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Honestly as an aroace, I never got why people had crushes on celebrities but then I discovered Michael and then understood but he is an exception cuz like idk he is magical, ethereal, cute, kind and charming, it is hard not to fall for him really.
no for real. every man I’ve ever met is grotesque compared to his divine ass. and I don’t even like men that much lmaoooo
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i don’t like when people who impersonate michael put on ghost white makeup and over contour their nose and cheeks it’s like they always only focus on one era of his and overdo it in a way that feels offensive.
And you’re right!! They turn him into a caricature or cartoon character. That was a black man with vitiligo and people treat him like a clown, even down to the exaggerated voice and annoying ass hee-hees lmao. Corny as hell!
some fans will really get so mad if you say Michael was a complex human with his own flaws/struggles just like any other person… they would rather treat him like a child or like a perfect god which are both dehumanizing. And Michael is someone who deserved to be seen as a human being more in his lifetime just saying
when you think about it Off the Wall is such a funky yet philosophical album: it’s about the absurdity of life and how we should all just live in the moment and dance our problems away. Forget all the miseries of life and party. And it also mirrors Michael stepping away from his sheltered child star life and slowly becoming more free and expressive as an artist and as a person. And then you get reminded that he still has this underlying loneliness through all the happy vibes with She’s Out of My Life. Escapism, romance, self-liberation… it’s all there. And then you get some casual home wrecking vibes with Girlfriend but hell yeah I guess!!
no because the Bad video is Michael representing many forms of masculinity and a commentary on what it means to be a “man.” He recognizes that masculinity is a performance, rooted in peer pressure and violence. And he basically said fuck all that let me serve cunt. True power and confidence comes from within, not just conforming to social demands. Even him asking the question “who’s bad” is challenging masculine standards and the many definitions of being a “man”
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vampire!michael jackson x female!reader. romance. erotic? 3.1k words. inspired by this post.
content/warnings: highly suggestive content, blood drinking, blood kink. near-death experience. am i using blood drinking as a metaphor for cunnilingus? yes, yes i am.
some people say the figures that lurk in the dark are demonic. others are convinced they're monsters hidden in the woods. you were afraid of neither. in fact, you were prone to subconsciously invite them in.
disclaimer: this story is a work of fiction. every element of this work is used in a ficticious manner, including all names, characters, places, and events, and is not an accurate portrayal of real-life people, dead or alive. any resemblance to actual persons, dead or alive, is purely coincidental due to the author's creative writing.
Six roses sat in a crystal vase on the windowsill. The floral aroma permeates the surrounding air, and she leans down to inhale the delicate scent.
She breathes slowly, savoring the smell before carrying the vase to her kitchen sink. Dumping out the day-old water, she replaces it with fresh tap water before returning it to its designated spot.
The crimson flowers and bright green stems are a stark contrast to the transparent, colorless vase she chose to display them in. The specific windowsill she kept them on faced the front of her house, complimenting the decor of her living room.
Rays of the setting sun beam through the lace curtains hanging on the window, casting shadows on her hardwood floor. She leaned against the wall, soaking in the last bit of light hiding behind the trees before the moon and stars would take its place.
Soon, the orange glow descends upon the horizon, trading the day for a dark blue as stars begin to dot the sky.
She thrived at night.
But she wasn't the only one to come alive when the moon took the sun's place.
She heard the stories long before moving out here. It was part of the reason she chose to live in the three bedroom house, a mile from the nearest store. After growing up in the hustle and bustle of city life, she finally had a place to call her own, away from everything and everyone.
She loved it.
Rumors spread throughout the city for decades, tales of creatures that lurk in the dense woods, eventually bleeding to the outskirts. Though most people brush it off as a silly myth, those same residents would tie garlic bulbs to their porch lights or keep silver daggers in every nightstand drawer. Some even say they live among the crowd, hiding in plain sight.
Perhaps it was due to the fact she chose not to hang garlic around her home, or maybe it was because, deep down, she had to know if the rumors were true.
