Da Don.

This is a long one, I know, but it had to be said

Let's Talk About Some Issues Within the Michael Jackson Fandom

The Michael Jackson fandom has done incredible work carrying on Michael's legacy and defending him against misinformation over the years. But if we're being honest, there are habits within the fandom itself that deserve criticism of their own. Loving Michael doesn't mean we should be afraid to call out the unhealthy behavior within our own community.

1. The Infantilization of Michael

Let's talk about the infantilization of Michael in this fandom.

We're treating this man like he's a child.

Yes, Michael was a child at heart, and yes, he enjoyed childlike things. But he was also a grown man. He was capable of making his own decisions, making mistakes, learning from them, and living with the consequences of those decisions.

Sometimes people talk about Michael as if he had no agency at all, as if every single thing that happened in his life was because someone else made him do it. That's simply not true. You can acknowledge the trauma he went through without stripping him of his adulthood.

Treating him like he was permanently a child doesn't honor him. It erases part of who he was. Michael himself wanted to be respected as a man, an artist, and a businessman. We can recognize that he had an innocent spirit without pretending he wasn't capable of making his own choices.

2. Parasocial Relationships

Now, we're in a fandom where we write fanfiction about him. Yes, we imagine ourselves in a relationship with Michael at times. That's part of fandom.

But acting as if you personally knew him, and let me highlight this, speaking with certainty about what he would have wanted or what he would have thought, is where I draw the line.

The truth is, we did not know this man. We only saw so much of his life and his personality. We don't know him, and he isn't here to speak for himself. I think it's unfair to place our own opinions in his mouth and present them as facts.

It's like the whole Jermajesty situation all over again. People take fanfiction, where he's often written as toxic, and start acting as if that's his personality in real life, when it's literally been proven otherwise.

And I've noticed something else.

The pictures people use for those "toxic Jermajesty" fanfics are almost always the ones where he has the buzz cut.

So let me ask this:

How much of what we write and represent in this fandom is simply imagination, and how much of it comes from stereotypes that we're taking too seriously and using to represent real people?

3. Harassment Within the Fandom

This is probably going to be the longest section because I have a lot to say about this.

We all know the post I made where I said that Maddie Simpson supports Israel and Zionism, which has been proven, and that she supports the murder of civilians, especially children, in Gaza. She has shown no remorse for her actions or made a public statement denouncing Zionism like Paris Jackson has. Until she makes a public statement, I will continue to take that as her opinion.

I said I do not like that, and I do not agree with her opinion.

At the same time, I also defended her against the people attacking her looks and her body because I said that if you're attacking her appearance, it has nothing to do with her political opinion and more to do with the fact that she's engaged to Jaafar Jackson. I don't think that's fair. She's allowed to have her opinion, and I'm allowed to disagree with it. That doesn't mean I'm going to go out of my way to harass her.

Then there was another post where a fan sent her a message, and she responded harshly, even though the message itself was kind and wholesome. In my post, I said two things.

First, we don't know if that's the full story. We don't know if there were messages before that. We don't know if this person had messaged her before.

Second, I said this could have been an automatic response, and that alone doesn't automatically make her a bad person.

Based on the limited information we all had, I shared my opinion on the situation.

Now, weeks later, another account, who I'm not going to tag because I've already blocked her (her blog is f1stuffblog, if you want to look for it), came into my comments harassing both me and my mutuals. She called me a disgusting bitch and accused me of being parasocial for talking about the situation.

Meanwhile, she's the one in my comments calling me names over Maddie Simpson, a woman who doesn't even know she exists.

What the fuck is the problem?

If you disagree with someone's opinion, that's your right. But there is a difference between disagreement and harassment. Calling people names, insulting them, and repeatedly going after them over an opinion isn't healthy discussion. It's harassment.

4. Treating Fan Theories as Facts

As I talked about before with the Jermajesty fanfics, fanfiction is fanfiction. There's nothing wrong with enjoying fictional stories.

The problem starts when people take those fictional portrayals and begin treating them as if they're accurate representations of someone's real personality.

Jermajesty is often written as toxic in fanfiction. That's fine. It's fiction. But when people start presenting that version of him as if it's established fact, despite there being no evidence to support it, that's no longer fanfiction. That's stereotyping.

Presenting speculation as established history without evidence only spreads misinformation, and it creates unfair perceptions of real people who never asked to be fictionalized in the first place.

5. Gatekeeping

Let's talk about gatekeeping.

Saying newer or younger fans aren't "real fans" because they weren't around when Michael was alive, or because they discovered him through the Michael movie, is ridiculous.

Discovering Michael Jackson because of the movie is not a crime.

There are people who, twenty years from now, will have just been born. They'll discover Michael's music for the very first time, and they'll love him just as much as we do today.

You are not entitled to Michael Jackson simply because you've been listening to him since you were a child. There is room for everybody in this fandom.

Love and unity, above everything else, is what Michael stood for.

Now imagine knowing that people within his own fandom are arguing over who's a "real fan" and who's a "fake fan," when all Michael ever wanted was for people to enjoy the music.

I'm not saying there aren't newer fans who behave inappropriately. Every fandom has people like that.

But something I've noticed, especially with situations like the Bae Nation group chat, is that people are very quick to blame younger fans for everything.

And while I'm not presenting this as fact, I genuinely believe there have always been older fans who are genuine weirdos themselves, using newer fans as scapegoats to say and do the things they've wanted to say and do for a very long time.

I think that's unfair to newer fans, and it's one of the reasons so many of them end up leaving the fandom.

6. Fan Entitlement

I don't even know if I have to elaborate on this one.

The Jackson family does not owe you access to every detail of their private lives.

Just because they're public figures doesn't mean they're required to share every relationship, every conversation, every family gathering, or every personal moment with us. Some things are meant to stay private, and that's okay.

Being a fan does not entitle you to someone's personal life.

Let's Talk About Incest Fanfiction

This is probably one of the strangest things I've seen within this fandom.

First, there was fanfiction about Jaafar and Jermajesty, who are biological brothers.

Then there was fanfiction about Michael and Jaafar, who are uncle and nephew.

And this is one I find strange.

Nobody was writing fanfiction about Jaafar Jackson and Nia Long.

Then they did an interview together at the BET Awards where Nia herself said that she sees Jaafar as a son and that she's become like a second mother to him.

After that interview established their relationship publicly as a mother-and-son dynamic, suddenly people wanted to start writing fanfiction about them.

So... you never wanted to write fanfiction about them before.

But now that they've publicly described their relationship as mother and son, that's when y'all decide to start shipping them?

I genuinely don't understand that.

Disagree with me if you want, but I find it disturbing.

7. Obsession with Appearance & AI/Misinformation

Let's talk about the constant obsession with Michael's appearance.

Instead of focusing on his artistry, his humanitarian work, or the impact he had on music, people spend their time debating his face, his skin, and his body.

"Oh, his nose looked so perfect during the Bad era."

"I wish he had never touched his face."

"I wish he hadn't gotten this done."

"I wish he hadn't changed that."

Please... shut up.

And while we're on the topic, can we finally put the "Michael wanted to be white" narrative to rest?

If there was anybody on the face of this planet who was proud of being a Black man, it was Michael Jackson.

Ironically, the more his vitiligo progressed and the lighter his skin became, the more Black-centered and politically outspoken his music became.

People don't like talking about that, but it's true.

Now let's talk about AI-generated content and misinformation.

I hate it.

The AI-generated pictures where Michael suddenly has abs.

The edited clips.

The fake quotes.

The unverified stories.

It takes two seconds, or no more than five minutes, to verify your sources.

Why would you see something online, make absolutely no effort to fact-check it, and then share it as if it's true?

Aren't you scared of looking like an idiot if someone fact-checks you and proves you wrong?

Then again, a lot of people would rather double down than admit they were wrong, so I guess that answers my own question.

8. Talking Down on the Jackson Family

I've talked about this before.

Michael Jackson was Michael Jackson.

Nobody is disputing that.

Michael was elite. There will never be another Michael Jackson.

But what we're not going to do is pretend that the rest of his family are talentless, useless, or somehow irrelevant simply because Michael reached a level that no one else has.

The Jackson family is full of incredible singers, dancers, musicians, performers, writers, and entertainers.

Not just Michael's siblings, but the younger generation as well.

Appreciating Michael shouldn't require disrespecting the rest of his family.

9. Romanticizing Michael's Suffering

This is something that genuinely bothers me.

People romanticize Michael's trauma, his loneliness, and his pain as if they're poetic or aesthetic instead of recognizing them for what they really were.

Trauma.

Loneliness.

Pain.

None of those things are beautiful.

And if we're being honest, this is one of the same reasons people failed to take Michael's suffering seriously while he was alive.

People watched him struggle and turned that struggle into entertainment or mythology instead of recognizing that he was a human being who was hurting.

