side. You talked about more of your dreams, thoughts you had of the world and he listened.
Eventually it turned into him listing off exotic animals he liked and planned on inviting to his home. He was on number 47, the list already bizarre as it was.
"— and If I could own a panda, I could have free cuddly hugs every minute of the day."
"Panda… elephant… koala…" you said in anstonishment. "Gee, what are you going to say next? A snake?"
"No, I wouldn't say that."
"Thank goodness—"
"I already own a snake. His name is Muscles."
Another slew of chuckles shot through him at how silent you had gotten. "Are you surprised? I mean, do you think that's…" his laughter died, jaw setting tightly. He didn't want to say that word, he hated using that word, but he wouldn't be surprised if you used it. "—That's … not like…weird…to you?"
"Weird?" You started, voice shooting up an octave in offense.
"Y-Yeah, I mean, some people say it's weird. My brothers think so, and Joesph—"
"Oh Michael—" He thought he heard an angel on the other line. "—that's not weird at all. If anything, it makes you more interesting. Not a lot of people care about animals."
He chewed his bottom lip. "If you want— I mean, only if you want, you can say no if you want too. But… You can come over— I mean, visit. I can show you what I have so far."
"You mean that?"
"Yes. How about tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow is no good—" He kicked himself for asking. "— the day after is perfect though. If you still want me?"
He jumped from the bed and bubbles snorted in annoyance but went back to sleep. "Yes! yes, of course. I'll have Bill come for you."
"Who's that?"
"He's my body guard, but I trust him like a father."
"Okay."
Michael got the excited jitters, pumping his fist.
"The day after tomorrow then?" You asked.
"The day after tomorrow then," he repeated back, like he couldn't believe what he was saying.
"Goodnight Michael."
The line cut, and Michael felt like he was on cloud nine.
You came over, just as he hoped, and he immediately showed you his home. The pool, the garden, his room. Nobody was home but the maids, his brothers and father were off somewhere he didn't care to know. All that mattered was that he got the house to himself so that he could show you around without questions following.
You were amazed at his room, the collections of toys and posters he had almost made your eyes pop. You asked about his endless figurines of the Disney character Peter Pan and he gave you the simplest answer.
"He's me."
You didn't make a face in disgust, but you did ask a question.
"Can you fly too?"
He laughed at that. "I'm working on it. If we can land on the moon, it's not far off that a man could fly too."
He introduced you to Bubbles first and while you were scared to get close— holding onto his hand and shaking like an earth quake— you told him that it was very kind of him to rescue a chimpanzee. Muscles on the other hand you refused to go in the room.
He's never laughed so much in his life.
Louie made you calmer. Finding that he was cute and cuddly. And the famous giraffe you often saw outside of your window made the time spent perfect.
You had to go of course, but the late night call was filled with joy.
After that, the calls only kept coming. When he was away, far off while traveling with his brothers, he would send letters to your home in hopes that you would send back. It made him feel special in some way, knowing that somebody cared more about who he was then just the musical aspects of his character.
Whenever you felt down, expressing concern about life and your parents exhausting expectations, he would sneak you over to his house and play twisters in his room.
The maids saw you enough, but they didn't say anything.
And he was thankful for that.
But Bill, his bodyguard and trusted friend had a whole lot to say with a sharp raise of his brows and that light smirk on his face.
"She's your girlfriend now?"
Michael would dodge the question with another question. "So men can't have female friends?"
Bill didn't push for more, but he knew deep down that as long as Michael was happy, that's all that mattered.
"I wonder what he's thinking?"
You were sitting besides him, arms stretched out to pet Louie's head, a small grin adorning your face.
He's known you for a year and your friendship still felt new. Like always, you snuck over, played one of his many board games, and he talked about the stress he had over his upcoming album. So, you suggested that some fresh air could do him good.
Here you were, dangerously close, while showing one of his friends love that he so desperately wanted himself. He believed this was his chance to confess his deepest desire. He chewed the inside of his lips, formed the words in his head, and let it go.
"I think…" He took a deep breath, eyes scanning your face for your next reaction. You were petting Louie's head, comepletly enamored by him— a girl unlike anybody he's ever seen. "I…um, I think he likes you," He finally said, his breath leaving seconds after.
Your eyes slowly found his, attention drawn, your hands slowing down but still acknowledging Louie. "Really?" You questioned, lips curling into a grin. "How'd you know that?"
He gulped, suddenly put on the spot. "He told me."
"Told you?" You titled your head, cheeks puffing with your grin. "Who Louie?"
If this was anybody else, they would have laughed in his face. Called him insane, maybe delusional— in need of more time with humans and less time with animals— but you didn't do either.
You stared at him in wonder, your attention all on him.
Michael cleared his throat, "Y-Yeah, when they like someone, t-they make this small humming noise— sometimes you can tell by the ears. It's down, relaxed— he likes you. A lot." And he probably shouldn't have stumbled on his words so much, painfully obvious, but thankfully you didn't seem to catch it.
"Oh wow, you sure know a whole lot about llamas." you drew your attention back to Louie.
He could finally catch his breath.
"I should probably leave soon. Your family might be back any minute now."
He didn't want you to leave.
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah, Your probably a very busy man. Don't need to cut your time to spend it with me."
And that was the problem, he wanted to spend it with you.
He needed an excuse to get you to stay longer. "Wait— can I show you something?"
"Show me what?" You looked at him questionably.
"I've been working on something but I need input."
"You want my input?" You looked down in thought, "I mean, sure, but I'm not that very good at criticizing things."
"Don't worry, I don't bite."
You shoved him with your elbow lightly. "Please, I'm more scared of the snake."
"Then let's go." He stood up abruptly, dusting off his pants. "It's only a few steps away from here—"
Michael's jaw almost dropped.
You were leaning forward, placing a kiss against Louie's cheek, a goodbye filled with love. Michael wasn't often jealous, but standing here, now, watching you show affection for someone other than him filled him with jealousy beyond comprehension.
"Goodbye Louie." You petted his head once again and stood up.
Michael swallowed around a lump.
"Where is it again?" You questioned.
The studio felt warmer than before. Inches away from you once again but this time it was in his most vulnerable field.
He finished playing a few of his demos, the ones Quincy gave his stamp of approval. You listened and bobbed your head, side eyeing him at particular high ending sections of the songs with a amazement on your face.
"These were really good," you smiled, "I particularly like Starlight, although I'm a little confused on the meaning."
"It's upbeat— something to get the crowd moving."
"Sure,but—" you tapped your chin, "I feel like it's missing something."
He wrote something down on paper, a few words taken straight from your mouth.
Good but missing something
He placed his pen down, turning towards you. "The album isn't done yet, but I'm hoping it becomes the biggest album ever. Still working through some other songs, a title for the album, promotional pictures— other tedious things that you probably don't want to hear."
"I don't mind," you looked over at him. "I like when your like this— happy. You get so hyper about music, I can't help but be hypnotized."
Michael begin to sweat, his face suddenly warm. "You do?"
"We're alike, you and me. Although I'm not a Super Star like you," you laughed. "I can barely handle cleaning my room and your here mixing instruments and doing tours."
"T-That makes sense."
A knock on the door startled you both.
Bill came in, tapping his watch. "You family will be back soon, time to go."
Michael screamed internally.
"Guess I'll see you later?" You titled your head, rubbing a hand over his arm.
"I-I guess so."
You both couldn't break eye contact even if you tried.
"Can I do something real quick?" You asked, catching Michael off guard.
"Sure—"
He wasn't sure what this feeling was— if he was going through cardiac arrest or if someone was hitting him with a bat at the chest, but all he knew was that he didn't want that feeling to go away.
You leaned in, same way you did with Louie and kissed Michael's cheek. Your eyes shut close and your hands resting over his knee. You didn't pull away, even when Bill knocked on the door again. Time fell still. The moment so right that everything was swept away and replaced by your presences only.
Michael didn't know what to do with himself.
Finally, you broke away and chuckled to yourself. "See you later Mikey." You stood up and left a very flabbergasted Michael Jackson.
You opened the door, Bill greeted you and you left with a light skip in your step.
Bill came in, checking in on Michael. "You alright?"
"Hm? Oh, yeah," he shook the shock from his body, cheeks still warm. "I was going to write down a new song."
"Ohhh, Okay. Well, if you need me, I'll be out here— " before he turned, he called out. "— and Michael?"
Michael looked at him in question. "Yes?"
Bill pointed to his cheek. "You got a little something there. It's red, like a kiss—"
Michael quickly rubbed his hand over his cheek. "O-Oh okay! I gotta get to work. I'm a very busy man Bill."
Once Bill left, Michael finally left to his thoughts. He wrote something else under your critique, his face still bloomed with heat.
𝒃𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒌 𝒐𝒇 𝒅𝒂𝒘𝒏 ㅤ..ㅤ 𑣲ㅤ Michael fell for you the moment he saw you in the conference room. Since then, he’s been serenading you with letters. 𝗪𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗮𝗰𝗰𝗲𝗽𝘁 𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗹𝗼𝘃𝗲 , 𝗼𝗿 𝗿𝗲𝗷𝗲𝗰𝘁 𝗶𝘁 𝗯𝗲𝗰𝗮𝘂𝘀𝗲. 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗰𝗮𝗿𝗲𝗲𝗿𝘀 𝗸𝗲𝗲𝗽 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗮𝗽𝗮𝗿𝘁? see──masterlist.
info. ꨄ︎ 𝘁𝗵𝗿𝗮𝗱 / 𝗯𝗮𝗱 𝗲𝗿𝗮 𝗺𝗶𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗲𝗹 𝗷𝗮𝗰𝗸𝘀𝗼𝗻 × 𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙨 𝗳!𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿. ⊹ ࣪ ˖ 𝙬𝙘. 𝟯𝟬𝟬. & michael serenades you a lot & is basically head over heels. 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖻𝗂𝖽𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗎 𝖿𝗂𝖼.
