You’ll Rewrite It Later Anyway, So Stop Staring At The Blank Page Like It Owes You Money. Just Start.

city

【Michael Jackson - Greg Gorman photoshoot for "Bad" album - 1987】

That looks pretty dirty to me, Mike 😳

Video credits to redrox.ex on TikTok.

The origin of the expressive terms: “Chamone”/“Shamone”

THRILL HER TONIGHT

[after his historic win, you win the thrill of your life] | 600+ words

WARNINGS: sexual themes , penetration , dirty talk? , genderless reader

[1984]

you’d probably felt a million hands as you left the shrine that night, congratulating the both of you, but mainly him, with boisterous greetings, solid pats on the back nearly knocking him over. long fingers wrapped around your bicep and offered a knowing wink that you took with an electric pride. whispers of something caught between luck and envy sailed into your ears as the cameras captured every single movement. the humble smiles and goodbyes, the excuse me’s and sorry’s, the cries for him as the crowd mutated around the venue to see. in the midst of it all, every eye caught his hold of you, his hand tucked proudly into your waist.

when his car pulled away from the scene, the dark los angeles sky seemed to cover the world. the glitz and glamor of it all was straight out of the hollywood dream, even the stars knew they were just as famous. you look over at him, his face and hands polite in his lap, and squeal like a schoolgirl. “michael!” you wrap your arms around his jacket, jostling him and cupping his face. “you did it, baby!” you kissed his cheek. “you did it—oh!” you kept on, kissing him madly, your lipstick leaving and endless smear of red. “think about everybody back home, they’re all gonna be so proud of you!”

he spoke, honestly, for the first time since his acceptance speech. at least with more words than the thank you’s he’d given in his seat and on the carpet and in the pictures with quincy and them.

“i don’t wanna think about all them right now.” he wet his lips. “i’ve got everything i need right here.”

your eyes locked, passing under streetlights and curving around hills. you knew then that those words had sealed your evening’s fate.

his glove was gone, he’d let you take it off him, and you still felt the stony gems on the tip of your gum behind your front teeth. the glowing white stained now with the rouge from your lips. his face, too, had plenty more of your mark. his ebon skin like a red leopard all the way down his neck and chest.

your hand bends to your headboard, each naked thrust drilling a hole into your wall. the lamp strings dangling on your nightstand clink, vibrating back and forth like the divine man above you, driving into you. his whole body kissing you from the inside out. “mike—“ you gasp, head arching backward in a mess of curls on your pillow. “michael.”

he wants you calling his name like they did at the grammy’s. and he makes it so easy for you. his hips curl into you, his slip like magic. the black coils that flower beneath his hips grow damper, mixing with your need and the spit he gave you when he had you in his mouth and your long nails in his curls. those two syllables were the only language your brain could spare.

his kisses come sloppy, your lips like clay on each other, malleable and wet. his breath comes heavy, grunting and whining in the back of his throat into yours. you lick his tongue and taste the gold he won. you squeeze around him and he takes it, stroking heartily. “take me, baby,” you sigh into him, the pitch high and dehydrated. “you deserve it—ah—mi…”

you goad him with one hand on his back, splaying your fingers to grab his skin. he huffs, tiny beads of sweat cutting into his brow.

he grabs both your thighs and folds you like the pleats in your clothes, mumbling, with his lips by your ear. “what’s my name?”

“michael jackson,” you moan obediently, a decadent smile lacing your voice.

“keep goin’.” his hips kept on, railing your body, sinking you deeper into the bed, going until he was satisfied with it, until your chanting was the only thing he could hear, until you were coming hard singing his praises.

-

requested by @writtenbychris (ILY)

Roberta Flack & Michael Jackson performing "When We Grow Up" on the Free to Be...You and Me children's TV special (1974).

Doll