chrisrashizushi

[chrisrashizushi]

About to write the most nastiest, filthiest fanfic 😤 Wish me luck and pray for my capri sun

[chrisrashizushi]

I fucking love Speed Demon

how can people not fw SPEED DEMON this shit is so good it’s so funky and uh and ah and YESSS 😍😍😍😍

[chrisrashizushi]

I wish

I wish Halloween would come around already so I can release my Thrill Killer! MJ erotica already!

⚠️Mentions of blood, murder, and more⚠️

🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸

✦ Scene: “Red Hands, White Sheets” ✦

The house is dead silent now. Two warm bodies cooling in a bed that used to be safe. The air is thick with copper, sweat, and the kind of energy that only comes when you’ve touched death and come back changed. Michael’s still catching his breath, standing frozen in the middle of the room. Knife on the floor. Blood on his shirt. But something else is happening…

She tilts her head like a predator watching her prey twitch.

Her eyes drift down.

Right to the obvious, humiliating tent in Michael’s grey sweats.

A slow grin spreads across her mouth, cruel and sweet.

“Did you like it that much, baby?” she coos.

Michael jumps. His face flushes red. His eyes widen with shame.

“N-No, I didn’t—It’s not—”

“You’re hard,” she cuts him off, stepping closer. ���After your first kill. That’s so… deliciously wrong.”

He opens his mouth to explain, to deny, to beg for forgiveness but she just hums and presses a bloody finger to his lips.

“Shh. Don’t ruin it. You’re allowed to feel things. That’s what makes you mine.”

She walks over to the edge of the bed, where one of the corpses lies awkwardly twisted beneath the blankets. She doesn’t care. She wants him to see. She wants to ruin every idea he ever had about morality.

“Come here, Michael,” she purrs, patting the spot beside her on the mattress. “Pull your pants and briefs down for me.”

He hesitates. Eyes flick to the dead couple. He’s breathing hard, torn between fear, guilt, and the shameful throb between his legs.

“I—this isn’t right.”

“Neither is murder, but you did that just fine.”

Her voice is dark honey. Sickly sweet. Addictive.

“Don’t make me say it twice, puppy.”

His hands tremble as he grips his waistband. He lowers his pants and briefs slowly, revealing himself—half-hard, flushed, and twitching with confused need. He looks away, embarrassed. But her eyes darken with genuine surprise.

“Well, damn,” she mutters, actually smiling like he just revealed a secret weapon. “No wonder you’re so repressed. You’ve been hiding that?”

He flinches when she reaches out.

Her hand is warm, blood-slicked, firm.

She wraps her fingers around him, gives one slow stroke from base to tip, watching him twitch with overstimulation. His hips jerk. He gasps—soft and ashamed.

“You poor thing,” she whispers. “So pent up. So obedient. Let me help you.”

She starts slow. Dragging her palm up and over the head with a twist that makes him whimper. She strokes him with sickening precision—just enough to make his thighs shake but never enough to finish.

He grips the sheets. He tries not to look at the dead bodies beside them. But she wants him to. She moans as she strokes him, watching his face crack under the pressure of pleasure and disgust.

“You feel how hard you are? You’re still thinking about it, aren’t you? The way he gurgled. The way she gasped. That power. That control.”

“No,” Michael breathes, shaking his head, “No—I wasn’t—”

“Liar.”

She tightens her grip suddenly and he nearly loses it.

“Tell me the truth,” she hisses, lips against his ear now. “Did it make you hard? Killing for me?”

He doesn’t answer—but his body does. His hips roll into her hand. His jaw clenches. His eyes glaze over with unshed tears.

“Good boy.”

She strokes him right to the edge, and then stops. Over and over again. Until he’s whimpering, sweat pouring down his temples, his thighs trembling.

“Please—please—just let me—”

“Not yet, angel,” she whispers. “You don’t get to come until you accept what you are. Until you say it.”

“Say what?”

“Say it turned you on. Say you liked killing. Say you’d do it again for me.”

Michael sobs—but he’s leaking down her wrist, still aching.

And he’s so close, it hurts.

🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤

To be released soon 👺👻💀

[chrisrashizushi]

Sneak Peak for my New One Shot: Welcome To His World

⚠️Power Imbalance, Abusive Behavior, Gaslighting, Trauma Dumping, Controlling and manipulative behaviors, 21 Year Age Gap, and more ⚠️

Not Edited ✍️

🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤

You were learning that walking on eggshells made your feet bleed eventually.