݁ ˖Ი𐑼⋆ read part one. | read part two. | part three.
𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓 arrives hidden beneath your press folder, no envelope, and no name. Just folded cream paper tucked carefully between your notes before the conference begins. Your stomach drops immediately. Because you already know.
You glance around the crowded backstage press room instinctively, reporters talking loudly, cameras stacked everywhere, assistants rushing around with coffee trays.
Nobody notices you unfolding it beneath the table, Good.
You smooth the paper carefully open. Michael’s handwriting curls neatly across the page.
—
You looked at me differently today. At least I think you did. Maybe I imagined it. You always get quiet when I catch you staring. I like that about you. You know somethin’? Everybody asks me questions all day long, but you’re the only person who waits for the real answer.
That scares me a little. A lot actually.
I heard you didn't get lunch again. That’s twice this week.
Stop doin’ that.
And stop lookin’ so pretty when you’re concentrating because it’s making these interviews difficult for me.
I mean it. Yesterday during rehearsal I forgot lyrics because you walked in late carrying that little tape recorder against your chest. That never happens to me.
You’re distracting. I think you know that already though.
Ain’t fair.
I know you think this is a bad idea.
Maybe it is. But every night before interviews I still catch myself wondering what color you’ll wear. And every time you leave first after conferences I get irritated for the rest of the evening. That probably means somethin’.
You never answer my letters back.
I wish you would.
— M
Your heart pounds so hard it almost hurts.
This man is insane. Like Actually insane. “Five minutes till conference!” somebody shouts across the room.You fold the letter shut instantly, cheeks burning. This cannot keep happening... Seriously.
One wrong person sees these and your entire career disappears overnight.
You shove the letter deep into your notebook right as movement stirs near the hallway entrance.
And then—
Michael walks in.The entire room changes immediately, Reporters straighten, Assistants rush faster, Everybody suddenly becomes aware of themselves.
Meanwhile Michael enters calmly while security trails behind him.And despite the entire crowded room—he looks directly at you first.Your cheeks are heating.
What a fucking Dangerous man. You immediately look down at your notes pretending deep concentration.
But thats a little bit Too late.. Michael already saw you. Of course he did. The conference starts quickly after that. Questions fly everywhere.
Tour schedules. Awards. Album sales. Michael answers smoothly, charming everybody effortlessly.
But every few minutes, his eyes drift back toward you, And worse? You feel it every single time.
“So Michael,” another reporter asks loudly, “how do you handle all the attention from women during tours?”
The room laughs lightly, Michael smiles politely.
Then—
completely unfairly, his eyes flick toward you while answering.“I try behave myself.” Your pen nearly slips from your hand.
Idiot.
You refuse to look up again after that.The conference finally ends forty minutes later in a blur of camera flashes and exhaustion.
Reporters begin packing equipment quickly.You stand immediately too, desperate to leave before Michael gets any ideas.
“Excuse me,” a quiet voice says beside you. Your breath catches instantly.. Michael.
Very close to you already.
You turn quickly.
“M-Michael.” His security stands farther down the hallway purposely not looking over. Which somehow makes this worse.
“You got my letter,” he murmurs softly. Not a question.
You clutch your notebook tighter against your chest. “You need to stop doing that.”
“Why?” He copies your face expression. “Because somebody could see.”
Michael tilts his head slightly. “But they didn’t.”
“That’s not the point.” You look around you. A small smile touches his mouth. God.. that smile..“You read it though.” Your cheeks warm immediately again.
“You cannot write things like that to me.”
“Which part?” He teases. “All of it!” Michael laughs softly beneath his breath while leaning one shoulder casually against the hallway wall. Completely relaxed. Meanwhile your heartbeat is trying to kill you.
“I meant everything.” He says softly.
“That’s the issue.” His expression softens slightly after that.
Not teasing now. More real. “You really think I don’t know this dangerous?” he asks quietly. The hallway noise fades around you strangely.
You swallow hard. “Then why keep doing it?” Michael looks at you for a long second before answering.
And when he finally speaks—his voice lowers. Gentler now. “Because every time you walk away from me after these conferences...”
He pauses. “I think about you all night anyway.” Your chest aches instantly. Because no way the king of pop thinks about you all night.
“Michael.” You lowered your face.“Mhm?”
“We shouldn’t even be standing here.”
“I know.”
Neither of you moves. That’s the worst part. People pass through the hallway around you carrying equipment and paperwork while the tension stretches tighter between you both.
Then Michael glances briefly toward your notebook.
“You’re dress tonight,” he murmurs softly. Your stomach flips fast. “What about it?” His eyes lift back to yours slowly.
“That was mean.” You stare at him in disbelief.
“Mean?” You know damn wel what he means.
“You knew you looked pretty.” The words come so sincerely it almost ruins you.
You glance down the hallway quickly, panicked somebody might overhear.“Please lower your voice.”
Michael smiles softly at your reaction.
And somehow that feels even more dangerous. “You get nervous around me now,” he says quietly. “You make me nervous.” The confession slips out accidentally.
it went quiet for a minute.
Michael goes still for half a second.
Then he wanted to whisper something.
But The Second He comes closer, The photographer notices you both standing together—and your stomach drops.
a very long note: guys, GUYS. normally i stopped reading celebrity fanfiction since it kind of icks me now. however with my regrowing infatuation with michael, i would like to pay an homage to the 16 year old me. so here it is in all its glory. please don’t get annoyed that there is not much smut though. i don’t really get along with it. i want to go back and cuddle him so most of them are just fluff, comfort and angst (duh, who am i without that type of anguish) enjoy!
SERIES- MULTI CHAPTERS
past exposure • michael jackson x time traveller!reader
↳ by @thedailymichael (multiple eras, time travelling au)
the jackson chronicles • michael jackson x spouse!reader
↳ by @imhandicapableofmath (so domestic, married!michael, suggestive, fluff)
desire, interrupted | desire, reclaimed • michael jackson x fem!reader
↳ by @urbanfunkchild (dangerous/history era, smut, angst, soft fluff)
you knock me off my feet | part two | part three • michael jackson x newrisintvocalist!reader
↳ by @comoquesoybambi (bad era, michael is basically obsessed)
my little reporter | part two • michael jackson x journalist!reader
↳ by @/am3sss (bad era, fluff)
again | part two | michael jackson x dancer!reader
↳ by @tpwkyarely (angst, hurt/comfort)
beautiful stranger | part two • michael jackson x fem!reader
↳ by @mjuniverse (pre thriller era, slow burn, yearning, very angsty, right person, wrong time, soft!michael)
gone by morning | part two • michael jackson x fem!reader
↳ by @startingsomethin (thriller-bad era, angst, cheating, smut, fluff)
spotlight • michael jackson x popstar!reader
↳ by @hcwait (thriller era, slow burn)
making of an it girl | part two • michael jackson x tourdancer!reader
↳ by @intelligenthottie
baby be mine | thrill you tonight • michael jackson x girlnextdoor!reader
↳ by @iceemochaa (post otw-pre thriller era, fluff, slightly suggestive)
stargirl | part two • michael jackson x singer !reader
↳ by @ytrhbz (thriller era, whipped!michael, fluff)
remember the time | part two | part three • michael jackson x fem!reader
↳ by @chmpngekisses (thriller-bad era, angst)
his new obsession | part two • michael jackson x reader
↳ by @luvvreader (yearning, slow burn)
by your side | part two • michael jackson x actress!reader
↳ by @svnnywrites (thriller era, hurt/comfort)
ONE-SHOTS-BLURBS-HC’S
baby be mine • michael jackson x reader
↳ by @angelfacediary (otw-bad era, angst, fluff)
nine months of home videos • michael jackson x reader
↳ by @angelfacediary (pregnant!reader, so so so fluffy)
out of time • michael jackson x fem!reader
↳ by @urelliee (bad era, angst, heartbreak, very bittersweet)
pretty young thing • michael jackson x fem!reader
↳ by @tpwkyarely (angst, comfort, tw: dv)
through his lens • thriller!michael jackson x reader
↳ by @neverlandzangel (thriller era, married!michael, fluff, domestic bliss)
arrow through the heart • michael jackson x fem!reader
↳ by @startingsomethin (dangerous era, oh so angsty)
excuse me that’s my wife • michael jackson x reader
↳ by @mvsticmoony (jealous!michael, fluff)
where is my husband! • michael jackson x singer!reader
↳ by @mvsticmoony (fluff)
love caught on tape • michael jackson x reader
↳ by @mvsticmoony (invincible era, flashbacks, married life fluff)
a love letter to june • michael jackson x fan!reader
↳ by @hcwait (dangerous era, very fluffy)
in sickness and in health • michael jackson x fem!reader
↳ by @king-mila (bad era, protective!michael, sick!reader, fluff, hurt/comfort)
america’s sweetest bunny • michael jackson x reader
↳ by @michaeldiary (dangerous era, playboymodel!reader, sooo fluffy, slightly suggestive)
little pieces of her • michael jackson x fem!reader
↳ by @brownsugarletters (thriller era, fluff)
young hearts, run free • michael jackson x guitarist!reader
↳ by @shakinghamster (thriller era, fluff, workplace romance, cheating)
unforgettable • michael jackson x fan!reader
↳ by @ytrhbz (history era, fluff, reader is that girl)
cause if it’s aching, you have to rub it • michael jackson x fem!black!reader
↳ by @serenebows (thriller era, shy!reader, fluff)
all over, all over, all over • michael jackson x fem!reader
↳ by @hon3yarchives (dangerous era, fluff, suggestive)
sign the girls • michael jackson x reader
↳ by @michaelpilled (thriller era, suggestive, flirting)
a memory to look back on • michael jackson x pregnant!reader
↳ by @lovecherishly (bad era, soo fluffy)
sweet tooth • michael jackson x sweet!reader
↳ by @carmaloves (bad era, so very fluffy)
stuck in the elevator • michael jackson x reader
↳ by @londynham (romance, fluff, angst)
working overtime • michael jackson x fem!reader
↳ by @urbanfunkchild (pre bad era, kind of smutty, possessive!michael)
love never felt so good • michael jackson x fem!black!reader
↳ by @proseandj (invincible era, fluff)
like a stradivarius • michael jackson x gn!spouse!reader
↳ by @imhandicapableofmath (married!michael, domestic fluff, humour, suggestive)
“she thinks you smell like cinnamon” • michael jackson x gn!spouse!reader
↳ by @imhandicapableofmath (married!michael, fanfiction meta, emotional comfort, teasing, fluff)
#1 loverboy • michael jackson x gn!reader
↳ by @invincibledc (bad era, fluff)
read my lips • michael jackson x deaf!black!reader
↳ by @invincibledc (protective!michael, fluff)
home movies • michael jackson x pregnant!reader
↳ by @ktrsis (bad-invincible era, flashbacks, soo fluffy)
the lady in my life • michael jackson x fem!reader
↳ by @cupcakeprincezz (thriller era, fluff)
surprise visit • michael jackson x fem!reader
↳ by @cupcakeprincezz (bad era, very fluffy)
secret touch • michael jackson x fem!singer!reader
↳ by @invinor (dangerous era, fluff)
inspiration • michael jackson x singer!reader
↳ by @liyahhsnuckhere (pre bad era, sooooo fluffy, suggestive)
the chateau • michael jackson x younger!fem!reader
↳ by @elleist (dangerous era, fluff, very cute)
imagine sitting on his lap
↳ by @humannatures (fem!reader, fluff)
tabloid junkie • michael jackson x fem!reader
↳ by @moonlitjane (protective!reader, fluff, suggestive)
hidden in the spotlight • superstar!michael jackson x costumedesigner!fem!reader
↳ by @gh0ulxxc (dangerous era, angst, fluff, romance, slow burn)
Yall I got added to an MJ fic rec. I’m moonwalking fr now! 😜😜I suggest checking out many of the other writers in this list because I fuck heavily with their ideas and writing styles! HEEHEE
.✦ ݁˖ summary: Paddy stumbles into the infirmary bloodied and drunk, only to be forced into stillness by the one person in the desert who doesn’t fear him--you. What begins as tension and defiance fractures into something far more dangerous—raw confession, emotional collapse, and a desperate, consuming need for comfort in a world built on violence.