Now, decades later, some people are doing the exact same thing.

......

None of this is meant to attack the fandom.

I'm part of this fandom too.

But I think it's important that we're able to criticize unhealthy behavior within our own community instead of pretending it doesn't exist.

You can love Michael, defend his legacy, and still hold fellow fans accountable when they're spreading misinformation, harassing people, invading privacy, or treating real human beings like fictional characters.

Loving Michael Jackson should bring people together.

Not divide them.

And if we want to honor the values he spent his entire life talking about, then maybe it's time we start showing each other a little more respect.

Tag list : @cocomilaa @blcknebula @stiflersbabymama @callmeoncette @needjoekeery @nuttyrebelflower @1eliana123-blog @ladyearthsea @rastharex @darkgreengrl @bananajoeclone @violet0182 @minghaossv @melynex @thebabykashmere @ghoulxeg @simply-lovley44

@raefoxiegirl @peacemakersbeloved @devynrulesboisdrool @skiicoreee @boredpretty @michaelssparklysocks @sometranslationnoteru @strawberrkiwis @irissunshines @agustdpeach @fluffypuddingatz

@joeburrowife

@1meshugge1 @whyxo @coornballz @plan3tch1ld @juicybigfart @swavydadon @hyperfixawahhhh @melaninjoys @enzo6ekiiii

@st-ar-ron @unseenleylinesecret @a-motherfcking-fish @jaafarsaura

@theghostwife @tellybearryyyy @delictezz @sebbysbaby

@d4yanalav3nder00 @kenmas-whore01 @lotusflwss @tafuller

@animegamerfox @cinnamoncunt @sugarysweetooth @4ppl3h34d

Warnings: Nsfw, Perv Michael, lowk a lot of plot? (i got carried away👀), smut, reader lwk getting lectured, spanking, kinda dark? oral, reader calls Michael “mr. jackson” (he lwk got a thing for it), PinV, unprotected sex

“Crap, crap, crap,” you whispered to yourself, sprinting down the hallway.

The stack of papers pressed tightly against your chest threatened to slip from your grasp with every hurried step. You were already an hour late. An entire hour.

Your phone had been blowing up nonstop.

‘Mr. Jackson’

12 missed calls

27 unread texts

14 emails

Every notification made your stomach twist tighter.

I’m dead.

You rounded the corner too quickly, causing the papers to fly from your hands. Sheets scattered across the polished stone floor like fallen leaves.

“Damn it!” you hissed, dropping to your knees. You frantically gathered the pages, trying to put them back in order.

Then everything suddenly went quiet.

The office doors in front of you opened, causing you to freeze. Michael stepped out, dressed impeccably as always, one hand tucked into his pocket.

But, he didn’t look angry.

He didn’t look annoyed.

He looked… calm.

Terrifyingly calm.

His eyes dropped to the papers scattered across the floor before slowly lifting to meet yours.

The silence stretched. You suddenly wished he would just yell and just get it over with.

At least then you’d know what to expect.

“Pick those up.” He said, his voice soft.

You immediately scrambled to gather the papers.

“Mr. Jackson, I-I’m so sorry, I—”

“Office. Now.” His voice stern. He then turned around and walked back inside without waiting for a response.

He turned around and walked back inside without waiting for a response.

You swallowed hard. The employees nearby suddenly became very interested in their computers, yet nobody looked in your direction.

That was never a good sign. You hurried into the office behind him, the doors shut quietly.

Michael stood by the large windows overlooking the city, his back was to you.

“Close the folder.”

Your hands were shaking enough that you hadn’t noticed you were clutching the papers against your chest.

You quickly closed it.

“Stand there.”

You did.

The room fell silent.

One second. Five seconds. Ten. The longer he stayed quiet, the more your anxiety grew.

Finally, he turned around. “How late are you?”

You hesitated. “An hour.”

Michael nodded.

Just nodded.

“One hour.” Another pause. “Sixty minutes.” His voice remained level.

“Three thousand six hundred seconds.”

Your stomach twisted. “I know.”

“No.” He took a few slow steps forward. “I don’t think you do.”

The calmness never left his face, and that was the problem. There was no visible anger to prepare yourself for. There were no warning signs.

Just that steady gaze. “I called you fourteen times.”

You looked down.

“Look at me.”

The words weren’t loud.

You immediately obeyed, failing to notice the way his eyes trailed down your body.

Michael folded his hands behind his back. “I sent emails.”

You nodded.

“I sent texts.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And during all of that, what exactly was so important that you couldn’t answer me?”

You opened your mouth, nothing came out. Because suddenly every excuse sounded stupid.

Michael watched you struggle patiently.

Almost politely.

Which somehow felt crueler than shouting. “I don’t want excuses.” His head tilted slightly. “I want an explanation.”

“I lost track of time.” You said.

Silence. Then a small nod.

“I see.”

That was it.

Just I see.

The disappointment in those two words hit harder than any yelling could.

Michael walked back toward his desk. “You know what concerns me?”

You shook your head.

He picked up a framed photo from his desk and set it down again.

“People make mistakes.” His voice remained quiet. “I make mistakes.” He looked over at you.

“But mistakes are usually followed by accountability.”

Your throat tightened.

“You disappeared.” Every word was measured, controlled, precise. “Do you know what I thought after the tenth unanswered call?”

You shook your head.

“I thought maybe something had happened to you.”

That caught you off guard. Michael’s expression didn’t change.

“I had security looking for you.”

Your eyes widened.

“I had staff trying to reach you.”

The guilt then settled heavily in your chest.

“And then you walk through my doors carrying papers like we’re ten minutes behind schedule instead of an hour.”

The room felt impossibly small.

Michael sat down in his chair, leaning back calmly “Tell me something.”

You nodded nervously.

“Why should I trust that you won’t do this again?”

The question hit like a punch.

Because suddenly this wasn’t just about being late, It was also about trust.

And Michael just sat there waiting. Not yelling. Just watching. Waiting for an answer, which was somehow much, much scarier.

For some reason, you couldn’t form words.

He then sighed. “You know what? Come here” he said.

You made your way over to him, your heart pounding in your chest.

As you make your way towards him, he bends you over his lap. “I have half a mind to not fire you right now,” his hands pulling up your skirt, then rubbing against your backside.

‘What the hell is happening right now?’ You think to yourself, not that you’re complaining, there are many people that would kill to be in this position.

Before you could form another thought, you feel a rush of air against your ass.

SMACK!

You gasped, a wave of pain blooms over the left side of your cheek.

“When I say I need something by a certain time, I mean it.”

SMACK!

He spanked you again, causing you to moan out with a mix of pain and pleasure.

“For the past few weeks, you’ve been slacking off. Countless typos. So many times where you turned in work late.”

Another spank.

At this point, tears were flowing down your face.

“Please, Mr. Jackson! It won’t happen again, I swear!” You cried out, a mixture of pain and pleasure floods through your body.

“Is that so?” He hummed.

You nodded your head rapidly, desperate to get out of the embarrassing and humiliating position that you were in.

“Alright. Sit up.”

Now, you were sitting on his lap, your chest moving up and down trying to catch your breath.

He then spread your legs with his, his fingers trailing down your stomach to your clothed clit, rubbing circles around it.

“Do you want me to stop?” His breath on your neck.

“No.” You moan out.

“Do you want more?”

You nod.

“What do you want? Hm?” His fingers were now becoming more fast-paced.

“You, I-I want you inside of me.” You moaned out once more.

“Look at you, using your words like a big girl.” He chuckled.

He then has you stand up once more, leading you over to the couch that stands next to the door. He the. Takes off your panties. He then follows suit with his clothes.

“Bend over, now”

You follow what he says, bending over the arm of the couch. You then felt the tip of his cock rub against your folds, your walls struggling to take him in.

“Relax f’me baby” his voice deep.

You do your best to follow instantly, before sinking in resulting you in moaning out in pleasure, Michael doing the same.

He then begins a steady pace, his hands moving to your hips.

Thrust

Thrust

Thrust

Thrust

Your warm slick is coming out of you in strings, sloppy sounds filling the room, moans, cries, whimpers, you and Michael completely forgetting about what setting you both are in.

“Are you gonna do better?” He starts, still thrusting into you.

“Mmh!” You nod your head, your mind full of pleasure, still a bit high off of the previous pleasure he gave you.

“Use your words baby” he groans, slapping your ass.

“Y-Yes, Mr. Jackson!” Your voice bouncing off the walls.

He groans at the way you moan his name “Am I gonna have to teach you again?”

“No!”

By now, you were embarrassing close to cumming again, the band in your stomach dangerously close to snapping, and Michael groaning and moaning in your ear isn’t helping.

“Mr. Jackson! Im gonna cum!” You moan out.

“I know baby, I can feel you squeezing me so tight,” he groans, looking down at the way you both are connected, you’re creating a ring of cream around him.