He began appearing every night.
Three weeks ago, to be exact.
Although she had no idea how long he'd truly been observing her, only noticing his presence those few weeks ago. She'd grown familiar with the scope of the treeline outside her home. She knew the outline of the trees like the back of her hand.
So when the shape of a human figure began appearing in the woods every night—like tonight—the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end.
She peered through the window, studying the sway of the leaves in the breeze, looking for the mysterious man in the woods until her gaze landed on the dark figure covered in shadows.
Her breath came to a halt, catching in her throat.
For a moment, the two of them just stare at one another. Even from this distance, she could feel his gaze boring into her through the thick glass of the window.
Then, very slowly, he began walking towards the house.
Her heart hammered wildly in her chest, slamming against her ribcage as the figure took painfully slow and long strides across the grass. Adrenaline coursed through her veins—from fear or excitement, she couldn't tell—as she noticed a rose in his hand.
Finally, after what felt like hours, he planted his left foot on the bottom stair to her porch, and she squinted her eyes through the glare in the glass to get a better look at him.
She couldn't make out his facial features very well, though he wore all black clothing, blending with the shadows of the night. His curly hair stopped just below his shoulders and wisps of it blew in the breeze as he leaned down, placing the rose on the ground at the top of the stairs.
Not once did she remove her eyes from him as he stepped backwards, bowed to her with a nod of his head, and disappeared just as smooth as he'd arrived.
She watched the trees, studying for any movement that would be deemed out of the ordinary. Her heart rate slowed to a normal rate as all she could see was the motion of leaves blowing in the wind.
She waited until she was certain he wouldn't reemerge from the woods before unlocking her front door. The rose was a dark crimson, perfectly matching the others he'd left for her in the days prior. And just like the others, he'd taken the liberty of trimming off the thorns so she wouldn't prick her fingers.
—
As expected, the man returned the next day, and the day after that, for the next several weeks.
It became routine: her standing by the window, him stalking towards her house and leaving a single rose in the exact same spot. Every. Day. She'd grown so accustomed to it that she'd nearly forgotten just who—or what—had been leaving her flowers everyday, until he caught her by surprise.
This time, this particular day, he just stood at the foot of her porch. Watching. Waiting.
She stood in her usual spot, directly beside the vase of flowers, now overflowing from the dozens of roses he'd left for her. Peering through the window, she found him already looking at her.
He looked the same as he'd always appeared: tall, wearing all black, curls falling softly at his shoulders. A smirk spread across his lips as his feet stepped up the stairs.
A sharp gasp escaped her lips as she turned away from the window, pressing her back against the wall. Holding her breath, she waited. A second ticked by, then another.
The woman's heart thrummed in her chest as the sound of knuckles on wood interrupted the silence.
Knock, knock, knock.
She covered her mouth to muffle the sound of fear she let out, as if the man could've heard it from the other side of her front door.
A few inhales and exhales later, she turned to the door, gripping the handle.
If you play with fire, you'll get burned.
The door groans against the hinges as she swings it open, perhaps a bit too far.
Her eyes slowly rake from the toes of his shoes all the way to the top of his head, taking in as much detail of his appearance as she possibly could.
She'd never seen the man this close before, and if the fear pulsing through her veins wasn't enough to make her heart race, then the smug look on his face would certainly be.
His hands were behind his back—holding a rose, she presumed—and his feet entirely too close to the doorframe.
For a moment, neither one of them said a word.
His dark brown eyes bore into hers, captivating her attention. Finally, after all these weeks, she could note a new feature of the man.
Tension hung in the air, thick enough to make her throat dry. She swallowed as his eyes suddenly started moving down, down, down. They trailed all the way to her feet, and just as slow back up to meet her own eyes once again.
His gaze made her feel exposed, and maybe she should have thrown a jacket on before opening the door. It was a chilly night after all.
The sudden movement of his arm made her flinch after the absence of motion from either of them. Like she guessed, he held a rose in his right hand.
He held it out in front of her, tilting the flower towards her person.