.✦ ݁˖ contents: Graphic depictions of injury, including cuts, blood, and stitching. Mentions of war and violence. P in V, female satisfaction, angst, themes of alcohol use and intoxication, emotional distress and crying, toxic coping mechanisms, and possessive behavior. Minors DNI (18+ ONLY)
The desert was a cruel mistress, but tonight, Paddy Mayne looked as though he had been dragged through its very teeth.
He stood in the doorway of the makeshift infirmary, a towering shadow that seemed to swallow the dim light of the lanterns. The scent of him hit you before he even moved—a volatile cocktail of cheap gin, cordite, and the metallic tang of dried blood. He was a jagged shard of flint in a world made of soft sand, his knuckles split open and raw, skin stained a bruised, angry purple.
Paddy didn't speak. He never did when the black dog was nipping at his heels. He simply watched you with eyes that looked like scorched earth, cold and terrifyingly bright.
You didn't flinch. You were the only thing in this godforsaken camp that didn't.
Step by slow step, you moved toward him, the hem of your nursing whites whispering against the floorboards.
When you reached him, you didn't ask who he had fought or whose blood was crusting beneath his fingernails. You simply reached out, your fingers small and suprinsgly soft against the heavy, scarred muscle of his forearm.
"Sit," you commanded, your voice barely a whisper over the silence of the midnight air.
The legendary Colonel, the man who had torn the wings off Nazi planes with his bare hands, sank into the wooden chair as if his knees had finally given out. He let you take his hand—the hand that was a weapon, a tool of absolute destruction—and rest it in your lap.
But the surrender was short-lived—as though he had somewhere else to be.
Paddy lurched upward, his massive frame swaying with the heavy, rhythmic pull of the gin. The stench of it was a physical weight between you, sharp and sour.
"I’m fine," he growled, the words slurring just enough to betray the depth of his intoxication. "A bit of dust and a few scrapes. I’ve had worse from a rugby scrum in Belfast. I don’t need you hovering like a mother hen."
He made to shove past you, his shoulder clipping yours with the careless force of a man who forgot his own strength when his mind was clouded by the black dog. You didn't move. You planted your hand firmly against the blood-stained wool of his chest, feeling the frantic, jagged pulse of his heart beneath your palm.
"I’m not asking you, Paddy Mayne," you said, your voice dropping into a low, dangerous hush that finally made him freeze. "I’m telling you. You will sit in that chair, or so help me, I will have the orderlies strap you to a cot. Your choice…"
Paddy let out a long, jagged sigh that smelled of the desert and the dark, bitter gin he favored. It was the sound of a dying fire, weary and hollow. He didn't move immediately; instead, he remained poised on the edge of flight, his massive shoulders tensed as if he were preparing to storm a trench rather than a wooden chair.
Slowly, his head tilted, and he fixed his gaze on yours. He searched your eyes with a heavy, searching intensity, hunting for a flicker of hesitation or the softness he usually exploited. He looked for the girl who had once blushed at his shadow, but he found only the iron-willed woman who had survived the blood and the heat of the front lines.
He stayed like that for a heartbeat too long, his dark eyes tracing the set of your jaw and the cold, flat determination in your stare. He was checking to see if you were being serious—if you truly had the nerve to challenge the beast when he was this far gone.
What he saw there finally made the fight bleed out of him. The tension left his frame in a sudden, heavy slump, and he sank back into the chair with a groan that rattled the very frames of the infirmary.
"A soldier of the King," he muttered, his head falling back as he stared up at the sagging canvas ceiling. "A commander of men, a bringer of fire and ruin across the sands... and here I sit, a captive to a slip of a girl with soap on her hands and fire in her tongue."'
He began to recite then, his voice a gravelly, rhythmic lilt that spoke of his love for the poets. Even now, when he could barely see straight, the man had to have the last word.
"Between the stirrup and the ground," he murmured, "mercy I asked, mercy I found... but there is no mercy in this tent, only the cold command of a nurse."
You let out a sharp huff of breath, a sound that tasted of copper and woodsmoke, and rolled your eyes at the sagging roof above. Gods, the man was as dramatic as a mummers' queen when the gin took hold of his senses.
He sat there steeped in his own shadow, reeking of juniper and the sour, salt sweat of a man who had spent his evening seeking a brawl.
You reached for a fresh swab, the linen rough and dry against your palm, and dipped it into the basin where the water had already turned a murky, bruised pink. To the world, he was a bringer of fire, a commander of men who traded in ruin and high-flown verse; to you, he was merely another stubborn fool with a split lip and a head full of bad liquor.
"You’re such an idiot," you whispered, dabbing softly at his split lip.
The words felt like ash in your mouth as you looked at the wreck of him.
He was a man made of iron and old scars, a commander who led men to their deaths with a poet's tongue and a butcher’s hands, yet here he sat, so very still the moment your fingers touched his face, his gaze dropping from the ceiling to your mouth with a heavy focus.
"Why do you fight your own men?" Your heart ached, a dull, throbbing weight in your chest. You had seen enough blood to last three lifetimes, yet the sight of his—wasted on a comrade’s knuckles—made your stomach churn. "I just—I don't understand you sometimes, Paddy. There are enemies enough in the world without making more of those who wear the same uniform. Is the desert not enough of a grave for you?"
Paddy didn't answer with words. He gave a sharp, bark-like laugh that tasted of blood, his teeth stained crimson from his split lip. He looked at you with eyes that had seen too many fires, eyes that were dark and bottomless as a well.
"The desert is a cold bed," he rasped, his voice like grinding stones. He reached out with a hand that had broken a dozen men before the moon had reached its zenith, his fingers thick and calloused as they brushed against the soft skin of your throat. "And a man needs a bit of heat to remind him he’s still among the living, even if he has to bleed for it."
You wanted to scoff, but you didn’t have the energy to argue—not really.
He was a monster, a creature of salt and shadow, and you were the only thing keeping him from the abyss. You hated the way he looked at you then—as if you were the only piece of mercy left in a world that had forgotten the word.
The silence of the midnight air pressed against the walls, thick with the scent of cheap gin and the metallic tang of dried blood.
You reached for your needle, the silver glinting under the dim light of the lanterns. Your hands trembled, a slight tremor you prayed he was too drunk to notice, but Paddy saw everything. He was a man made of iron and old scars, yet he sat perfectly still the moment your fingers touched his face.
“Hold still,” you commanded, your voice stern, your fingers firm as you caught his jawline and tilted his head toward the light while you worked the needle through the cut on his brow.
He didn't flinch as the steel pierced his skin, his gaze dropping from the ceiling to your mouth with a heavy, predatory focus. "You have a gentle touch for someone who spends her days cutting out shrapnel," he rasped, his voice like grinding stones.
"Someone has to be gentle with you, Paddy," you whispered, the words feeling like ash in your mouth. "Since you seem intent on breaking yourself against every man in this camp."
A low, dark chuckle rumbled in his chest, a sound that tasted of blood.
"The boys needed a reminder of who leads them. A commander of men must be a bringer of fire, or they'll forget the heat".
"And what of me?" Your heart ached, a dull, throbbing weight in your chest. You pulled the silk thread taut, closing the gap in his crimson-stained ruin above his eyebrow. "Am I just the one who washes the ruin away so you can go find more?"
Paddy’s jaw ticked, muscle jumping beneath the rough line of his face as he fought the urge to move, the smell of cordite and juniper settling over you like something suffocating.
“You’re the only peace I have,” he breathed, his dark eyes tracing the cold, flat determination in your stare. “The only thing that isn’t burning.”