“Making a mess all on my dick, fuck” he moans, his pace becoming more sloppy, his orgasm just as close as yours.

“Michael!” Your moan out, turning him on, his dick still stroking inside of you.

“Come for me baby, do it.” His hand moving down to rub circles around your clit, that being your breaking point.

His jaw falls open, his cum coating your walls while your pussy spasms on his cock, your back arching.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Jackson, it won’t happen again.” You mumble out, your body falling slump.

He smiles softly at you before pressing a kiss to your cheek before pulling out of you slowly, watching both your cum and his slip out of you, causing him to groan.

He quickly looks away before he could get hard again, going to get you a warm towel to clean you up with.

He definitely wouldn’t mind you making more mistakes if it meant that you both would end up like this.

******

wc: 3k

coupling: michael jackson x fem!reader

era: off the wall

summary: you catch michael jerking off to one of your sexy little polaroid pics that he stole from your boyfriend's wallet. The sweet girl that you are, you decide to put him out his misery.

warnings: heavy smut with little plot, cheating, dom!reader, sub!michael, virgin!michael, creampie (sorry not sorry), f! oral receiving, m! oral receiving, michael is heavily inexperienced,

a/n: I’ve lowk been wanting to write something virgin michael based & this is what I came up with!! & also I’ve been in heat this week for some reason so fuck all that cute shit here’s sumthin dirty xoxo

𑣲masterlist/taglist

i feel like this sounds like him…

not AI // listen w headphones!!

Elias "Stack" Moore x Fem!Reader

Summary: You and Stack get into an argument that shows a side of him that you've never seen. He's no poet, not a man that's good with words, but he can speak through actions better than anyone.

Tags: Angst, Major Angst, Slight Toxicity from Reader & Stack, Arguing, Potential Cheating, Stack is Bad with Words, Softcore Non-Con, Violence Between Lovers

Word Count: 4.9k

You stand with your arms folded and hip jutted to the side as you ponder which table cloth to pluck from the large shelf of miscellaneous supplies in front of you. Annie had directed you to this large supply closet that’s basically just a room where all of the supplies for the juke joint is kept.

Dark liquor and shimmering jugs of moonshine make up the largest demographic in the room. The space smells of dust and old, dry wood. There’s a single light bulb swinging from the ceiling that casts an amber light throughout the space that’s too weak to reach the outer corners of the wood box of a room.

Your eyes scanned up and down the shelves, playing back the color scheme of the scenery outside the supply closet door so as to choose the best match. Linens and table cloths of various patterns and colors sit one atop the other carrying a thin layer of dust. As you stand pondering, you hear the creak of the door swing open behind you, three heavy, masculine footsteps follow, stopping behind you. 

You know it’s him, you feel his energy buzz atop the surface of your skin the moment he enters the room. His presence bares an intensity that tends to have that effect. The man carries such a signature aura that it's impossible to miss or fail to notice. So distinct, that what emanates from him is starkly different and distinguishable from his twin. The air seems to shift around him when he enters a room and then he proceeds to take up all of said air. 

“I said I don’t wanna talk to ya, Elias.” You huff, but not nearly as venomously as would accurately reflect your lack of desire to be in the same room as him. You wish your words had come out harsher. But you’re mature enough to know that showing the true extent of your anger would do you no good.

Besides, you know that he’s like a bundle of dry hay that any spark from you will ignite into flames. Your back stays facing him, which sends a message in and of itself. He didn’t see the way your eyes rolled to the back of your head when you recognized his footsteps.

Elias studies you from behind, taking what he can get since you won’t even grant him a face-to-face conversation. Your pale yellow dress hugs the feminine roundness of your shoulders nicely. In an instant and with the quick flick of his sharp eyes he studies what’s radiating off of you as well. A tension that speaks in frequencies that only he can hear and that shows itself in the stiffness of your posture. 

The wall of a man slowly steps closer into you, not in a way that denotes carefulness, but in a way that radiates entitlement. He stops just before the fabric of his clothes press into your back. His presence sits on the nape of your neck. Still you don’t turn around, staying focused on your task, or at least trying your best to.

His cologne all but burns your nose, it’s smells like sandalwood and musk and a strong alcohol aroma that binds the two scents together. The fragrance blends with the warm, smoky scent of whiskey on his breath in a way that’s very him. 

Stack plucks the toothpick from between his full lips, flicking it to the floor before shoving his hands in his pockets. A simple gesture done with such nonchalance that would’ve pissed you off if you’d been facing him to see it. Him following you into this secluded space where it's just the two of you feels predatory and unfair.

Like he only followed you in here because it would create a private moment between the two of you that he knows you’re in no mood to create knowingly or willingly. 

He’s not touching you, though might as well be. But he likes how your frame fits into his, how he can swallow you up or absorb you into himself like this. This is a tactic he employs often whether you’re in the mood to be this close to him or not. He takes in your spirit the way a plant will grow towards a window just to have the sunlight touch it’s leaves. Just proximity to you feeds him down to his bones. Though he's not the type of man that's able to put that into words.

The top of your head stops at the middle of his broad chest, freshly hot-combed hair swirls towards your face like wisps of unraveled clouds. The front of him, chest-to-crotch, is nearly pressed flush against your back. The roundness of your butt is the nearest to pressing against him but not quite.

“Now how I’m gon invite you to my get-together and you can’t even spare a brotha a hello, a kiss-my-ass, nothing?” You hear the smile in his voice, the boldness of his entitlement sets a trap that you fall into. 

At last you stop pretending to still be picking out a table cloth and spin around to face him. “Kiss my ass. Happy?” Your words are sharp and sarcastic and patronizing enough to satisfy you. Before he can fix his lips to shoot something back, you’ve spun back around towards the shelf to grab the cloth you decided will do. You just want to get out of here as soon as possible. 

Elias doesn’t move, because he doesn’t have to. He’s a brick wall that would have to move out of the way to let you pass, anyway. When you turn back around to face him, fully intending on leaving hurriedly and in a huff, he’s still standing in the same spot. 

Now the buttons holding his black, sleeveless vest together are nearly pressing into the butter yellow silk that’s stretches across your bust. His shoulders are massive beneath his white dress shirt, his chest is broad and tone in a way that makes his clothes fit nicer than the average man. Your nose is level with his crimson tie when you begrudgingly make eye contact with him.

He examines you like something he’ll always possess, like something inevitable. Like you’re the once making a needless fuss about something that will always be; that, being this push and pull routine the two of you have done for years. Unspoken words and spoken ones and the times you’ve made each other feel so good that you couldn't formulate any at all. 

“Look, baby, didn’t I tell you that wasn’t what it looked like?” There’s a desperation in his tone that’s accompanied by his usual smug playfulness. You only catch the latter.

A delivery carrying such little seriousness makes a poor companion to the sincerity hidden beneath the many layers of his voice. His default chuckle and the twinkle of gold in his teeth when he smiles distracts from any candidness hidden on his tongue somewhere. 

If looks could kill, he would be dead, cold and buried by now. Your gaze is hot with an anger that’s barely bridled. You swear you feel your eye twitch under the strain of keeping your mask of togetherness up. You want to explode and tell him to fuck off. But you also want to dish him out the coldness apathy possible, because that’s what truly gets a man like Elias bothered.

But how dare he condescend to you like this? Insulting your intelligence, that's your trigger. Like you’re just supposed to take his word for it that the girl you saw kiss him ‘wasn’t what it looked like’. 

The second the last syllable leaves his tongue, your own is already on him like white on rice. “And I told you that I didn’t believe yo slick ass!” Your words cut through the small space room like the crack of a whip. His expression falls subtly from an ego-driven grin to one more serious, concerned even.

You maneuver to push by him, fed up with this horribly timed interaction and wanting to get back something that will distract you from his nonsense. “Look, I don’t want to play these games, Elias, I’m here to help my sister set up and have a good time.” You huff, your voice is strong and decided as you step to the side to push past the road block that is his large frame. 

Your fingers spread atop his crisp cotton shirt when you place your hand on his large bicep; pushing him out of the way enough for you to slide by. You weren’t halfway past him when he grabbed your wrist, not harshly, but certainly firm enough to stop you in your tracks. Your breath catches when he pulls you against him.

“C’mon baby, don’t be like that.” His southern drawl is thick and dripping sweet, he says the words like he’s scolding a fussy kitten. His large hand is warm, strong as a hundred-year-old oak and could wrap around your wrist twice if that were possible. 

He holds your wrist firmly against his chest, hindering your forward motion entirely. Your forearm is pinned between his grasp and the fabric of the clothes across his broad chest. Each of his fingertips feel so warm and pronounced against your skin.

Your eyes flick back and forth between his wild and livid, but you find no similar expression reflecting back at you from his eyes. Only an uncharacteristic softness shown through a gentler gaze that doesn't match the other parts of his hardened-by-life countenance.