As his mouth opened, she spotted a glimpse of pointed, sharp canines. "For you."
The words emitted from his mouth were like soft velvet to her ears. Gentle, smooth, seductive.
A chill ran across her body, sending goosebumps along her skin. Was it from the cool night air or the sweet sound of his voice? She didn't care either way.
Gently, she took the rose from his grasp.
"Thank you…" She dragged out the last syllable, unsure of what to call the man.
"Michael." He finished for her.
She repeats his name back to him carefully, testing it on her tongue. Michael.
"Yes." The man nods his head, as if confirming what didn't need confirmation. Then, he reached forward, taking her fingers in his.
His ice cold flesh sent a shiver through her body as he leans forward, planting a gentle kiss on her knuckles.
She felt dazed by his presence, and the contact of his lips on her skin sent a jolt of fire through her bones.
Then, he lifted his head and, with just the right amount of hesitation, let go of her.
"Have a good night."
She watched as he turned and made his way back to the forest, back towards the woods where he emerged from. Hands clasped behind his back and steps completely leisured, as if he had nothing else better to do.
As if he hadn't just rocked her entire world.
—
The sound of chopping surrounds her. It's rhythmic, pulsing even. She hums a mindless tune as she dices vegetables, preparing dinner for herself.
She began zoning out, thinking of the events of the previous night, how it felt when his hand touched hers. A flush spread across her cheeks at the memory of his lips on her skin.
A resounding knock at the door startled her, causing her to flinch and drop half a carrot on the floor.
"Shit." She mumbled, picking it up and dropping it in the trash on the way to the door.
She yanks the door open, heart stopping in her throat.
Michael leaned against the doorframe, rose in hand. Same attire, same smug look on his face.
Any and all annoyance from dropping her food on the ground vanished the moment her eyes met his. A slight furrow in his eyebrows throws her off, as he takes in a deep breath, as if smelling the air around him.
"You're bleeding." His gaze travels to her hand at her side.
She follows his line of sight, lifting her hand to examine the cut on her hand. She must have accidentally cut herself when he knocked a moment ago.
Blood trickles down her pointer finger, dripping on the hardwood floor.
"Oh, it's nothing, I was just chopping vegetables."
His pupils dilate, expanding enough to cover the dark brown of his irises. The bulge of a vein on his neck begins to show. His jaw ticks.
"You should take care of that." His words are sharp. Quick. Not like they were yesterday.
She studies him, not moving from her spot, as drops of her blood continue to fall to the floor. She watches as he starts to shift his weight, unable to stand still.
Unable to resist.
Feeling brave—or just plain stupid—she lifts her hand to his face.
He sucks in a sharp breath, grabbing her wrist. Closing his eyes, he inhales the scent of her blood.
"So sweet." He breathes out, sending a shiver down her spine.
She swipes her finger across his bottom lip, and his eyes fly open to find hers.
With her blood smeared across his lip, she eyes him carefully, egging him on.
Playing with fire.
His tongue darts out from between his lips, licking up the sample she'd provided. An audible, breathy moan escapes his mouth. It sends heat straight through her body, through her veins.
She wanted more, and from the dilated pupils and slight part in his lips, she could tell that he craved more than just a taste.
—
He'd pushed the two of them inside, shutting the door and turning to press her back against the wall. The singular rose he'd brought with him lying forgotten on the floor.
He was so close. She could feel the heat of his breath on her skin, contrasting the cool touch of his flesh.
Her breath quickened, short inhales and exhales mismatched his slow and deep ones. It was all that could be heard in the quiet home.
His fingers loosened around her wrist, though still holding it.
"Your blood," Michael coos, "It's intoxicating. I've never smelled nor tasted anything like it."
He looks down at her admirably. "Please. Let me taste more." He pauses to inhale again. "I want it. Need it."
The low, rumbling fire burning in her body began to burn brighter at his sweet words, and she'd be lying if she said she didn't want to give him a taste.
"Then do it. I want you to taste me."