The words didn’t settle. They hung there—too heavy, too close—pressing in like the heat beneath the canvas walls.
You didn’t answer.
The needle paused in your fingers, hovering just above his skin. For a moment, all you could hear was the faint rasp of his breathing, the distant groan of wind dragging sand against the tent, the quiet, awful awareness of how close he was.
Too close.
Your throat tightened. Your grip shifted, just slightly.
“I hate you when you’re like this,” you murmured at last, the words quieter now, thinner, like they had to force their way out. “So angry. So broken.”
You pulled back then—just enough to put space between you, the needle lifting with you, thread catching faintly in the low light—and his hand closed around your wrist.
Not rough. Not gentle.
Certain.
The movement stilled you both.
“I know,” he whispered, his thumb dragging a slow, bruising circle into the center of your palm, the same hand that held him in place. “But God help the man who tries to take the mercy you give me.”
Something in you cracked.
It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. Just a small, sharp break somewhere deep in your chest that you couldn’t quite hold together.
Your breath hitched.
You turned your face away, but not fast enough.
A tear slipped free.
Paddy went still.
Completely.
The tension in him shifted—not gone, but… different. His grip loosened without thinking, his hand still hovering at your wrist like he didn’t quite know what to do with it now.
“What—” he started, the word rough, unfamiliar in his mouth. “What is it?”
“Nothing,” you said quickly, too quickly, trying to pull your hand free. “It’s nothing, just—hold still, I need to finish—”
But your voice betrayed you, catching halfway through.
And you still wouldn’t look at him.
His hand tightened again—not to stop you this time, but to keep you there.
“Don’t,” he said, quieter now. Not a command. Something else. “Don’t lie to me.”
You shook your head, a sharp, stubborn motion, even as another tear slipped loose.
“It’s nothing,” you insisted, pushing weakly at his chest with your free hand. “You’re making it into something it’s not—just let me go, Paddy—”
He didn’t.
Instead, his hand shifted from your wrist, sliding upward with a sudden, heavy desperation to pull you into the hard expanse of his chest. The wool of his tunic was rough against your cheek, smelling of salt, cordite, and the ghost of the desert wind. You collapsed into him, the iron-willed nurse finally fracturing as you sobbed into the blood-stained fabric of his shoulder.
"I want you to promise me," you choked out, your voice muffled and thick with the tears you could no longer contain. "Promise me you won't go out there and leave me. That you won't just... throw your life away in some trench or God-forsaken hole in the sand". You clung to him, your fingers digging into the heavy muscle of his back. "But I know it’s futile. I know what you are, Paddy. You're a bringer of ruin, and you'll find it eventually".
The words began to tumble out faster, your breath hitching in a jagged rhythm as panic started to claw at your throat. "Every time you walk out that door, I see the ghost of you. I see the pine box. I see—".
"Hush," he rasped, the word like grinding stones, but the focus in his eyes had been replaced by a raw, startled vulnerability.
He moved then, his massive frame looming over you as he surged up from the chair. Before another frantic word could leave your lips, Paddy captured them with his own. It wasn't the crash of a landslide this time; it was a desperate, silencing heat intended to anchor you back to the earth. He tasted of iron and bitter gin, his stitched brow pressing against yours as he drank in your distress until your heart finally slowed its frantic, jagged thrumming.
When he pulled back just a fraction, his dark eyes searched yours with a heavy intensity that felt like a vow. He cupped your face, his thick, calloused thumbs catching the last of your tears.
"Let me take care of you now," he breathed, his voice a low, jagged lilt that held no room for argument. "No more blood. No more ruins. Just us."
You nodded weakly, your forehead dropping back against his chest as the monster of salt and shadow finally offered the only piece of mercy he had left. He lifted you then, as if you weighed no more than a slip of silk, and carried you toward the shadows of the cot. In the dim light of the lanterns, the violence of the desert faded away, replaced by the slow, deliberate rhythm of a love made of silk thread and iron-willed devotion.
Paddy moved with a sudden, uncharacteristic grace, his massive frame looming over you as he guided you back toward the chair. He didn't lift his hands from you; instead, he took the very cloth you had used to scrub the grit and the metallic tang of dried blood from his skin. With a focus that was surprisingly steady for a man so deep in the gin, he began to wipe away the stray droplets of his own ruin that had splattered onto your pale cheeks and throat.
His thick, calloused fingers were careful, almost reverent, as he worked the fastenings of your nursing whites. He peeled the blood-stained wool away, casting the uniform of your heavy, throbbing burden aside until you sat before him in only your thin, normal clothes. The midnight air of the godforsaken camp felt cool against your skin, a sharp contrast to the rugged heat radiating off him.
"I know I can be unfair," he rasped, his voice like grinding stones cutting through the silence. He remained poised before you, his dark eyes tracing the set of your jaw. "And I can’t promise the desert won't claim me, or that I won't end up in a pine box one day soon. But I can promise to treat you better than a monster of salt and shadow should."
He offered a dramatic, weary tilt of his head, looking up as if reciting to the poets themselves. "It is a heavy penance for a commander of men to take orders from a slip of a girl, but perhaps I’ve found a mercy I didn't seek."
The theatrics of it, even in his drunken state, pulled a small, breathless laugh from your lungs. You didn't wait for him to lean in this time; you moved first, your mouth crashing into his with a desperate, hungry heat that finally silenced the black dog nipping at his heels.
When you pulled back, the air between you thickened, heavy with a predatory focus and the scent of juniper. "Paddy," you whispered, your heart ached with a terrifying certainty. "I love you."
For the first time since he had returned from the fire and ruin of the dunes, a smile broke across his face—not the sharp, bark-like laugh of a soldier, but something genuine and soft.
"Say it again," he breathed, his thumb dragging a slow, bruising circle into your palm.
"I love you," you repeated, your voice a silken thread in the dark.
He leaned closer, his scent of cordite wrapping around you like a shroud. "One more time, I think. My hearing’s been off ever since that bomb went off beside us last week."
You didn't give him words; you made out with him instead, the contact turning primal and certain as his hand closed around your wrist. The urgency between you grew, a low, dark rumble of need that made your breath hitch. When you finally broke apart, gasping for air in the stifling tent, you whispered the words against his lips one last time.
"I love you."
With a sudden, heavy slump of tension, the legendary Colonel began to strip away the rest of his gear, his movements determined as he pulled you toward the shadows of the cot.
But the cot was too far, and the hunger in his eyes was a hungry, burning thing that wouldn't wait for the soft give of a mattress. Paddy’s hand, thick and calloused from a life of ruin, swept across the surface of the scarred wooden table. Basins of murky, bruised water and silver instruments clattered to the floorboards in a discordant symphony of steel, clearing the way for the only peace he had left.
"I told you," he rasped, his voice like grinding stones against the shell of your ear. "A man needs a bit of heat to remind him he’s still among the living, even if he has to bleed for it".
The air in the stifling tent thickened, heavy with a primal focus as he stripped away the last of his khaki gear. When he entered you, it wasn't with the rhythmic lilt of the poets he recited, but with the raw, certain power of the desert itself. You arched against the hard table, your fingers digging into the heavy, scarred muscle of his back, anchoring yourself in the middle of his riotous storm.
He filled you completely, a massive, unyielding weight that made you gasp as he bottomed out against your core. The sheer size of him was a shock of heat, a physical invasion that sent a violent shiver racing down your spine, leaving you trembling against the sweat-slicked skin of his chest. Paddy paused, his breath a jagged, broken sound in the silence of the midnight air, his knuckles white where they gripped the edge of the wood.
"Are you... is this good?" he rasped, his voice dropping into a low, uncertain lilt as he searched your eyes for any sign of the iron-willed nurse retreating.
"I’m good, Paddy," you whispered, your heart ached with a terrifying need as you wrapped your legs tighter around his waist. "Go faster. Please."
He didn't need another command. The legendary Colonel surged forward, his movements becoming a frantic, rhythmic pull that mirrored the war drum of his heart. He was a bringer of fire, and every thrust felt like a brand, a volatile cocktail of desperation and certain, bruising strength that made the floorboards beneath the table groan.
His hands were everywhere—one calloused palm flat against the small of your back to arch you higher, while the other tangled in your hair to pull your mouth back to his.
You cried out, a raw, silken thread of sound that was lost to the wind dragging sand against the canvas, your body shaking with every heavy, possessive strike. You reacted to him like a storm-tossed bird, your nails marking the scarred muscle of his forearms as he drove you deeper into the abyss, neither of you willing to find the surface until the last of the ruin was burned away.
The friction of his skin against yours was a volatile cocktail of heat and desperate, certain need. You moaned his name out loud, the sound vibrating against the column of his throat, and Paddy’s grip on your waist tightened until his knuckles were white where they held you to the edge of the wood.
"Paddy," you gasped, your head falling back as the tension in your chest began to fracture into something beautiful and terrifying.
He didn't pull away. Instead, he leaned in until his forehead rested against yours, his breath a jagged, broken sound that smelled of the desert and the dark, bitter gin he favored. He shifted his weight, his thick, calloused fingers sliding beneath your hips to tilt you higher, guiding you toward the edge of the abyss with a heavy, searching intensity.
"I have you," he rasped, his voice a low, jagged lilt that finally silenced the black dog nipping at his heels. "I have you, lass."
He didn’t wait for the desert to claim the silence; he surged forward, his movements becoming a frantic, rhythmic pull that mirrored the war drum of his heart. He went faster, the friction of his skin against yours a volatile cocktail of heat and desperate, certain need. Your body began to lock up, the tension in your chest finally fracturing as you hit the peak, a sudden, overwhelming release that left you shaking with every heavy, possessive strike.
As you were cumming, he leaned in close, his breath a jagged, broken sound that smelled of the desert and the dark, bitter gin he favored. "That’s it," he talked you through it, his voice a low, jagged lilt that felt like grinding stones against your skin. "I got you. Do you feel better now?"