Somehow that makes you more angry than a harsh expression from him would make you. Because it feels like a very unfair weapon formed against you. It's easy to be mad at someone who's mad at you. But the softness that you see in him every now and again keeps you hooked and you hate that more often than not.

You snatch your wrist away so quickly that he couldn't tighten his grip fast enough to keep you caged in the moment. A hot breath seethes from your flared nostrils, your gaze looks past him towards the door as you try to swallow the feeling of offense. Your eyes stay ahead, refusing to feed his antics by so much as a glance in his direction.

You straighten your posture, committed to not having this become something uglier and night-ruining. “Thank ya kindly for the invitation Mr. Moore if that’s what you’re looking for, now if you don’t mind–” The sting of your sarcastic tone is cut off.

That's when he suddenly snakes a single muscular arm around your waist and pulls you against him. The impact of your body slamming into his ejects a breath from your lungs. Your entire body and bust make contact with the expanse of his chest as his lips crash into yours. He claims the air in your lungs as his own through bruising open mouthed kisses. His mouth is hot and his tongue invasive.

His bicep curls around your waist and his hand is planted against your back, holding the warmth of your body against him. The plushness of your curves pressing into him numbs any worries in his mind. He takes your mouth in hot, whiskey-sweetened kisses that don't ask for consent or care about being crass. Lapping up every corner of the heat of your mouth like a poor man digging for gold.

It's carnal and rough and deep and just as soon as it happened, it was over. Your muscle memory is overpowered by what's left of your sense. You push off of his chest to untie his tongue from yours. Your lips break away from the snare of his with a crudely wet click. The sudden lack of touch feels premature to him, and like putting your foot down to you. In reaction he simply looks at you, with a flatter expression than your own but heaving for air as well, nonetheless.

In seconds he managed to make your lips feel swollen and your head felt lighter than it did twenty seconds ago. You glare at him, your eyes have darkened with so many different things. Your bust heaves as you make an effort to catch your breath. You feel a wrathful heat rise up your neck to spread across your face, leaving cool beads of sweat on your nose. Emotion boils over into the physical feeling of fire all over your body.

Before you knew what had happened, you felt your palm slap him across the face; his head turned with the force of it. The crackling sound of the strike bounced off the ceiling and the impact stung your palm a pinker shade than usual.

You feel sick at yourself. For a split second you feel like a monster for displaying such violence, then the next second justification swoops in to wash those feelings away.

Tear prick the corners of your eyes but you refuse to let them fall. “How dare you kiss me with your filthy mouth that’s been god-knows-where on god-knows-who?!” There's a strain in your voice that's evidence of whatever knot of emotions you'd been holding in your belly bursting undone.

Elias looks at you with his lips slightly parted in disbelief and his right cheek still stinging with pain. The taste of you suddenly feels like stolen goods on his tongue. Realization hits him, and it scares him like nothing has since he was a boy. The realization that he still has the energy to play a game that you grew tired of ages ago.

A somber curtain shades his eyes with something unmasked and miserable that you've never seen before. He says nothing, he can't think of anything to say.

The well of wit and charm that's always so plentiful on his tongue has gone entirely dry. His silence leaves an uncanny feeling in the air and your stomach because he always has something to say. He just looks at you with a surprising lack of anger on his face.

You won't let the tears fall, you won't let this ruin your plans to have a great time tonight. You simply will not grant anyone that sort of power over you. Your throat is tight with emotions that you can barely hold back. Your attempt to regain the breaths he'd stolen from you feels like breathing through a straw.

You blink your eyes in an attempt to mop up the tears welling in your ducts. “Whatever this unwelcome interaction is, is over!--” Before your feet can move towards the door, again he cuts you off by stopping your lips with his own. Is he an idiot or just the most selfish man on earth? You don't know.

In one step he closes the space between you again, softer this time, gentler and less selfish. He catches your lips less like a beast and more like a gentleman that doesn't quite know how to be one. He kisses you again like it's an impulse he can't help and it's softer but somehow still so smothering. His arms stay by his side rather than repeating his previous seizing of your body like a man claiming war spoils.

The plush of his full lips brush yours again, but he keeps his tongue to himself this time. The feeling of his still throbbing face and his lips pulsing against yours is a sadistic high he's never ridden before.

He holds you hostage for only a few seconds as you writhe against him in shock and anger at his audacity. You hiss into his mouth before tearing your lips from his grasp again before he can finish tasting you.

This time the strike comes immediately after the offense like a reflex. The moment the kiss breaks, you cock back your hand and deliver another stinging slap across his face. Again, his head turns with the force of the hit. Your hand burns from the strength of the contact and the sound of it is a merciless one.

Elias takes the full brunt of the hit in silence. Your sweetness on his lips in combination with the hate you poured into that slap is a feeling that's already burned into his memory. He pauses, wincing the pain away under his breath before looking back at you from the direction the slap had turned him in.

It happened so fast that it scared you. It scared you how quickly and easily you'd struck him.

You look at him bewildered and panting, your hand stings from the harshness and speed of the impact. So many different things have you feeling sick at him and yourself. Your chest heaves, you're breathless with anger and shock and a growing heartbreak that feels like an infection you're trying not to contract.

Tear sting in your ducts, and a few finally break the barrier holding them back and pour hot onto your cheeks. Your throat is tight and painful as you inhale a shuttering breath. You feel so belittled and even worse, violated, and that feeling leaves a nasty, nasty scar.

His face is pulsing with stinging pain, but Elias doesn't move or lash out. He doesn't say anything, his massive frame doesn't even wordlessly display any hostility towards you. His back is straight, and his expression is unreadable apart from the softness in his brown eyes.

That softness confuses you and that confusion morphs in anger because it feels like all of this is nothing to him. For you to be so angry and him to be so calm.

The fury you'd poured into him not once, but twice and all he can give you is that stupid, pitying look. As distressing as all of this is for you and it didn't even spark a fire in his eyes. Just a remorseful softness that won't let your gaze drift away from it.

The man stands like a brick wall in front of you, unwavering and confident in what, you're not sure. But his shoulders are relaxed, his jaw isn't even tight and he just looks at you, watches you.

In some ways it feels like he's seeing you for the first time; seeing you as a separate entity and not a character in a story where he's the main. It crashes down on him that you're something real and losable, and that clearly he has realized that too late.

The first hit shocked him, the second him confirmed what he already knew after the first strike, but foolishly thought he could fix. He's faced with the reality that he messed up. That he'd damaged the only flower in his life. Self-loathing made plenty of space for letting you loath him to.

The silence in the small room is uncomfortable and cut through only by your ragged breaths. Hot tears pour down your cheeks in streams, but still you hold back the urge to let it all out. You growl through gritted teeth at how he dares to give you this meek look after behaving like such a selfish beast. He doesn't get to corner you, shove his tongue down your throat and then look at you like a shamed puppy.

The air between you is hot and thick with humidity; your scents are combined in the air. Elias wants to say something, but he feels tied up by his own superficial nature. For the first time, it feels like a binding shackle keeping him from what he wants. He doesn't have the words, his brother is the deep one, he's always preferred to stay on the surface of life. Even if he did he wouldn't know what to say to fix this anyway.

The memory of what he'd just done flashes in your mind as if it were still happening; stoking the fire in your chest all over again. The lingering feeling of violation kicks up a level of rage that you thought you'd swallowed down and breathed out. That you thought you had exerted by hitting him.

A fed-up breath huffs from your lips that still buzz with the remnant of his touch and the taste of dark liquor. You sharply raise your hand to strike him a third time, for reasons that are too complex and frustrating to put into words. But your lack of surety this time is evident, like you’re hoping this will solve a problem that you know it won’t.

Your wherewithal to slap his face again is smaller than a mustard seed but you want to because how fucking dare him? 

Elias doesn't even flinch when you cock your hand back with snatching force. He leaves his entire body at your mercy to do with as you will. His submission isn’t begrudgingly. It’s a heartbreaking admission of guilt that’s so loud but entirely wordless. He’s kneeling before you in every way but physically and for a man with such a boisterous personality, the sight stuns you. 

You pause, hand still in the air and tears staining your cheeks. Your eyes scan over his demeanor, he’s so…docile, despite everything. Your teeth catch your bottom lip, displaying the hesitancy in your heart. For the first time since his mouth crashed into your, you had a moment of clarity. You’d struck him twice, and such a large man didn’t even flinch when you raised your hand to do it a third time. 

Stack isn't a man that does a whole lot of deep conversing, but he is a man that knows that actions speak louder than words.

He stood straight and unshielded to take whatever you were going to throw at him. Your eyes soften into a puddle of remorse and damp lashes. The tension that had your face tied up in a wrathful expression came undone. Anger unravelled into regret and shame and tears that burn with something different now. The hit never makes contact, your breaths are ragged and dry in your throat. 