That was all he needed to hear. Michael wasted no time in dragging his tongue across her hand, licking the the trail of blood clean. He stopped at the cut and wrapped his lips around it, sucking what little blood he could get from the small open wound.
She watched in awe as his eyes fluttered closed and a groan sounded in his throat, vibrating against her skin. She allowed her own eyes to close as she leaned her head back against the wall, exhaling a blissful sigh.
Releasing his mouth from the wound, Michael licks his lips and trails them along her warm flesh, traveling up her arm.
"You are so divine."
His voice was smooth, caressing her on its own in the same way he treated her body with care.
His glides his lips along her arm, all the way to her shoulder and collarbone, making sure to exhale on her skin to contrast the cold sensation of his own skin.
Her heart pounded in her chest, she was certain he could hear it, feel it.
"I've lived far longer than you can imagine. I've tasted many. But you," His lips ghost over her neck, feeling her pulse beneath it. A shiver shakes through her body. "You are the best I've had in centuries."
She wanted to be bitten. Nothing else mattered to her in that moment. "Please." She says, rather pathetically.
A grin tugs at the corner of his mouth. He opens his jaw, grazing his fangs against her delicate skin.
"Please what, Babydoll?"
A whimper escapes her parted lips. Each second was torture, she needed him just as much as he needed her.
"Please. Bite me."
"Bite you?" He repeats, teasing her and being nothing but a pain in the ass. "Bite you where? Be specific, Baby, otherwise you won't get what you've asked for."
She knew he was just as desperate as her. She could feel the slight tremor in his hands as his control starts to wear thin.
Growing impatient, she snakes her hand up his back and grips his hair, pulling his face away from her neck.
"I want you to bite my neck."
Not waiting for him to respond, she smashes her lips into his. He doesn't hesitate to kiss her back, fiercely and desperately.
She fantasized about this moment for weeks, wondering how it would feel the moment their lips collided. The fire that had been burning just below the surface seeped through her skin, a thin layer of sweat forming. She could taste the iron of her own blood on his tongue.
She didn't fight for dominance. She allowed him to take control, and they flowed together perfectly. Each breathless gasp, each whimper and whine they simultaneously released was like music to her—and his—ears.
Michael kissed the corner of her mouth, then her cheek, then her jaw, and finally her neck. He left open-mouthed kisses all along her skin, sucking and grazing his teeth along her flesh.
She couldn't take it anymore. All the teasing was driving her mad, making her sweat—
"As you wish."
The sharp pain of teeth sinking into flesh causes her to yelp. He'd sunken his canines right next to her jugular, careful as to not rupture it. She grips his hair, perhaps a bit too tightly, gasping for breath as Michael laps at the wound, sucking fresh, hot blood from her body.
His hands snake around her waist, holding her firm and upright. The pain and shock of the initial bite wears off, and pleasure takes its place. Her head lolls to the side, giving the vampire further access.
Each pulse of her heart satisfies his craving, saturating him with every ounce he takes from her body. Michael moans into her neck, eyes nearly rolling to the back of his head.
Her vision begins to blur, breathing labored and head dizzy. "Michael." She gasps, just as her world turns black and body gives out.
—
It's quiet when she wakes, eyes fluttering open and head pounding. For a moment, she thinks she's dead. That is, until her eyes adjust to the lighting and she spots the familiar artwork painted on her bedroom ceiling.
"I went too far."
The woman's eyes dart around the room to find the source of the voice. She finds Michael standing by the window, mug in hand, looking out over her vast backyard. It must be dawn, because she could see the orange and pink hues of the sky through the curtains.
"I have to leave soon. I can't be out during the day." He turns towards and sits on the bed next to her. She sits up, peeling back the covers he must have places over her.
"Is that my mug?" She glances down at the cup in his hands.
Michael chuckles, bright and cheery. "It is. And this is yours as well." He picks up another cup on the nightstand, handing it to her. "One of the tea bags I found in your pantry. Drink up."