"Yes," you whimpered, the word a silken thread of velvet lost in the sound of the wind dragging sand against the night.
"Hold on," he commanded, his fingers digging into your skin with a bruising strength. "Just a little bit longer."
Your body began to involuntarily jolt against the hard surface of the table, your nails marking the scarred muscle of his forearms. He slowed the frantic, rhythmic pull of his body, replacing the violence of the dunes with a slow, deliberate heat that made you shiver against the scarred muscle of his chest. You clung to him, your breath hitching in a jagged rhythm as you climbed, your heart a thrumming war drum against his own. With one final, possessive surge, Paddy helped you find the peace you had given him a thousand times before, his mouth capturing your sob of release in a kiss that tasted of salt, iron, and a mercy that had finally found its home.
He bottomed out one last time, a massive, unyielding weight that made you gasp as he came inside you, his frame sagging with a sudden, heavy slump of tension.
The quiet of the infirmary was absolute for only a heartbeat before a voice cut through the tent from outside. "Paddy? You in there? Stirling’s looking for you."
Both of your bodies tightened instantly, the predatory focus returning to Paddy’s eyes as he froze like a creature of salt and shadow.
"Fuck off, David!" Paddy roared, his voice a low, dangerous hush that finally made the footsteps outside pause.
"I need to come in, Mayne," David insisted, his voice closer to the tent flaps now. "It's about the raid."
"I said get lost before I bury you in the Great Sand Sea!" Paddy threatened, his jaw ticking, a muscle jumping beneath the rough line of his face. When David took a heavy step toward the entrance, Paddy didn't hesitate. He reached out with a hand that had broken a dozen men, snatched his service pistol from the gear on the floor, and fired a single, deafening shot through the top of the wooden doorframe.
The silence that followed was heavy and sudden. After a moment, the sound of retreating boots hurried away into the midnight air.
Paddy looked back at you, the dark, bottomless intensity of his gaze breaking into a sudden, genuine smile. You both let out a jagged, breathless laugh, the absurdity of the war and the ruin outside falling away.
He reached for a fresh swab, his thick, calloused fingers surprisingly gentle as he began to wash the remnants of the night from your skin. He moved with a sudden, uncharacteristic grace, his scent of cordite and juniper wrapping around you like a shroud.
"I love you," you whispered, the words no longer feeling like ash in your mouth.
Paddy leaned down, his forehead resting against yours, his voice a low, jagged lilt. "I know," he breathed against your lips. "And God help the man who tries to take the mercy you give me".
heyy girly!!! hope your doing well! I just had a thought while at work...what about michael x manager/assisntant!reader who took a few weeks off, because theres no press tours, concerts etc. and Michael notices after a few days that he misses hearing her voice everyday or seeing her face. thats why he shoes up one night at her doorstep talking nonseneseeeee. but he grabs her face and kisses her, shes totally starstruck and maybe kisses him back? or maybe something angsty? do with it what you want i trust you girl! your writing is amazingggg
Here you go! I hope it’s what you wanted. I was so nervous writing this and it was originally going to be shorter but my fingers wouldn’t stop typing! Huge thanks to my moots for heavy inspo also!
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▸ You decide to take a few days off while business is going slow. No tour dates, no concerts, no award shows to take care of— it’s the perfect time to leave him in the hands of someone else. Only, he doesn’t want someone else handling him.
★ Reviews : This was a request sent in and I HAD to write it. I’m so sorry it took me forever, I had major burn out and then a sudden inspiration to write again. This one is also dedicated to my pookie @matrixfangs who inspires me to write MJ fics LMFAOAO I would not be doing this if you weren’t so obsessed just like me! Happy birthday pooks ❤️ thank you to @confetti-cakemix for beta reading! We’re making out sloppy style.
⌞Parental Advisory ⌝ 18+mdni. Boss x employee dynamics. Fingering. Insane amounts of kissing. Teasing. Slight comedy. talks of past relationship. Slight power imbalance. Talking through it. I’m going insane. If you see any mistakes, no you didn’t :) WC: 5K
Disclaimer | This is all purely fictional. All subjects/topics are not real and is written for entertainment purposes only. Please check the tags if you are uncomfortable. Thank You .ᐟ
Baking wasn't your thing, but with the amount of free time you had— no longer having to worry about a massive toddler you knew all too well— you figured you might as well start.
You had a cookbook open, the pages clean and free from the mistake you were most certainly going to make. The receipt was in the trash, the wrapping with it. The longer you stared at the book, the more you felt like it was meant for some poor victim to attempt something they knew they weren't good at.
Your hands were never meant for mixing and decorating sweets. You learned that at a young age, way back in elementary when you almost poisoned the whole class from your cookies. It was meant for signing names and dialing phone numbers—meant for pointing and directing people to do their jobs for once.
Glued to the kitchen, you had a wide variety of bowls, utensils, and ingredients organized on the counter in preparation for your new endeavor. Usually, at this time, you would have been rushing down white hallways with schedules and deadlines at your heels. Album covers, outfit designs, documents that needed to be looked at— exhaustion spinning your head, but adrenaline moving you forward— but not tonight.
A 2-week paid vacation was in your contract and you decided to spend it at home, choosing to relax in the comfort of your seldom used kitchen while your mind buzzed with ideas on what to bake first.
Your first victim will be an attempt at making cupcakes.
You flipped through the cookbook, staring at the pretty pictures they displayed of cakes, cupcakes, cookies; every delicious treat you could think of. You bit your lip, mouth watering at the sight of a red velvet cupcake. Red and white icing, cream-filled, dark crimson crust— all that was sure to induce you into a sugar coma.
You had to make it, poison be damned.
You got started, following the instructions. Bowl first, eggs, sugar, milk— whatever the instructions said to use, you did exactly that. You got comfortable in the process, hands moving with sugary determination. You mixed when you needed to, added more toppings for extra sweetness. White chocolate chips, some sprinkles— you might have overdone it with the sugar but there was no harm in that. "Red velvet Surprise!" Was your epic name for this creation you hoped would live up to its name.
It almost felt like managing a business, the environment your family thought you would dread but dove into with wonderful results. Cooking was like managing people and their expectations; a little guidance here, some careful calculation there; you smiled to yourself, maybe it won't turn out to be such a disaster after all.
After a while, the silence started to eat away at your bones. You weren't used to the quiet, so you turned the radio on, sugary gloss finger tips sticking to the channel knob. You twisted, the station crackled to life— your interest set on flipping through radio hosts who were actually entertaining to listen to.
| “—And now for a fan favorite!"
The radio host calls out, the music scratching before you hear the familiar sound of that voice ring through.
You turned your attention back on the lumpy concoction, the ingredients almost consistent but still in need of mixing and time. You used your wrist to stir, entirely pleased at the results so far, tongue sticking out as a natural habit to keep yourself focused.
| "—Where did you come from, lady? And ohh, won't you take me there—"
Even when you were away relaxing at home, trying your best to focus on being normal— stress-free, feet cozy in your fuzzy slippers, pajamas glued to your body— you still couldn't get away from him.
| "— I want to love you! Pretty young thing—"
You can't stop your head from bobbing to the track. Foot tapping, your wrist moving with the rhythm of the song. Somewhere in the middle, you were mouthing the words, hips swinging, the ad-libs probably one of your favorite parts of the song.
Once the batter looked good, you poured it into a tray, each cup filled moderately to ensure you didn't overdo it.
The oven was preheated and set to 400 degrees. And after, you took the time to clean off the counter with a wet rag, disposing of dirty dishes all while singing the last parts of the song before the host changed it. He announced an artist you didn't like, someone whose voice sounded like sandpaper and bad decisions on a track, and tuned into their more recently popular song.
With the oven finally heated, you placed the tray inside, giving it a once-over before you shut the door and left it to bake.
You had a lot of time on your hands.
Your legs brought you towards the living room, the radio music following like a ghost. You hadn’t been home in so long, often held back at work, so it wasn't a surprise that everything was unkept. Stacks of folders and binders, work-related paperwork you didn't feel like dealing with were everywhere.
With a heavy sigh, you got to work.
You reorganized, placing some papers under the coffee table, a few on your bookshelf, and the rest in your bedroom closet to tidy the area. You had old files of projects you showed to your boss, some you managed to see come to life, others that needed massive reworks but didn't seem like a bad idea. Sketches of outfits, pictures of venues, and merchandise— the tour at the time was eating you alive but you loved it. The feeling of seeing fans appreciate a design. The rush of excitement when a scene was pulled off on stage, a situation created out of the thought of “would it be crazy to do this?” And a lot of “yes! Let’s do it!”
Regardless of the stress, you liked doing what you did—
A knock at the door startled you.
You checked the clock on the wall, the time reading a quarter till eight. You weren't expecting guests…
Were you?
You were going to ignore it, assuming some teenager was going around trying to pull off a prank but the knock happened again, this time heavier.
Odd.
You quickly ran to the door, suspicious and otherwise terrified that it could be the cops or worse. You peeped through the tiny hole in the door, standing on your tiptoes, and your face twisted immediately.
Great.
With a deep sigh, stress brewing back up into your spine like you've been tased, you unlocked the door, cracking it open slightly, the chained lock keeping the door from opening further.
The blacked-out shades were no surprise, having grown used to looking at the lens like a barrier, but the baggy pants were new. Dark gray, high above his waist, the oversized jacket did nothing to hide his slender frame. And the hair, God, the mullet shaped and styled like he was going to an award show— not someone's apartment building.
It's almost like he wanted to be caught.
"Hey…" the man of the house said, shuffling from one foot to the other, his lips pulled into a grin.
"Hey," you repeated back, taking note of how alone he was. He usually had a bodyguard, Bill, but it was only him.
You wanted to laugh suddenly, the whole point of being here was to get away from him, but it seems like he couldn't stay away.
"Are you lost or?" You said, looking at him confused.
"Lost?" his grin dropped, "No? At least, I don't think so?"