Elias’ body language didn't grow volatile and the look in his eyes never hardened. Your open palm that remains in the air slowly closes and your hand lowers back down to your side. You inhale a softer, calmer, still shuttering breath.

The heat on your face transforms into the warmth that shame brings to one's cheeks. The blindness of your rage wears off a bit and the look on your face that was enraged perplexity is now a humbler awe. An admiration that you'd previously not know him to be capable of inspiring.

He feels like a brute in the presence of a lady, some would call that self-awareness. Elias watches intently as your posture softens as well as your expression. The sudden change in countenance is the drastic result of revelation. Your eyes shift from piercing sharpness to the roundness of a does eyes. Your lips press into a thin line like you're wincing at yourself.

He sees your change in demeanor as his chance to finally speak. The arrogance that he entered the room with has long since departed.

“Baby–” Stack begins, his voice is just above a whisper and careful, but he stops when you begin to raise your hand towards his face. The movement is with a tenderness that's been absent since this interaction began. His brows knit together a bit with confusion. Your silence doesn't grant him any explanation as to what you're doing, but he doesn't dodge.

You lift your hand, much slower and gentler like you're asking permission to touch him for the first time; because it feels like you've lost the privilege to. Your expression is tentative and unsure like you're intruding and waiting for him to bite your fingers off. But he doesn't, he stands there open to you. His eyes carry a docility that stands out among the rest of his other very masculine features.

You want to test if this is real, if what you think he's saying through his body is real. All your years of knowing him and you've never seen this side of him. Elias is a wildfire of a man. A slick-talker that goes wherever the wind blows him and uses less-than-ethical tactics to steer things in his favor wherever he lands.

He's boisterous and arrogant and won't give anyone power over him. So who is this man standing in front of you? It's like someone that you've never met with softer posture and warmer eyes is occupying his body. Is he even real, is this another mask or what's always been behind it?

You reach out to him like he's a mirage that you swear will fade away.

He never stops watching your movements. Your hand lands not on his cheek or chin, but the entrance of his lips. Your wonder overpowers your hesitation. You push past them into his mouth without need for force, he parts his lips for you without resistance. Four of your fingers and your palm to the first crease push into his warm mouth and he fully lets you.

He doesn't move or shift atop the wooden floor, the moment your nails touched his lips he let you put your hand into his mouth. He exhales a slow, deep sigh through his nose; holding your gaze with your fingers resting on the hot slick of his tongue and his lips closed around your knuckles. His tender-eyed gaze as he lets your hand rest in his mouth is so out-of-character it's almost startling.

This feels more intimate and bare than anytime he's ever been inside of you. Half of your hand sits on his tongue and is enclosed by the wet heat of his mouth. The ridges lining the roof of his mouth press against the soft skin on the back of your hand, and he just stands there. His shoulders are loose, so are the muscles in his face. It's like he's dissolved into someone you've never met.

The energy coming off of him is like a lion that’s become so tame that it’s true nature has vanished before your eyes. This man has shot people for looking at him the wrong way, but he opens this tenderness and compliance only to you.

It’s because you know him and his cocky, unyielding personality that this stark contrast baffles you to silence. 

Elias hopes that letting you have your way with him is enough, that it says enough. He’s never let anyone close enough for them to have the option to be done with him because he’d never really let them in to begin with. Until moments ago he didn’t realize what being rejected feels like. It’s a foreign and awful feeling that penetrates the barrier of pride around his heart. 

He knows what you’ve seen from him over the years, and it's been harsh and insensitive at times. But that means that you know that this meeker side of him is shown to nobody. Hell, you didn't even know that it existed.

Elias is avoidant at his core, he doesn’t wallow. He bounces back up before things can sink in and creates an outer shell that’s charming enough that people don’t notice that it only goes so deep. He’s no poet, but he knows how to speak through actions.

The way your previous anger has dissolved before his eyes gives him hope. That maybe the resilience it took to fight his nature for you has paid off.

It takes a horrible person to strike someone that won't fight back, and you truly feel horrible. The heat of anger washed back out like the tide leaving you feeling sick in its place. The tears in your eyes are hot with shame and pose as a wordless apology that you know isn't sufficient.

Elias Moore, a broad-shouldered wall of a man that's never without a gun and a crafty smile, is showing that he's meek as a mouse for you. And the feeling--the sight--is so foreign and so new that you don't know what to do with it. How do you wield this newfound power and privilege?

The soft texture of your fingertips is a welcome presence on Stack's tongue. He likes the way every part of you tastes, having you in his mouth feels right. Other women have been there, but you're the only one that owns the place. He likes the look of surprise in your eyes when he tastes you with such a lack of hesitation.

He hopes that you get the declaration he's trying to make and he can be spared from the sappy love talk that he's never been good at.

Your eyes perform a slow dance across his expression once more before you slowly pull back your hand from the warmth of his mouth. The second he feels you reclaiming your hand, he obeys your movement and lets you leave him without touch.

"Baby--" He tries to begin for a second time.

"I'm sorry, Elias. I shouldn't have--I'm sorry." Your eyes don't meet his again, the air is too hot and thick and hard to breath in. The heat of embarrassment ties itself around your neck. You sniffle, wiping a wet stream from your cheek as you push past him to finally leave him alone in the small, stuffy room.

Elias words are still somewhere lost in the air without direction, you'd left before he'd gotten to say them. He knew that you would, and he knows that it was the right thing to do. For such a haughty man, he sure doesn't have the confidence that what he wants to say to you will fix things.

Contains: black reader, explicit content, strong language, nerd! Jermajesty, established relationship

Summary: You and Jermajesty are complete opposites and there’s a few reasons why you guys work so well.

A/n: I did in fact stop it at the kiss because like he was 17 a few hours ago so like🤨

Contains: black reader, childhood friends, first kiss, fluff, shy!Michael, Michael participates in holidays

Summary: For Michael’s 18th birthday, he had one wish and he vowed to make it come true.

Now playing: Something about you - Eyedress & Dent May

ꔛ pairing — jaafar jackson 𝓍 ƒ pregnant!reader

೯ warning: tooth-rotting fluff & talk of pregnancy of course!

೯ authors note: feeling hella maternal writing this, i’m seven weeks pregnant so this was too real. anyways, enjoy! this isn’t my best ( there’s sm freaking dialogue, fawk ) but i hope y’all like it.

the pregnancy test had been sitting on the bathroom counter for a full five minutes. you refused to look at it. if you didn't look, it wasn't real. if you didn't look, your period was simply late. stress. work. life. anything but.

"baby?" jaafar's voice came muffled through the bathroom door. "you've been in there for a while."

your eyes stayed glued to the sink.

"...i think it's broken."

a pause.

"how broken?"

"it says i'm pregnant."

silence.

the kind of silence that was somehow louder than any response.

you slowly unlocked the door, peeking around it just enough to see him standing in the hallway with his phone in one hand and a banana in the other. his brows were knitted together, brown eyes searching yours for any hint that this was some elaborate joke.

"you're serious."

you nodded once.

he looked at you, looked at the test, looked back at you.

the banana slipped from his fingers and hit the hardwood floor with a pathetic little thud.

you stared at it, he stared at it, then at each other.

"...i just dropped a perfectly good banana."

you laughed so suddenly it caught you off guard, the sound bubbling out between nervous tears. "that's—that's your takeaway?"

he blinked a few times before letting out a shaky laugh of his own, one hand rubbing over his face. "no. no, it's definitely not."

his smile disappeared just as quickly as it came.

"we're having a baby?"

he said it so quietly, almost like he was asking permission to believe it.

your bottom lip trembled.

"i think so."

he crossed the room in two quick strides, wrapping you in his arms before either of you could think too much about it. neither of you said anything for a while. you just stood there, clinging to one another while your hearts raced at the exact same speed.

you could feel how fast his was beating through his t-shirt.

"i'm terrified," you admitted into his chest.

he kissed the top of your head.

"...me too."

the next two hours consisted of six more pregnancy tests.

"this one says positive too," jaafar mumbled, lining them up across the bathroom counter like they were evidence in a criminal investigation.

you sat on the closed toilet seat, hoodie pulled over your knees as you watched him pace.

"maybe they're all defective."

he looked over his shoulder.

"baby...these are six different brands."

"...maybe they're collaborating."

he couldn't help but laugh.

"yeah?"

you shrugged.

"a very committed prank."

he walked over, crouching in front of you before gently taking your hands. "i know this is scary."

your eyes immediately welled.

"everything's about to change."

"i know."

"we're not gonna know what we're doing."

"probably not."

"what if i'm a bad mom?"

his expression softened so quickly it made your chest ache.

"hey." he squeezed your hands.

"don't do that to yourself."