She sips the tea. Blueberry, one of her favorite flavors. "What happened?"
He shifts, brown eyes gazing at her. "You passed out. I didn't stop, and I should've. I should've snapped out of it but I didn't until I thought it was too late."
He leans down and presses his forehead against hers, curly hair tickling her face. "I'm so sorry."
The woman hesitates, processing what he'd said. She should be angry. She should kick him out. She should be screaming at him to leave for nearly taking her life.
But she did none of those. Instead, she tilts her head forward and captures his lips in hers. Tender, delicate.
"I don't want you to leave." She confesses.
Surprise crosses his facial features. Still, it made him smile. "I'll be back tonight, I promise."
A quick glance at the window shows the pink and orange sky growing brighter. Michael pecks her lips one last time, heading to the door.
"I'll bring a new vase. You'll need a bigger one from now on."
He shuts the door behind him as she covers herself with a blanket, kicking her feet.
vampire!michael jackson x female!reader. romance. erotic? 3.1k words. inspired by this post.
content/warnings: highly suggestive content, blood drinking, blood kink. near-death experience. am i using blood drinking as a metaphor for cunnilingus? yes, yes i am.
some people say the figures that lurk in the dark are demonic. others are convinced they're monsters hidden in the woods. you were afraid of neither. in fact, you were prone to subconsciously invite them in.
disclaimer: this story is a work of fiction. every element of this work is used in a ficticious manner, including all names, characters, places, and events, and is not an accurate portrayal of real-life people, dead or alive. any resemblance to actual persons, dead or alive, is purely coincidental due to the author's creative writing.
Six roses sat in a crystal vase on the windowsill. The floral aroma permeates the surrounding air, and she leans down to inhale the delicate scent.
She breathes slowly, savoring the smell before carrying the vase to her kitchen sink. Dumping out the day-old water, she replaces it with fresh tap water before returning it to its designated spot.
The crimson flowers and bright green stems are a stark contrast to the transparent, colorless vase she chose to display them in. The specific windowsill she kept them on faced the front of her house, complimenting the decor of her living room.
Rays of the setting sun beam through the lace curtains hanging on the window, casting shadows on her hardwood floor. She leaned against the wall, soaking in the last bit of light hiding behind the trees before the moon and stars would take its place.
Soon, the orange glow descends upon the horizon, trading the day for a dark blue as stars begin to dot the sky.
She thrived at night.
But she wasn't the only one to come alive when the moon took the sun's place.
She heard the stories long before moving out here. It was part of the reason she chose to live in the three bedroom house, a mile from the nearest store. After growing up in the hustle and bustle of city life, she finally had a place to call her own, away from everything and everyone.
She loved it.
Rumors spread throughout the city for decades, tales of creatures that lurk in the dense woods, eventually bleeding to the outskirts. Though most people brush it off as a silly myth, those same residents would tie garlic bulbs to their porch lights or keep silver daggers in every nightstand drawer. Some even say they live among the crowd, hiding in plain sight.
Perhaps it was due to the fact she chose not to hang garlic around her home, or maybe it was because, deep down, she had to know if the rumors were true.
He began appearing every night.
Three weeks ago, to be exact.
Although she had no idea how long he'd truly been observing her, only noticing his presence those few weeks ago. She'd grown familiar with the scope of the treeline outside her home. She knew the outline of the trees like the back of her hand.
So when the shape of a human figure began appearing in the woods every night—like tonight—the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end.
She peered through the window, studying the sway of the leaves in the breeze, looking for the mysterious man in the woods until her gaze landed on the dark figure covered in shadows.
Her breath came to a halt, catching in her throat.
For a moment, the two of them just stare at one another. Even from this distance, she could feel his gaze boring into her through the thick glass of the window.
Then, very slowly, he began walking towards the house.
Her heart hammered wildly in her chest, slamming against her ribcage as the figure took painfully slow and long strides across the grass. Adrenaline coursed through her veins—from fear or excitement, she couldn't tell—as she noticed a rose in his hand.