"Good. Cause I got cupcakes to make and you're wasting my time—" before you could close the door, he managed to squeeze his foot between the crack, the heel of the shoe pointed sideways.
"We drove all the way over here and I can't get a smile?"
You gave him a smile alright. One that was forced and filled with venom.
"You're no good," he pouted.
"Thank you. See you in two weeks—" again, he wouldn't move his foot. "Mr. Jackson, go home."
"I can't."
"Yes, you can."
"No," he said with emphasis, "I can't."
It's like arguing with a toddler.
"Why? " you questioned, “—and it better be a good reason too."
"My house flooded."
You raised a brow. "How did that happen?"
He bit his lip, pulling his hands behind his back. "Bubbles thought it was a bathtub so he decided to move in."
Like a mother to a troubled toddler, you knew just when he was lying or telling the truth.
"Oh, really?”
He nodded, head down, eyes peering into yours.
“Then why didn't you drive to a plumber? You think I got a degree in fixing toilets?”
“…maybe?”
“You're so—“ you have to remember he was your boss, but you were also on vacation, so technically he wasn’t. “I’ll call someone to come fix it, does that sound good?”
“Sounds perfect!”
The silence washed over.
You smelled your cupcakes, the sugar developing. You looked back at the clock again and then to the folders still scattered around on the floor. “Great talk sir, see ya—“
“Wait!”
The door refused to shut. His foot was still caught between the crack of the door. You both looked at each other crazily. Eyeing one another. The chain coming down so you can open the door wider to give him a piece of your mind.
“Mr.Jackson, it’s highly inappropriate for you to be here. I mean, this is my house. My home. You don’t live here—“
"Is that my song?" He interrupted, stepping closer, close enough you could smell his cologne.
"Your song?” Your lips turned, “No—"
| “— You really turn me on. You knocked me off my feet—“
"It sounds like it," He smirked, earning an eye roll from you.
"What do you want?"
"I needed an escape.” he managed to push inside, forcing you to step back while he walked into your personal space, ignoring your very obvious scrunched face. "The people back there were giving me a headache."
"I know the feeling." you give him a pointed look, your arms crossed over your chest as you watch him walk deeper into your living room. He checked out the scattered folders on the floor, tip-toeing around them, peering around like a curious cat.
"And the guy who replaced you? Ugh!" He groaned loudly, plopping himself down on your couch.
“Are you going to ignore me?” You said, finding it useless to keep projecting while he did in fact, ignore your comments. You took a peek from out of the doorway, noticing the very obvious black car parked up front.
Deciding to save what little peace you had left, you shut the door, leaving the issue alone.
“—If I have to spend another second with him, I'm gonna—"
"You're not going to do anything," you tutted, walking back to the kitchen to check your cupcakes. You opened the oven, backing away slightly when the heat shot out in waves.
"I'm gonna fire him. He's annoying," he sighed, lounging on your couch like he owned the place, his thin legs resting over the cushions. "He tells me to do this and that— say this and that. Smile, scoot over, sign this album—"
"Don't be a baby," you said from the kitchen. "That's his job."
Seeing that your cupcakes were done, you took the cupcakes out with an oven mitt on your hands, the smell immediately hitting your stomach. It smelled so good, good enough to risk burning the roof of your mouth.
You rested the tray on the counter, waving it down to cool it off. Michael was still complaining, listing more reasons why he was in hell at the estate without you there. You heard something about interviews, a magazine cover, dressing like a robot for promotional material for some new sci-fi film he wasn’t interested in.
You licked your lips, the smell drawing your senses, your mind already hyping you up to try it.
“And he tells me to be smart about it— smart! Like I’m not smart already!”
"I say the same thing,” you added, still letting the cupcake cool off.
"Yeah, but I like the way you say it.”
You couldn’t ignore the implications of that. Old wounds hidden behind a band-aid that was going to slip off soon. You’ve had this conversation with him before, way back when you first joined his team. You were just starting, a few years younger, your eyes filled with hope and love for the same things he had.
As his manager, your interest was supposed to align with his… and somewhere down the road, it aligned almost too perfectly.
You joined him back in the living room, folding your arms over your chest.
"And he smells funny," he added, "like old shoes and Bubbles when he doesn't take a bath for a week."
"That's kinda rude."
"It's kind of true," he shot back.
You both watched each other, quiet and still.
Finding that the conversation was going nowhere, you opted for a better solution to his complaints.
"I baked cupcakes, wanna try?"
He pulled his shades down, perched up on his nose now. He looked at you with those big brown eyes, his eyeliner dark and mysterious. It gave the impression of seductiveness— although you know he's nothing more than a sweetheart at best.
"Yes, Please."
You prepared a presentation, announcing yourself as if you were the queen of England. Saluting and then marching with a singular cupcake warm in your hand. You made your way to the living room, shooing him to move his legs over so you could sit beside him. "Your highness," you teased, bowing your head and he took the cupcake from you, his fingers touching over yours.
He waited, eyeing the cupcake. “Will this kill me?”
“Let’s hope not.”
He took a small bite.
His face didn’t change much, except for a tilt in his eyebrows.
"What do you think?" You questioned.
He was silent for the most part, chewing slowly— almost too slowly for your liking. You know he wasn't much of a food person, often having to be forced like a toddler to get his nutrients in, but you've never seen his face so far removed from an emotion.
"…Well?"
"It's… something…" he said, voice low.
"Something? Like, good? Bad?"
"Honest?"
Knowing him, he was going to be blunt in fact. "Go for it."
"Don't quit your day job," he gagged, and you rolled your eyes at his exaggerated movements. "Yuck, I wouldn't feed that to Bubbles even if he liked it."
"You're so annoying."
"You asked."
"Are you serious? Is it really that nasty?"
"Here, you try."
He leaned over without thinking, holding the side he didn't bite to your lips, close enough that if anybody walked in, it would have been obvious what the relationship between you two was.
Your eyes dropped to the cupcake and then back to him, but he was only staring at your lips.
"Say ahhh—" he cooed, moving in without permission, like he knew you were going to do what he said even if you didn’t want to.
You opened your mouth slowly, finding it hard not to stare at him. Long lashes, glossy lips, smoky eye shadow that made his eyes even more enchanting to look at— and the long curly hair over his face gave him a prince archetype, you should thank his hairstylist for suggesting it again.
You took a bite, teeth nipping at his finger but he didn’t pull back. The taste instantly exploded into your mouth on impact. Too much sugar, too much flour, dry and wet at the same time— Christ, this was disgusting.
Your lips pulled back, cheeks puffing, the clear look of disgust written all over your face.
"Told you so," he laughed in your face.
"Fine, fine, you won. It’s nasty." You shivered, tongue pooling out to try and get rid of the taste from lingering on your tongue. "I don't think baking is for me."
"At least you know now," He chuckled, placing the mess down on the coffee table. "Your true strength is in high heels and a pencil skirt."
Finding that you were over with his smart comments, you decided to use your own. "Are you stereotyping me, Mr. Jackson?"
It hit him quicker than he ever thought. His eyes went wide, almost as wide as a cartoon character's face in panic. "w-wait— no— I meant working under me—"
"Under you? Like I'm your common prostitute? Is that what your game is?"
He sat back quickly, the distance not helping his favor, holding his hands up in defense. "N-No— wait— I didn't mean it like that— " his mouth dropped open, excuses rolling off his tongue like honey. "Cause you work for me— and of course I'm not calling you that! I respect you too much— a-and I would never say that to you—"
"But you would say that to anybody else?" Your lips creased, concern spreading over your face.
"Pardon? No! Never! I-I would never do that—"
"Gotcha."
It all came crashing down.
You watched as his big brown eyes turned, his lips slowly running into a thin line. His hands came back down, resting over his lap, and you couldn't help chuckling in his face after that.
"Aww, chin up," you smiled, "any longer and I would have called the cops."
"You're a dirty player," he said, tilting his head. "Had my head spinning and you're laughing."
"Hey, you're not innocent either. Remember when you tapped 'kick me' on my back and had everyone sign a contract to keep their mouth shut about it?"
"It was funny."
"It was mean."
"You're mean," he said quickly after, stopping you in place.
You felt the shift in his tone. The slump in his stance. You don't often see him look this way, quickly upset without a cause.
"How so?"
He looked off to the side, his fingers fiddling in his lap. "You left me…Alone," he said slowly, "they don't understand me. Don't understand what it takes to do the things I do." He sighed so heavily, you felt your heart shake. "Not like you.
And then it hits.
There was a cause.
The cause was you.
"I'm…" you stop yourself, unsure how you should respond. Should you respond as an employee should to their boss? Say what they want so you don't get fired? Or should you respond in a more personal way? Something beyond a work-related relationship that you've been trying so hard to maintain.
"Sir—"
"Michael," he corrected, barely taking a glance.
You tried again, his name tasting sour. "Michael—” it didn’t feel right. It didn’t feel proper to refer to him so closely. “Sir—"
You heard him huff, his eyes finding yours suddenly. He laughed slowly, shaking his head. "You're so strange. I ask everyone else to call me Michael— some even have nicknames for me, but you always resort to 'sir' and 'Mr.Jackson'."
"Because,” you stated, unsure. “ You're my boss—“
"Is it so bad to be more than that?"
There it is.
That tick in your heart that never seemed to go away.
Any normal person can bite it back and ignore it. Pretend enough that it turns into something less, but you don't have the compassion to pretend. The world was real, your job was real, he was real. It only lies dormant until the moment you see him and then it kicks back up again.
You swallowed around a dry lump, feeling warm all over. It was getting dark— darker than you would like. If he stayed longer, you assumed his bodyguards would think something bigger was going on— Nothing was going on.
"You should leave," you started, feeling hopeless so quickly. "Before someone suspects that you're here."
"Who would suspect that?"
"Dark car across the street, bodyguard probably at the stairs—"
"But I don't wanna go."
“You have too.”