"but what if—"

"you're already worrying about being a good mom before the baby's even here. that kind of tells me you'll be a really good one."

you cried.

he sighed dramatically, a smile creeping on his lips.

"i knew that was gonna make you cry."

"shut up."

"can't. it's in my contract."

morning sickness was criminally under described.

there was nothing morning about it; it showed up before breakfast, after lunch, in the middle of the night, once because someone in the apartment downstairs burned garlic bread. your disgusting cravings didn’t help either.

you had barely made it to the bathroom before dropping to your knees.

without fail, jaafar was right behind you.

one hand held your hair back while the other rubbed slow circles between your shoulder blades.

he never complained, not once. even when you apologized between dry heaves.

"stop saying sorry."

"i've thrown up...seven times today."

"okay."

"that's disgusting."

he shrugged.

"i still think you're pretty."

you looked over your shoulder with narrowed eyes. "you're lying."

"i've never been more sincere."

"...my breath smells like stomach acid."

he pretended to think about it.

"...a little."

you smacked his arm.

he laughed so hard he nearly fell backward into the bathtub.

by twenty weeks, the nursery had become your favorite room in the apartment despite containing nothing except unfinished furniture and unopened boxes.

the two of you spent an entire saturday arguing over which shade of sage green looked "more calming."

"they're literally the same color."

"they're not."

"baby—“

"they're different."

silence.

"...okay maybe they're a little similar."

he grinned victoriously.

later that afternoon he attempted to build the crib without reading the instructions.

fourty five minutes later he sat cross-legged in the middle of the room surrounded by leftover screws.

"...i have concerns."

"don't."

"why are there extras?"

"...manufacturing error?"

you slowly picked up the instruction manual from where he'd tossed it. “step one."

he sighed dramatically.

"you sound like my mom."

"because your mom would've read the instructions."

"...i guess” he mumbled, defeated.

the ultrasound felt different.

the jokes stopped the second the lights dimmed.

your fingers instinctively reached for his, intertwining them so tightly his knuckles turned white. he didn't complain. if anything, he held on tighter.

the technician smiled while moving the wand across your stomach.

"everything looks beautiful."

the breath you'd been holding escaped in one shaky exhale.

then she tilted her head.

"huh."

your heart immediately dropped into your stomach.

"is...is everything okay?"

she smiled again.

"oh, yes."

another pause.

"i was just trying to get a better angle of baby number two."

the room froze.

you looked at jaafar, he looked at you, then both of you slowly turned back toward the screen.

"...baby number...two?"

the technician pointed toward the monitor.

"here's one."

another tiny shape appeared.

"...and here's the other."

jaafar didn't blink, didn't move. he just continued staring at the screen as though waiting for someone to yell ‘it’s a prank’

"...twins?"

"identical? no."

"...twins?"

"yes."

he looked at you with the same expression someone might have after seeing a ghost.

"...we're skipping straight to two?"

the laugh that escaped you was loud enough to echo through the room.

you laughed until tears streamed down your cheeks.

jaafar started laughing too, though it sounded slightly hysterical.

"i don't even know how to hold one baby, genevieve refuses to let me."

the technician smiled sympathetically.

"good thing you've got several months to practice."

he looked down at your stomach before gently resting his hand there.

"...you've both been in there this whole time?"

his voice cracked in the sweetest way.

it suddenly became real. not a pregnancy, not an ultrasound, your babies.

his eyes shimmered as he leaned down, pressing the softest kiss against your stomach.

you had never loved him more than you did in that moment.

the third trimester humbled both of you.

sleep became a distant memory.

your back constantly ached, your ankles had disappeared completely, and somehow the babies had decided three in the morning was the perfect time to host gymnastics practice.

one particularly miserable night you found jaafar sitting on the bathroom floor assembling a foot bath after watching approximately six tutorials online.

"what are you doing?"

he looked up with the most serious expression. "combat."

"...combat?"

"against swollen feet."

you laughed despite yourself.

he carefully lowered your feet into the warm water before resting his chin on your knee.

"i wish i could carry them for a day."

you smiled softly.

"you wouldn't survive."

"absolutely not."

he kissed your knee. "but i'd still do it."

labor arrived two weeks earlier than expected.

you woke up to an uncomfortable warmth before realizing exactly what had happened.

"j…"

he barely stirred.

"five more minutes." he groaned, still half asleep.

"...my water broke."

he sat upright so fast he nearly knocked himself with the headboard, a loud thud echoing through the bedroom. “shit!”

he clutched his the back of his head.

"...hospital." you blinked, your demeanor calm.

"...yes."

he jumped out of bed, immediately running in the wrong direction.

"where are my keys?"

"...the front door is the other way."

"right."

he spun around.

then ran straight into the dresser.

by the time you made it to the car, he had forgotten his wallet, grabbed the diaper bag instead of the hospital bag, and somehow left the house wearing two completely different shoes.

you were in active labor and still had enough energy to laugh at him.

"don't judge me."

"I'm trying not to."

"i'm under pressure."

"you're not the one having contractions."

"...that's actually a really good point."

hours later, every joke disappeared, the room blurred around you. the contractions stole every ounce of concentration you had left, each one stronger than the last. your hand never left jaafar's, and neither did his.

he whispered encouragement between every push, brushing damp strands of hair away from your face, reminding you to breathe whenever panic threatened to take over.

when you broke down, convinced you couldn't do it anymore, he leaned his forehead against yours.

"look at me."

you did.

"you are the strongest person i've ever known."

another contraction ripped through you.

he squeezed your hand.

"i've got you."

for the first time all day...you believed him.

then came the first cry.

small.

fragile.

perfect.

the nurse carefully placed your baby against your chest, and suddenly the pain, the exhaustion, the fear—it all faded beneath the overwhelming realization that this tiny little person was yours.

jaafar let out the most broken, relieved laugh you'd ever heard.

he covered his mouth, tears spilling down his face.

“…hi”

it was barely above a whisper.

"hi, baby."

before either of you had time to fully process it, another contraction hit.

the nurse smiled knowingly. "one more."

jaafar blinked.

"...right."

another few minutes.

another push.

another tiny cry filled the room.

your second baby was laid beside their sibling, immediately calming the moment they felt your warmth.

the room became impossibly quiet. you stared at them, jaafar stared at them, neither of you could find the words.

he reached out with trembling hands, one finger wrapping around each impossibly tiny fist before looking back at you with tears still clinging to his lashes.

"...we actually did it."

your own tears spilled over as you nodded.

"yeah."

he leaned over carefully, kissing your forehead before pressing another kiss against each baby's tiny head.

"best defective pregnancy test i've ever seen."

despite everything, despite the exhaustion, the soreness, the tears, you laughed.

and somehow, with one baby sleeping against each side of your chest and the love of your life looking at the three of you like he'd just been handed the entire universe.

everything felt exactly as it was supposed to.

Pairing: Michael x reader

Content: basically you doing the "i cant pay rent" trend on Michael

"Michael, I can't pay rent," you said, putting your head down in hopes of not showing the laughter that threatened to rip through your throat. The camera was discreetly set up so that Michael didn't suspect a thing as he sat across from you, his glasses sliding so far down that his eyes could be seen over the frames as he read his book. The confusion on his face became more apparent as he tilted his head, brows furrowed with utter bewilderment.

"Baby, what are you talking about?" He spoke, his book still in his hands. His fingers were still in position to flip the next page.

"Like, I can't pay rent this month," your smile was becoming more apparent by the second.

"Are you okay? You don't pay any month," his book was now shut. The bookmark was placed in the spot for when he eventually came back to it.

"Michael!"

"What? It's true! You know I don't let you pay for anything," his hands were up now, the confused look phasing into a more playful one.

"Wait, is this that tiktack trend?"

The camera shook from your laughter, becoming blurry as it caught another confused look.

"TikTok, Michael."

"Same thing.”

©dearjotaro

Requests : open

Taglist:

(modern) bad! michael

context: your boyfriend, the friendly neighborhood spider-man, comes banging on your window in dire need of patching up.

2:14 AM

The digital clock on your nightstand glowed a harsh, neon green

Your bedroom was silent, wrapped in the heavy, comforting stillness of a rainy New York night. You were deeply asleep, buried beneath a plush duvet, your hair carefully preserved under a bonnet.

Then came a sound.

Thud

It wasn’t a gentle tap. It was a heavy, wet, structural impact against your third-story window that made the glass rattle violently in its frame. You bolted upright, heart hammering against your ribs, throat instantly tight with panic. Before you could even process a break-in scenario, a frantic, frantic scratching sound clawed at the glass, followed by a weak, muffled thumping.

Flipping the covers off, you rushed to the window, pulling back the heavy curtains.

Your breath caught. Pressed against the rain-streaked glass was a masked face. The giant, white mesh eyes of the Spider-Man suit looked cracked and smudged with soot, but it was the erratic, painful rise and fall of his chest that told you everything.