Finally, after what felt like hours, he planted his left foot on the bottom stair to her porch, and she squinted her eyes through the glare in the glass to get a better look at him.
She couldn't make out his facial features very well, though he wore all black clothing, blending with the shadows of the night. His curly hair stopped just below his shoulders and wisps of it blew in the breeze as he leaned down, placing the rose on the ground at the top of the stairs.
Not once did she remove her eyes from him as he stepped backwards, bowed to her with a nod of his head, and disappeared just as smooth as he'd arrived.
She watched the trees, studying for any movement that would be deemed out of the ordinary. Her heart rate slowed to a normal rate as all she could see was the motion of leaves blowing in the wind.
She waited until she was certain he wouldn't reemerge from the woods before unlocking her front door. The rose was a dark crimson, perfectly matching the others he'd left for her in the days prior. And just like the others, he'd taken the liberty of trimming off the thorns so she wouldn't prick her fingers.
—
As expected, the man returned the next day, and the day after that, for the next several weeks.
It became routine: her standing by the window, him stalking towards her house and leaving a single rose in the exact same spot. Every. Day. She'd grown so accustomed to it that she'd nearly forgotten just who—or what—had been leaving her flowers everyday, until he caught her by surprise.
This time, this particular day, he just stood at the foot of her porch. Watching. Waiting.
She stood in her usual spot, directly beside the vase of flowers, now overflowing from the dozens of roses he'd left for her. Peering through the window, she found him already looking at her.
He looked the same as he'd always appeared: tall, wearing all black, curls falling softly at his shoulders. A smirk spread across his lips as his feet stepped up the stairs.
A sharp gasp escaped her lips as she turned away from the window, pressing her back against the wall. Holding her breath, she waited. A second ticked by, then another.
The woman's heart thrummed in her chest as the sound of knuckles on wood interrupted the silence.
Knock, knock, knock.
She covered her mouth to muffle the sound of fear she let out, as if the man could've heard it from the other side of her front door.
A few inhales and exhales later, she turned to the door, gripping the handle.
If you play with fire, you'll get burned.
The door groans against the hinges as she swings it open, perhaps a bit too far.
Her eyes slowly rake from the toes of his shoes all the way to the top of his head, taking in as much detail of his appearance as she possibly could.
She'd never seen the man this close before, and if the fear pulsing through her veins wasn't enough to make her heart race, then the smug look on his face would certainly be.
His hands were behind his back—holding a rose, she presumed—and his feet entirely too close to the doorframe.
For a moment, neither one of them said a word.
His dark brown eyes bore into hers, captivating her attention. Finally, after all these weeks, she could note a new feature of the man.
Tension hung in the air, thick enough to make her throat dry. She swallowed as his eyes suddenly started moving down, down, down. They trailed all the way to her feet, and just as slow back up to meet her own eyes once again.
His gaze made her feel exposed, and maybe she should have thrown a jacket on before opening the door. It was a chilly night after all.
The sudden movement of his arm made her flinch after the absence of motion from either of them. Like she guessed, he held a rose in his right hand.
He held it out in front of her, tilting the flower towards her person.
As his mouth opened, she spotted a glimpse of pointed, sharp canines. "For you."
The words emitted from his mouth were like soft velvet to her ears. Gentle, smooth, seductive.
A chill ran across her body, sending goosebumps along her skin. Was it from the cool night air or the sweet sound of his voice? She didn't care either way.
Gently, she took the rose from his grasp.
"Thank you…" She dragged out the last syllable, unsure of what to call the man.
"Michael." He finished for her.
She repeats his name back to him carefully, testing it on her tongue. Michael.
"Yes." The man nods his head, as if confirming what didn't need confirmation. Then, he reached forward, taking her fingers in his.
His ice cold flesh sent a shiver through her body as he leans forward, planting a gentle kiss on her knuckles.
She felt dazed by his presence, and the contact of his lips on her skin sent a jolt of fire through her bones.
Then, he lifted his head and, with just the right amount of hesitation, let go of her.