“I don’t want to.”
You should be more resilient than this. Instead, you were being pushed over. Entirely left at his will, subject to do what he wanted because Michael always got what he wanted. The stage, the lights, the fame. He wanted it so bad, he conjured it out of thin air.
He wanted you so bad, he conjured it right in front of him.
“Say it again,” he breathed, “say it like you mean it. Tell me to leave like you don’t care.”
But you did care.
And that was the scary part.
“I…Sir—“
“Michael.” His hand crept towards yours, thumb brushing over your skin, sending warmth through your body. “Tell me again. Tell me you don’t want me.”
You wondered how many times you could say it. How many times could you deny it to convince yourself that it wasn’t real?
"S-Sir…you know we can't."
It's hard being like this, putting a wall between you two when you both know that it's very easy to jump over it.
You knew what he had, a crush that developed over time into something raw. Something that couldn’t be explained and yet felt all over— but Crushes were for kids, children who didn't have their life planned ahead yet. Not for people whose distance was already set in stone.
You, bright-eyed, following under your manager because you had always dreamed of mentoring the greatest. President, big company owner, world superstar— manifesting truly did you wonders, but you didn't think it would go this far. And Michael? He was completely out of reach. Talent, compassion, and exceptional ability to garner fame like nobody else.
He was your boss.
Not the boy next door.
Workplace relationships weren't your thing, especially when it took into account how many people wanted him as badly as they did oxygen.
"I know," he said, his eyes drifting somewhere far off.
It felt cold.
“I get it. Yeah…” His fingers ran over the knuckles of your hand, stopping short of your ring finger. He took extra time noting it, like he was trying to say the obvious without looking even more stupid. "A guy could try though, right?"
You blinked, and he was moving before you realized it.
He pressed his lips to yours, squeezing your hand into his. He didn’t push any further, didn’t try to deepen the kiss, he simply felt your lips against his because he knew this was probably the only opportunity while he had the chance.
It felt…strange.
Not a bad strange. A good strange. The type of strangeness that was mixed with troubled feelings, no worries, and a life imagined into sunsets and warmth.
This was inappropriate.
This was bad.
But…
For some reason….you didn’t move either.
You titled your head.
He pressed in harder.
And you both melted into each other like chocolate left out in the sun. Sticky with want, lips sweet against one another. The taste of him was long-lasting and made your stomach twist with satisfaction.
Before you could pull away, he was ushering you down into the couch, his hands pinning you down. Your bodies moving together on their own until he was slotted between your legs, your thighs trapping him in. The kiss transcended into something more, something deeper that was close to boiling over.
You turned your head away when he breathed into the kiss, reality hitting back into you, giving you whiplash.
“Mr— Sir—“ he kissed you again, but you pushed him back by his shoulders. "W-We can't," you gasped.
His eyes watched you with want.
"You're my boss—"
"Then do what I say."
He pushed you deeper into the couch.
“Michael—”
"I-I'm trying to save myself—" he kissed your neck, his teeth grazing over your skin like a blunt knife. His large hands pulled at the waistband of your pajama pants, dipping in like his name was written between your legs, waiting for him to sign his signature. "B-But I can't stop thinking about you—"
It was all too much. His hands, his body, his voice— everything.
He was your boss, the world's most wanted pop star. Women adored him, men wanted to be him— but all he wanted was you.
"Angel, please—" he groaned, finding that sensitive spot that made your lips curl.
"They'll—" you gasped when his hands grazed over the pool of heat between your thighs, relief finding its way by the mere force of his fingers slipping into you. He didn't stop, dead set on feeling you pulse around his fingers until he knew you belonged to him. "— cut my pay— maybe f-fire me—"
His lips found yours again, the kiss sloppy and wet. He pulled away, open mouth hovering over yours so he could taste your silky moans on his tongue. "I won't let that happen," he rasped, "If you go, I go."
"Don't—" you shuddered when his thumb found the sensitive bud you've been mourning for him to touch since the moment you first saw him. "D-Don't—be stupid—"
"Don’t make me stupid."
Two fingers, long and slender, found their way into your core and it sent a wave of pleasure through your body, soft moans slipping from your mouth like a perfect melody. You shut your eyes tightly. Scared. Terrified. Entirely overwhelmed and yet you craved more.
"Come back— skip the vacation at home. Spend it with me." His fingers curled and twisted, using the many spasms in your face to see what made you squirm and groan. He was clumsy, a bit awkward, but it didn't stop him from trying to find out what made you so perfect. "I-I got a beach house in Florida— vacant. Bought it last year just in case."
You were so hyper-focused on the feeling of him, you didn't realize you were tuning him out until his mouth descended back on yours, so eager to remember the taste of you.
"You heard me?" He said, pulling back. "Four bedroom. Two stories. Private and secluded."
You nodded. He smirked. And then your eyes snapped open when you felt a tingle boil in your stomach.
"Angel, are you listening?"
"…huh? O-Oh—" you weren't. All you could focus on was his hands. How often they dragged over. How often they slipped in. How often they were set on making you come undone.
“Bought something that wasn’t just for myself—“ he kissed your neck again. "Just for you— all for you.”
“Mr.Jackso—“
“Michael—“ he snapped, “Call me Michael, baby, lover— anything that doesn’t sound so distant.”
Your eyes found him when the longing felt tighter.
“Michael—“ you mewled. Peering up at him like an angel fallen from grace.
Inappropriate.
“Keep going,” he dipped low, kissing you once more like you were his lifeline.
He was your boss.
Your hands found his neck, squeezing, using him like an anchor to keep you rooted. “Michael—oh, Mi—chael—“
Your lover.
“Stay with me—“ he dove back in, “stay, stay, stay—“
He was everything.
"Michael— oh god—"
You couldn't hide the tremors. The deep wash of pure bliss that hit everywhere and nowhere at once. You cried out for him, his name a prayer on your tongue. All while he took you through it, fingers holding you down while your hips rutted up to feel the last remnants spike.
You held his shoulders with a tight fist, cursing under your breath while he tutted at your eager display. Entertained and otherwise satisfied. He kissed you through it. Kissed your face, neck, shoulder, forehead— anything that he deemed belonged to him.
You belonged to him. Work relationship status be damned.
You murmured something, sighing lightly. Eyes shut for the night. He wasn’t sure what, but for now, he thought it was best to leave you alone.
Now was his time to go home.
He finally pulled back when you whined that he was too heavy. Fingers slowly slipping from your pants to reveal the mess made. He stared at it like it was gold, the mere existence of it worth millions of dollars to him.
He shouldn’t….that would be too….
Well, it wouldn’t hurt to try—
A knock on the door— always a knock on the door—made him shoot up from the couch. “In a minute!” He shouted and quickly rushed to your bedroom to find a blanket. He draped it over your body, tucking you in, fingers running over your hair to make sure you looked comfortable. He got on his knees again, mouth pressed against your temple one last time, and left like he was never there.
But he was. Wasn’t that hard to forget.
Once he opened the door, he found his bodyguard posted against the wall, hands crossed over his chest. He tipped his head down when Michael shut the door, pulling out unfamiliar keys from his pockets to lock the deadbolt, twisting until it snapped and he whistled with pride.
He jogged down the stairs, his bodyguard at his heel and he slipped into the car with your house keys tucked in his pockets.
If you want them, you’ll have to call, beg for him to bring it back, and he’ll tell you to come get it, all the way in Florida.
“Where to boss?” His driver called out.
Michael hummed, turning his gaze out the window. He supposed he’ll try to be nice to the executives. Try to pretend like he wasn’t yearning to hear your heels click down the halls while he was stuck listening to men think for him and assume what he wanted.
He sighed. His driver knew. And he switched on the engine, twisting the gears into drive, and began to pull off.
Michael leaned against the window, eyes shut. He remembered everything. Your voice. The kiss. His hands that brought you pleasure beyond a cheap thrill. He touched his lip, fingers grazing over. Still warm with desire.
And if you're still wondering if he did. Fingers tapping against his lip. Well…He couldn’t get rid of the sweet warmth of you on his tongue. Sweet, delicious, his.
Idk if you take requests so feel free to ignore this!
But what do we think about riding farmer!Remmick?? 🫣😩
I love this! In fact, I’m a huge supporter. I think he’ll be so shy and whiny about it at first. Embarrassed, ashamed— definitely not too sure if he should be looking or doing something else.
Perhaps you’re on him, not fully naked but enough clothes gone that it’s comfortable. Late night, a few drinks, playful teasing and here you are, sitting on him with your face flushed and him amazed by how pretty you look.
Don’t get me started on how fucking hot it would be to hear him moaning and groaning that it’s too much but he’s not doing anything to stop it!
DAILY BUGLE : “HERO? OR BAD LUCK?”
Issue #1
Lion Kaminski doesn’t have it all figured out. He works a dead end job, a dead end career, and at this point, a dead end life. If anything else were to fall apart, perhaps he was just asking for it. He’s accepted his fate already, being okay with just being okay. But the universe has plans for him, something that he finds worse than his shitty life already.
Authors Note ⌣ hey! I wanted to post this since I’ll be on vacation for a few days, This is based on this post! By @bluesycatharsis I tried to have fun with it so the format is truly all over the place. You’re always dropping such creative au ideas. Never go bald 🫶🏾 thank you to my pookie @flixpii promising toe sucking. Open wide 🤑if you see any spelling mistakes, IGNORE IT
ᯓ Earth- 9122019
Introducing 𓂃
Walter “Lion” Kaminski ! (Also known as Spider-man)
“My name is Lion— just Lion. The rest doesn’t matter.”
Lion Kaminski finds that his life isn’t much to be desired. He goes to work, practices at a run down gym, and when Stan calls him with a request on his tongue, he hopes that he wouldn’t go home with a bloody nose again.
🕸️ His dream of being a professional boxer was never his, but his brother insisted that he was gifted enough to go for it. Out of love for the only family member he has left, he pursued a career of broken knuckles and black eyes.