You unlocked the window and shoved it upward with all your might.

Instantly, the scent of the city storm—petrichor, exhaust, and a sharp, metallic tang of copper—flooded your clean room. Michael practically tumbled over the sill, his foot catching on the frame as he lost his footing entirely. He didn't land with his usual fluid, feline grace. He collapsed forward, a dead weight, grunting heavily as his broad shoulders slammed into your chest.

"Michael!" you gasped, your arms instantly wrapping around his waist to keep him from cracking his head on the hardwood floor.

"I got it... I'm okay, I'm okay," he panted, his voice a strained, breathless rasp beneath the fabric of the mask. But he wasn't okay. He was trembling violently, his entire weight leaning into you, forcing you to use every ounce of your strength to guide his stumbling steps toward your vanity chair.

He sloped heavily into the cushioned seat, his head dropping back against your mirror with a dull thud. His gloved hands, usually so expressive and steady, rose with agonizing slowness to pull the mask off. He hitched it up over his chin, his nose, and finally over his wet forehead, tossing it blindly onto the vanity table behind him where it knocked over a bottle of perfume.

The sight of his face made your stomach drop.

His curls were a damp, tangled mess, stuck to his forehead with a mixture of rain and sweat. A dark, ugly bruise was already blooming across his high left cheekbone, and his lower lip was split, a slow trickle of blood staining his jaw. His dark eyes were glassy, wide with a mixture of adrenaline and pure exhaustion.

"Hey, beautiful," he whispered, offering a weak, lopsided smile that quickly turned into a sharp wince. "Sorry about the... the window. Elevators were broken."

"Shut up, Michael," you breathed, your eyes already dropping down his torso.

The high-tech, black-and-red texturized suit was shredded across his right rib. A deep, jagged laceration tore through the fabric, the edges stained a deep, sickening crimson. He was actively bleeding, the dark fluid seeping over his lean, athletic abdomen.

"Don't move. Not an inch," you commanded, your voice shaking but firm.

You didn't wait for his reply. You turned on your heel and practically sprinted into the bathroom. You didn't even have to look for the supplies; you kept a heavy-duty medical kit tucked right beneath the sink, specifically bought and stocked for nights just like this. Grabbed the iodine, sterile gauze, surgical tape, and a bowl of warm water, you rushed back into the bedroom, setting the supplies down on the vanity with a clutter of plastic and glass.

You dropped to your knees between his thighs, your hands immediately going to work.

"Hold this back," you ordered softly, nudging his large hands toward the shredded edges of his suit.

Michael nodded quietly, his dorky, nervous energy fading into a vulnerable, submissive silence as he watched you. He gripped the torn fabric, pulling it away from the wound so you could work. His chest heaved, a low, shaky breath escaping his parted lips as you soaked a piece of gauze in the warm water and began to gently dab away the dried blood.

"God," he hissed, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the edge of the vanity table. His hips twitched instinctively, trying to pull away from the sting.

"I know, I know. Stay still," you muttered, your brow furrowed in deep concentration. You reached up, your fingers lightly touching his uninjured cheek to steady him. The contrast of your warm, smooth skin against his clammy, battered face made his eyelids flutter. "What happened out there, Michael? Seriously."

"Just... a couple of guys down by the docks," he rambled, his voice dropping into that rapid, nervous cadence he got whenever he knew he was in trouble. "They had some... I don't know, high-tech scrap metal or something. One of 'em got a lucky shot with a blade. I took care of it, though! I webbed 'em up for the cops. They're not hurting anybody else tonight, I promise."

You poured the antiseptic directly onto a clean pad, your jaw tightening. "And look at you. You almost let them kill you."

"It's just a scratch, applehead—ah! Jesus!" He cut himself off with a sharp, high-pitched gasp as you pressed the iodine-soaked gauze directly onto the deep cut. His head flew back, his eyes closed tight, his throat swallowing convulsively as he endured the burning pain.

"It is not a scratch! It's deep, Michael. It needs stitches, but I'm just going to butterfly-tape it tonight since you refuse to go to a real hospital," you said, your voice cracking with a sudden, overwhelming wave of emotion.

The adrenaline that had carried you out of bed was wearing off, leaving behind a cold, heavy layer of exhaustion and fear. As you carefully began applying the butterfly bandages, pulling the edges of his rich brown skin together, a tear slipped from your eye, dropping onto his thigh.

Michael froze. The restless, energetic hero instantly vanished, replaced by the deeply empathetic man who couldn't bear to see you cry.

He reached down, his massive, hand cupping your chin. His long, elegant fingers were gentle, his thumb wiping the tear from your cheek.

"Hey... look at me," he murmured softly, his voice dropping into that velvety, mesmerizing register. "Please don't cry. I hate when you cry."

You looked up at him, your hands resting on his uninjured hip. "I'm tired, Mike. I'm so tired. It’s two in the morning, and I’m sitting on the floor cleaning your blood off my hands. It’s ridiculous that it’s come to this. Every time a siren goes off in the distance, my stomach knots up because I think it’s for you. You have a whole life, a whole career, and you’re out here playing god with a target on your back."

Michael’s expression softened into something profoundly apologetic. He looked down, a heavy sigh escaping him. "I know. I know it’s unfair to you. I’m so sorry for dragging you into this mess. But... when I'm out there, and I see people who can't defend themselves... if I have the power to stop it, I feel like it's my responsibility. If I just sit at home, I feel like I'm letting them down..letting you down."

He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against yours, his dark curls falling around your faces like a curtain. "You're my safe place. The only place I don't have to be a hero or a superstar. Just Michael."

The honesty in his eyes broke your anger. You finished securing the final strip of tape, patted it down gently, and let out a long breath. "Just promise me you'll be smarter. No more solo runs against guys with killer knives."

"Promise," he whispered, kissing the tip of your nose.

Twenty minutes later, the room felt safe again. The bloody, ruined Spider-Man suit had been thrown into the washing machine downstairs on a silent cycle. Michael had washed the grime from his face, and you had carefully helped him ease out of the tight gear.

Now, he was propped up against your pillows, stripped down to nothing but his dark boxers. The stark white bandages across his ribs and abdomen stood out sharply against his skin, a reminder of the night's danger, but he looked infinitely more relaxed. He smelled like your lavender body wash now instead of smoke and rain.

You slid into bed beside him, opening your laptop and setting it between you both, turning on a movie just for background noise. The glow of the screen illuminated the room in soft hues.

Michael immediately shifted, groaning softly as he extended his long, muscular arm, inviting you in. You slid into his side, nesting your head perfectly in the crook of his shoulder. Your arm draped over his chest, careful to avoid the fresh bandages.

He sighed, a sound of pure contentment, his large hand coming down to rest on your hip, his fingers idly kneading the soft skin there.

"You have no idea how much I love you," Michael murmured into the quiet room, his eyes fixed on the side of your face. He wasn't even looking at the laptop. "I was swinging between those buildings tonight, and the only thing keeping me moving was the thought of getting back to this bed. To you."

You tilted your head up to look at him. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," he whispered.

He leaned down, bridging the small gap between your faces. His lips met yours, and the kiss started out incredibly slow, sweet, and comforting. It was a reassurance that he was alive, that he was here. His lips were soft, moving against yours with a tender rhythm that made your chest ache.

But as the seconds ticked by, the residual adrenaline from the night began to morph into something entirely different. The tone shifted. The kiss deepened, becoming heavy, deliberate, and thick with sudden, intoxicating sexual tension.

Michael let out a low, deep growl in the back of his throat, his tongue sliding past your lips, claiming your mouth with a quiet, dominant intensity that sent a shiver straight down your spine. His large hand slid from your hip, his long fingers gripping your waist, pulling you flush against his side. The heat radiating off his bare skin was immense.

You shifted, turning your body toward his, completely lost in the intoxicating taste of him. Your hand slid up his chest, your fingers tangling in the damp curls at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. Michael groaned into the kiss, his other hand going down to grip the plump of your ass as he deepened the kiss even further, devouring your mouth.

A soft, breathless moan escaped your lips, and the sound seemed to drive him crazy. He shifted his weight, trying to roll over, his large thigh lifting to hook over your hip to pin you beneath him.

"Ah—shit!"

Michael instantly broke the kiss, his body seizing up as a sharp, agonizing hiss of pain tore from his throat.

In your haze of passion, your knee had shifted forward, pressing squarely into the massive, dark bruise on his hip and lower ribcage.

You gasped, instantly pulling away and pushing his shoulder back down onto the pillows. "Michael! Oh my god, I'm so sorry!"

He lay flat on his back, his eyes squeezed shut, one hand pressed over his bandaged stomach as he took a series of shallow, ragged breaths. The romantic, sultry atmosphere shattered into hilarious, painful reality.