"Have a good night."
She watched as he turned and made his way back to the forest, back towards the woods where he emerged from. Hands clasped behind his back and steps completely leisured, as if he had nothing else better to do.
As if he hadn't just rocked her entire world.
—
The sound of chopping surrounds her. It's rhythmic, pulsing even. She hums a mindless tune as she dices vegetables, preparing dinner for herself.
She began zoning out, thinking of the events of the previous night, how it felt when his hand touched hers. A flush spread across her cheeks at the memory of his lips on her skin.
A resounding knock at the door startled her, causing her to flinch and drop half a carrot on the floor.
"Shit." She mumbled, picking it up and dropping it in the trash on the way to the door.
She yanks the door open, heart stopping in her throat.
Michael leaned against the doorframe, rose in hand. Same attire, same smug look on his face.
Any and all annoyance from dropping her food on the ground vanished the moment her eyes met his. A slight furrow in his eyebrows throws her off, as he takes in a deep breath, as if smelling the air around him.
"You're bleeding." His gaze travels to her hand at her side.
She follows his line of sight, lifting her hand to examine the cut on her hand. She must have accidentally cut herself when he knocked a moment ago.
Blood trickles down her pointer finger, dripping on the hardwood floor.
"Oh, it's nothing, I was just chopping vegetables."
His pupils dilate, expanding enough to cover the dark brown of his irises. The bulge of a vein on his neck begins to show. His jaw ticks.
"You should take care of that." His words are sharp. Quick. Not like they were yesterday.
She studies him, not moving from her spot, as drops of her blood continue to fall to the floor. She watches as he starts to shift his weight, unable to stand still.
Unable to resist.
Feeling brave—or just plain stupid—she lifts her hand to his face.
He sucks in a sharp breath, grabbing her wrist. Closing his eyes, he inhales the scent of her blood.
"So sweet." He breathes out, sending a shiver down her spine.
She swipes her finger across his bottom lip, and his eyes fly open to find hers.
With her blood smeared across his lip, she eyes him carefully, egging him on.
Playing with fire.
His tongue darts out from between his lips, licking up the sample she'd provided. An audible, breathy moan escapes his mouth. It sends heat straight through her body, through her veins.
She wanted more, and from the dilated pupils and slight part in his lips, she could tell that he craved more than just a taste.
—
He'd pushed the two of them inside, shutting the door and turning to press her back against the wall. The singular rose he'd brought with him lying forgotten on the floor.
He was so close. She could feel the heat of his breath on her skin, contrasting the cool touch of his flesh.
Her breath quickened, short inhales and exhales mismatched his slow and deep ones. It was all that could be heard in the quiet home.
His fingers loosened around her wrist, though still holding it.
"Your blood," Michael coos, "It's intoxicating. I've never smelled nor tasted anything like it."
He looks down at her admirably. "Please. Let me taste more." He pauses to inhale again. "I want it. Need it."
The low, rumbling fire burning in her body began to burn brighter at his sweet words, and she'd be lying if she said she didn't want to give him a taste.
"Then do it. I want you to taste me."
That was all he needed to hear. Michael wasted no time in dragging his tongue across her hand, licking the the trail of blood clean. He stopped at the cut and wrapped his lips around it, sucking what little blood he could get from the small open wound.
She watched in awe as his eyes fluttered closed and a groan sounded in his throat, vibrating against her skin. She allowed her own eyes to close as she leaned her head back against the wall, exhaling a blissful sigh.
Releasing his mouth from the wound, Michael licks his lips and trails them along her warm flesh, traveling up her arm.
"You are so divine."
His voice was smooth, caressing her on its own in the same way he treated her body with care.
His glides his lips along her arm, all the way to her shoulder and collarbone, making sure to exhale on her skin to contrast the cold sensation of his own skin.
Her heart pounded in her chest, she was certain he could hear it, feel it.