🕸️ Has a bad habit of talking with his mouth full and licking his fingers after every meal.
🕸️ Has a dog that he loves like a son.
🕸️ Lives next to noisy neighbors that bring him a sort of comfort when he’s stuck with his thoughts. They are either arguing or fucking very loudly… he’s not going to say which one he prefers more.
🕸️ Thinks the so called “Spider-man” is a good guy, he’s just trying his best. (To which you say he’s dumb for thinking so)
“He isn’t a bad guy— if anything, he’s doing people a favor. How many people you know would fight crime to help the community?”
“Someone who was lonely and had a hard on for stupidity.”
“You’re not funny.”
THEME SONG
001 : New Person, Same Old Mistakes
002 : Pray For Me
003 : Novacane
004 : Dark Red
005 : Fireworks
Lion Kaminski… who gets bitten by a radioactive spider at a run down gym he frequents after work. He was working through sets, sweat dripping down his face, fingers cramping up, adrenaline slowly running out. He takes a seat on a the floor, the rim of the water-bottle at his lips, chugging down lukewarm water to wash the dryness plunging his throat.
He heaves, the only one in the gym besides the owner who was an older man, greying all over, snoring at the front while he waited for Lion to finally leave.
He finishes the water, making sure he gets every last drop before he decides that it’s getting late and he should get home. He shouts that he’s leaving, startlingly the man at the front who jumps at his booming voice, complaining immediately after that he should hurry up and get out— and then he feels a sharp sting on his leg, the feeling shooting up his nerves like electricity.
He sweeps at his calf’s, the evidence of a spider rushing around the floor to get away and he sighs. He was already down on his luck, he supposed a spider thinking he was food was all that was left of his life.
Lion Kaminski… who wakes up in a cold sweat, unable to go back to sleep. His whole body aches, his muscles and skin feeling tight. He didn’t practice that hard to feel this sore— in fact, even after he’s been beaten in a match, he’s never felt this fucked up before that he feels the need to rush to the store for pain relief. He snatches every pill known to man, a heating pad, a few cold medicines like he’s on the verge of imploding in on himself. He barely makes it back home and through the front door before hes collapsing to the floor, holding himself while his body crumbles. He feels cold and hot at the same time, head tight, fingers tingling like he held them in ice.
Hes gonna fucking die. He knows it. What would his brother think? Would he even care? Would he get a burial? No, he doesn’t have enough money in his name for that. Cremation or leaving his body in the morgue sounds like a better scenario—
He blacks out.
He wakes up the next morning suddenly better. The events of last night no longer evident. He couldn’t tell if he was dreaming, or maybe someone drugged the water at the gym. It is old, the pipes probably rusty, the same pipes that holds the water he kept refilling his water bottle with.
He goes to the bathroom, looking himself over. He touches his face. Nothing. He checks out anything that could be suspicious, running his hands down his body. He still has that month old bruise itched into his side, no longer purple but a lighter brown.
Weird.
The alarm on his stand rings, the sound loud enough that he hears it from the bathroom and Lion realizes he’s late for work. Again
Lion Kaminski… who’s terrible at making himself small. He tries to hide in the shadows, acting as if he’s invisible so people wouldn’t know that he’s hiding something.
Everyone hides something. Big, small, clean, dirty— doesn’t matter— but his secret isn’t something he can share. He won’t share it even if his life depended on it. But he can’t stop his mouth from running, drawing up illogical excuses that contradicts himself so badly, people wonder if he’s high on something 24/7. It’s so bad, he draws suspension from his work partner who bunks desk right next to him— one out of the three woman who works in the same station as him he notes— who starts to take notice of everything he thought people didn’t.
Lion Kaminski… who knows you know something is up with him. It’s in the way you stare at him, like your trying to peer into his soul for answers to questions you haven’t asked yet, or soon to be asking— it was all in the matter of when.
There was only so many lies he could make up on the spot before they’ll start to cross over and become muddled highways of untruthful material in his catalogue.
Introducing𓂃
MJ! Reader ! (MJ variant)
“Other people may not notice you, but I do. And one thing I noticed is that you’re a terrible liar.”
A sewing factory wasn’t your dream job, but it payed well enough to live on your own. You moved fairly young, entirely dependent enough that your parents didn’t know what to do with you. You did what you wanted, said what you felt, nobody could handle you and that was okay. Maybe you do go overboard but you only live once, might as well do what you wanted until the time ran out.
🕸️ Finds life dull sometimes so you find excitement by making them.
🕸️ People watcher
🕸️ Introverted/ Extroverted mess. Sometimes you’re the life of a party, sometimes you would rather be wrapped up in a blanket watching your favorite movie for the hundredth time. Depends on the day and if you had coffee in the morning.
🕸️ Has a knack for making PowerPoint presentations about useless topics
🕸️ Thinks the so called “Spider-Man” is lazy and kind of a performative male. (To which Lion argues that he isn’t… suspicious much?)
“I think you’re hiding something, but I’m not sure what.. Either you’re a serial killer or worse.”
“Do you want me to be a serial killer?”
“I think you would be a terrible serial killer, but who knows.”
THEME SONG
001 : IM THAT GIRL
002 : Star Girl: Interlude
003 : Are You That Somebody?
004 : Heartbreaker
005 : Like Crazy
Your desk mate, Lion, often came in with wraps around his hand and black eyes that drew attention. People didn’t comment on it, some type of understanding you were privy to, but as a woman, ignorance wasn’t bliss.
Waiting for a ride home, shivering at the bus stop while you scrolled away at your phone, you stumbled upon him walking out of a shady building one night. You were never good with names, but faces were your secret weapon. He wore that same grey hoodie, the cuffs always wrinkled at his wrist, scrubbed with dirt and something you couldn’t quite name. He was speeding out, checking behind his back, hands stuffed in his pockets like he had something to hide.
Perhaps he did, perhaps he didn’t. But nothing like that should be ignored.
Reader who… tried to make it seem like you weren’t side eyeing him during the first 4 hours he was struggling to cut through fabric at his desk. Wearing those bandages adorned his hand like a second skin.
You found him at an odd location, a place you wouldn’t have expected someone like him to come out of. That spelled out a serial Killer waiting to strike.
Reader... who has a notebook , penciled in with every detail you managed to take about your odd co worker. A few weeks went by after that incident and you still couldn’t shake the feeling off that he was hiding something truly crime time worthy. He did the same routine, the same work flow, the same messy breaks where he came back early or showed up an hour after he should have been back. He always looked tired— or was that the consecutive purplish haze under his eyes he gained from… boxing? He said. He did boxing at the expense of his older brother who feels he has a talent for using people like punching bags.
You could believe that part. You would know, you followed him to his supposed match he admitted to having one afternoon. You told him that was great, he tried to invite you, and, thinking that was a code for luring you to a dark alleyway to strangle you, you declined with an apologetic smile.
“Sorry, I’m sitting my sister’s dog.”
You don’t have a dog, or a sister.
You witnessed him fumbling in the ring that night, a man — who no doubt was his brother coach he revealed— was at his corner, screaming at him to take charge.
He won, nothing too extraordinary but the crowd went wild anyways.
You noted which hand he used to punch. How fast he was dodging, how often he came up with plans to get out of his opponents grasps. You jotted down everything in case the day came where you had to face him in your search for his secret he most definitely had.
Reader who…starts to enjoy the small conversations held with Lion. Even though most of your questions pried into his life, he took that as your way of making the environment tame. He answered as honestly as he could, but you started to noticed how often he looked off to the side when you asked things that seemed too personal.
“Do you always fight every night?” You asked once.
“Not every night,” he answers, always in that same dry tone, clipping away at loose strings of the shirt he’s been working on.
“So, why do you always have your hands bandaged? You don’t ever take breaks? That doesn't sound healthy."
Once he his eyes found yours, his eyebrows straining together, he’ll look away, trying to change the subject. “I’m a free lance… boxer? Yeah, that. Boxing can be every day, week or month, whatever suits me. Anyways, boss said to—“
He was a liar. A terrible one at that. You never heard of a “free lance Boxer”. He definitely was making up words and careers, but you were a smart cookie. You’ll figure it out.
PAIRED TOGETHER… A Product for disaster
Your quiet coworker has a knack for showing up late with suspicious bruising on his hands and face— something that you know isn’t from all those boxing matches he claims he goes to every night. Nobody notices when he’s gone, probably because nobody really cares.
Except for you.
He’s quick to change the subject. Eyes snapping somewhere else, a hand at the back of his neck; searching for an excuse that you never fall for. You knew men were easy— he was easy. But a person can only lie for so long before the truth bleeds through.
“I thought you said you didn’t have a match last night?”
“Yeah… change of plans I guess? Haha…”
As always, you note something down, a composition notebook filled to the brim. Life was boring anyways, and things are suddenly getting interesting.
Lion isn’t sure what he should do about you. You’re too observant, questions toeing the line of being very personal. Nobody else cared what he did behind the scenes, worried about their own lives outside of work, but you show interest like there’s something deeper you want from him.
Maybe you like him… wait, do you like him?
Oh shit, how does flirting work again? Is that what you’re doing? Oh shit shit shit—
“Missing one day is normal, everybody does it, but coming in late everyday is where I start to wonder if you need an alarm clock. What’s up with that?”
“If the boss doesn’t care, why do you? I’m here right? What’s the issue.”
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Hey love hope you’re doing well. Would you write for Klaus Mickelson from The Vampire Diaries ?
YOUR SO CRAZY FOR ASKING THIS!!! I haven’t watched TVP in a HOT min. I binged it a few years ago and stopped at the last season cause it lowkey fell off. But KLAUS??? One of my favorite characters besides Damon, Bonnie and Caroline??? I swirled to the moon and back.
But to answer your question, i absolutely would! I need to rewatch The Originals to really get his character for a fanfic aspect…. lemme add this show to my summer rewatch list