"No, no... it's okay," he wheezed, a breathless, strained laugh bubbling out of him despite the pain. He opened one eye, looking up at you with a heavy, half-lidded gaze that was still entirely dilated with lust. "It’s fine. I’m fine. Don't stop."

"Are you insane?" you laughed, sitting up and crossing your arms. "You are literally held together by tape and hope right now. You are in absolutely no shape for any kind of sex."

Michael pouted, a genuinely hilarious, frustrated look crossing his face. He reached out, his large hand wrapping around your wrist, tugging you back down toward his chest.

"Wait, wait, applehead... hear me out," he pleaded, his voice dropping into a smooth, playfully seductive whine. "What if... what if I just lay completely still? Right here. I won't move a muscle. You could... you know, hop on top."

You let out a loud, unbelieving laugh, slapping his uninjured shoulder playfully. "Nice try."

Michael let out a dramatic, exaggerated sigh, rolling his eyes, but the playful smirk on his lips betrayed how much he loved your stubborn protectiveness. "You're no fun."

"I'm keeping you alive," you countered, sliding back down into his side.

He didn't argue this time. He wrapped his arm back around you, pulling you close, his large hand resting safely on your thigh. You rested your chin on his chest, watching the colors of the movie flicker across his face. Within minutes, his breathing slowed, becoming deep and even as the sheer exhaustion of his double life finally claimed him.

Safe in your warmth, the hero finally went to sleep.

──── 𓏲 ࣪ ˖ one-shot. thriller!michael. michael jackson x reader. established relationship. mention of d*ana r*ss. lot of swearing. reader is fighting and so savage. fluff at the end. ᝰ.ᐟ꩜ just you beating diana’s ass at your boyfriend's birthday party

summary: jermajesty suggests making a movie and you agree without a lick of hesitation

contains: heavily 18+, mdni!, oral ( m and f receiving), pinv, freaked out jermajesty, recording

notes: i saw a clip from the 2000s of kim k absolutely serving face and i learned that clip was actually from her tape so…. enjoy !

The red record light blinked and the camera made a click

In the reflection of the large bathroom mirror, Jermajesty stood right behind you. One of his hands was wrapped steadily around the camcorder, while the other cupped around your breast, slightly bouncing it in his hand

“look at my baby…doing her makeup” he zoomed in on your face in the mirror as you did your makeup in a very short yet oversized white button down that belonged to jermajesty

“shes gonna look so pretty when i fuck her” he mumbled earning a little giggle from you

he zoomed out, angling the camcorder down just enough to capture his large bulge rubbing against your butt

the camera clicked again

now, the two of you were pressed tight against each other, cheeks touching as you both looked directly into the lens. your fingers stroked along his jawline, tracing the sharp line of his face. clashing a playful grin, you playfully stuck your tongue out at the camera, and he mimicked you,

with a sudden tilt, the frame whipped toward the wall mirror, revealing that you were now completely straddling his lap.

his hand was resting comfortably on your butt before slapping it and then gripping it “jer!”

the camera clicked again but you were now holding it

Jermajesty had his head buried deep between your thighs. a soft, involuntary moan escaped your lips, your fingers burying themselves into his hair, gently tugging the strands to guide his way .

“just like that baby” you gasped, tilting the screen slightly. Jermajesty looked up from between your legs, catching the lens, and gave the camera a very confident wink.

click

you were sitting on the very edge of the mattress now, and Jermajesty stood over you

“open for me, baby," he ordered softly.

you looked up at him and slid your tongue out. he chuckled and lightly slapped the thick tip of his cock against your tongue. before you could even swallow, he cupped your jaw firmly, tilting your head back, and began to smoothly thrust into your mouth.

the camera recording went on for 10 more minutes capturing the raw and messiness all the way until he finally came on your tongue.

“good girl”

click

you were laying completely flat on your back now, holding the heavy camcorder up in the air, pointing it down at yourself.

completely ignoring the mess of the room, you focused entirely on the flip-out screen. you checked your angles, idly fluffing out your hair, and took your time reapplying a thick layer of lip gloss until your lips looked perfectly glassy in the low light.

you gave the camera a confident smile, thoroughly enjoying your own reflection.

you glanced slightly to the side, looking at Jermajesty who was currently just out of the frame, and then your eyes snapped right back to the lens.

you held the gaze of the camera, leaned in a little closer, and whispered, “I’m about to get fucked” before bursting into a quiet giggle.

click

the camera tilted wildly for a split second, the frame spinning past the ceiling fan before stabilizing as it was propped up on the side table right next to the head of the bed. the angle was low, wide, and caught everything.

you were on your hands and knees now, your back arched deeply as you looked up, checking your reflection in the flip-out screen one more time. the short white button down was bunched up around your waist, leaving you completely exposed.

Jermajesty kneeled right behind you, his hands instantly gripping your hips, his thumbs digging into your skin to anchor you in place. he didn't waste a second. He lined himself up and pushed all the way into you with one deep, heavy stroke.

a sharp gasp caught in your throat, your hands gripping the bedsheets as he started a relentless, demanding pace.

“look at you” Jermajesty growled, his voice thick and rough as he stared down at where your bodies met. “look how pretty you look taking my dick…you like looking at yourself in that screen, huh?”

“yeah" you whined, your head tossing back as he slammed into you, the friction loud in the quiet bedroom. “jer, please” you whined

“please what? tell me exactly what you want” he commanded, slapping his palm against your hip, the sound sharp and echoing through the room, he leaned his upper body down over yours, his chest pressing hard against your back as he kept driving into you from behind. “tell the camera how good it feels.”

“oh my gosh your stretching me out so good” you moaned, looking toward the lens, your eyes heavy-lidded and glassy with pleasure. “t-so big, baby... fuck.”

“that's it, talk to me” he mumbled, his lips brushing against your ear “show me that face you make when I’m deep inside you, look right at the camera for me”

you turned your head toward the screen, serving face even through the haze of pleasure, biting your bottom lip as Jermajesty sped up.

The mattress squeaked rhythmically, the audio capturing every wet, heavy slap of his thighs against yours.

“look at my fucking girl," Jermajesty praised, his grip shifting from your hips to the back of your hair, gently tugging your head back to force you to look up and back at him. “how deep is it baby, can you feel me in your stomach?”

“yes baby!” you gasped out, arching higher against him, completely intoxicated by his words and the view on the screen.

“your doing so good for the camera baby” he groaned, his pace turning frantic, completely losing his composure as he buried himself as deep as he possibly could inside you. “arch your back more for me…take it baby, don’t run”

click

you were flat on your back, your hips elevated off the mattress by a stack of pillows, with your legs draped completely over Jermajesty’s broad shoulders. ye was hovering over you, pinning your upper body down in a heavy, suffocating mating press that left absolutely no space between you.

“look at me” Jermajesty said in a possessive whisper, he then leaned down, burying his face in the crook of your neck, before driving down into you with a slow, agonizingly deep stroke that made your eyes roll back.

“Jer...” you choked out, your hands flying up to grip the wooden headboard just above you to keep from sliding away. “your too deep, oh my god!”

"I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be," he began to grind his hips against yours, using his entire weight to press you down into the sheets, making sure you felt every single inch of him. “look at the camera, baby. let it see how you look when I fill up your pussy”

even pinned beneath him you were completely overwhelmed, you tilted your head toward the side table. you caught the reflection in the tiny flip-out screen,

your hair fanned out across the pillows, your lips parted as you let out a series of needy, broken whines and you held the camera’s gaze

“look at those pretty eyes” Jermajesty muttered, noticing where your attention went. he pulled back just enough to slam back into you, the force of it shaking the mattress and making the camcorder's view shudder slightly. “you love the way I fuck you on camera , don't you?”

“yes!” you cried out loudly, your fingers clawing at his shoulders now, pulling him down for a messy, desperate kiss. “don't stop, please, Jer, just like that!” you whined

“i'm not stopping," he promised against your mouth, his breath coming in heavy, ragged pants. His pace turned frantic, his hips hammering down in a relentless, bruising pace that completely locked you beneath him.

“your taking every fucking drop of me.”

The tape whirred to a sudden and complete stop.

you and jermajesty looked at the small screen and then out of each other completely breathless

Jermajesty let out a low, exhausted chuckle, leaning over to press a lazy kiss to your shoulder. “we really did that," he mumbled, his voice completely shot.

“we did” you breathed out, a proud, satisfied smile tugging at your lips. You tilted the camcorderup to look at yourself one last time, serving one final, sleepy look for the lens. “and honestly? the lighting was perfect.”

Jermajesty groaned, rolling onto his back and pulling a pillow over his face. “let’s keep this to ourselves and not leak it”

… sike !

tags 🏷️ @unseenleylinesecret @vict-oryy @hip-hop-star-4 @blkkbratt @pinkjollyrancher54 @dollthoughtz @commaanders @anglfac @doleuia @missharper33