"I've lived far longer than you can imagine. I've tasted many. But you," His lips ghost over her neck, feeling her pulse beneath it. A shiver shakes through her body. "You are the best I've had in centuries."
She wanted to be bitten. Nothing else mattered to her in that moment. "Please." She says, rather pathetically.
A grin tugs at the corner of his mouth. He opens his jaw, grazing his fangs against her delicate skin.
"Please what, Babydoll?"
A whimper escapes her parted lips. Each second was torture, she needed him just as much as he needed her.
"Please. Bite me."
"Bite you?" He repeats, teasing her and being nothing but a pain in the ass. "Bite you where? Be specific, Baby, otherwise you won't get what you've asked for."
She knew he was just as desperate as her. She could feel the slight tremor in his hands as his control starts to wear thin.
Growing impatient, she snakes her hand up his back and grips his hair, pulling his face away from her neck.
"I want you to bite my neck."
Not waiting for him to respond, she smashes her lips into his. He doesn't hesitate to kiss her back, fiercely and desperately.
She fantasized about this moment for weeks, wondering how it would feel the moment their lips collided. The fire that had been burning just below the surface seeped through her skin, a thin layer of sweat forming. She could taste the iron of her own blood on his tongue.
She didn't fight for dominance. She allowed him to take control, and they flowed together perfectly. Each breathless gasp, each whimper and whine they simultaneously released was like music to her—and his—ears.
Michael kissed the corner of her mouth, then her cheek, then her jaw, and finally her neck. He left open-mouthed kisses all along her skin, sucking and grazing his teeth along her flesh.
She couldn't take it anymore. All the teasing was driving her mad, making her sweat—
"As you wish."
The sharp pain of teeth sinking into flesh causes her to yelp. He'd sunken his canines right next to her jugular, careful as to not rupture it. She grips his hair, perhaps a bit too tightly, gasping for breath as Michael laps at the wound, sucking fresh, hot blood from her body.
His hands snake around her waist, holding her firm and upright. The pain and shock of the initial bite wears off, and pleasure takes its place. Her head lolls to the side, giving the vampire further access.
Each pulse of her heart satisfies his craving, saturating him with every ounce he takes from her body. Michael moans into her neck, eyes nearly rolling to the back of his head.
Her vision begins to blur, breathing labored and head dizzy. "Michael." She gasps, just as her world turns black and body gives out.
—
It's quiet when she wakes, eyes fluttering open and head pounding. For a moment, she thinks she's dead. That is, until her eyes adjust to the lighting and she spots the familiar artwork painted on her bedroom ceiling.
"I went too far."
The woman's eyes dart around the room to find the source of the voice. She finds Michael standing by the window, mug in hand, looking out over her vast backyard. It must be dawn, because she could see the orange and pink hues of the sky through the curtains.
"I have to leave soon. I can't be out during the day." He turns towards and sits on the bed next to her. She sits up, peeling back the covers he must have places over her.
"Is that my mug?" She glances down at the cup in his hands.
Michael chuckles, bright and cheery. "It is. And this is yours as well." He picks up another cup on the nightstand, handing it to her. "One of the tea bags I found in your pantry. Drink up."
She sips the tea. Blueberry, one of her favorite flavors. "What happened?"
He shifts, brown eyes gazing at her. "You passed out. I didn't stop, and I should've. I should've snapped out of it but I didn't until I thought it was too late."
He leans down and presses his forehead against hers, curly hair tickling her face. "I'm so sorry."
The woman hesitates, processing what he'd said. She should be angry. She should kick him out. She should be screaming at him to leave for nearly taking her life.
But she did none of those. Instead, she tilts her head forward and captures his lips in hers. Tender, delicate.
"I don't want you to leave." She confesses.
Surprise crosses his facial features. Still, it made him smile. "I'll be back tonight, I promise."
A quick glance at the window shows the pink and orange sky growing brighter. Michael pecks her lips one last time, heading to the door.
"I'll bring a new vase. You'll need a bigger one from now on."
He shuts the door behind him as she covers herself with a blanket, kicking her feet.
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