You’d been shadowing Michael for two weeks. Two painfully long weeks. Two weeks of blank stares, curt nods, and the occasional eyebrow raise that passed for a compliment. When he did speak to you, it was to correct you. Control you. Redirect your wording like a PR rep with an axe to grind.

Your notebook had been rewritten twice. Entire passages cut. Quotes “clarified.” He hated anything that made him look too… human.

You were starting to wonder if he even was.

That day, it was just the two of them in the lounge. Rain drizzled outside the stained-glass windows, tapping like fingers against the glass. Michael was on the couch, curled up in sweats and a silk robe, a book in one hand and tea in the other.

You sat across from him, legs tucked underneath yourself, notebook resting in your lap. You studied him for a while. Quiet. Careful.

Then you broke the rule.

“Do you ever miss who you were before the fame?”

Silence.

He turned the page. Didn’t even flinch.

“Michael?”

Still nothing.

“I just meant—do you remember when you were a kid? What it felt like to—”

“Stop.”

His voice was razor-sharp. It cut through the quiet like a guillotine.

Your stomach twisted. “I… I didn’t mean to overstep, I just thought—”

“You thought what? That you could sit in my house for two weeks and suddenly earn the right to dissect my trauma like it’s a class project?”

You shrank back into the cushions.

“I’m sorry.”

He closed the book slowly. Set it down. And then looked at you—really looked at you—for the first time that day.

“You don’t know me,” he said, calm now. Dangerous. “You don’t know what I’ve been through. What I still go through.”

“I was just trying to understand you better,” she whispered, voice shaking.

“No. You were trying to write something honest.”

His tone turned bitter.

“Don’t confuse the two.”

You blinked fast, heart thudding. This is what he did. Pulling you close with soft eyes and whispered songs, and then shoved you away the second you got too near.

“Maybe I should go,” you murmured, standing up.

That got his attention.

His voice softened, like silk draped over broken glass.

“No. No, don’t… don’t leave.”

He stood too, reaching for your wrist. You stilled, breath catching.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, quieter now. “You just remind me of people who pretended to care. People who smiled while setting fire to everything I loved.”

“But I’m not them.”

“I don’t know that yet.”

The silence stretched.

Then he ran a hand down his face. And suddenly—just like that—he looked exhausted. Fragile. Small.

“I’m tired. I’m so tired.”

Something in you cracked. You sat back down, closer this time. Your fingertips brushed his.

“Then let me help you.”

He didn’t say anything. But he didn’t move away either.

And that was how it started.

With a wound he didn’t let you clean.

With guilt you didn’t deserve.

With love that felt like rescue—but tasted like poison. It started when you left the room without saying goodnight.

Just that. A small thing. Barely a flicker.

Michael had been moody all evening—snapping at the lighting guy, ignoring the chef, telling his assistant to cancel everything. You, trying to avoid the blast radius, had quietly slipped out of the lounge when he started muttering about how “no one listens.”

But apparently, that was the final straw especially when you heard him enter your room at midnight.

“So that’s it? You leave without saying anything now?”

You jolted upright. Your heart hammered in your chest.

“Michael… I didn’t want to upset you. I just thought you needed space.”

He laughed. Cold. Hollow.

“Space? That’s rich coming from the one who follows me around all day scribbling down my every breath.”

You flinched. “You told me to.”

“So now it’s my fault?”

You stood up, barefoot, your sleep shirt hanging off one shoulder.

“That’s not what I meant—”

“You think this is easy for me? Having someone in my home, in my head, digging into me day and night? Writing God knows what? I let you in and now you’re just like the rest of them.”

Your eyes welled. “Michael, I’m not trying to hurt you.”

He stepped closer. Not touching you. But close enough to tower.

“You think I don’t see how you look at me? How you act like you care?”

“I do care!”

“Then why did you walk away tonight?”

“Because I was scared!” You cried. “Because I didn’t know what to say! Because you make me feel like I’m walking on glass!”

That stopped him. For a second, he just stared. Then… he blinked. Stepped back.

“Wow,” he whispered. “So now I’m abusive?”

“That’s not—”

“Unbelievable. After everything I’ve shared with you… you think I’m some kind of monster.”

“No, I don’t—”

“Get out. Just—go back to your school or your dorm or wherever you came from. Clearly I’m just another story to you.”

“Please don’t say that.”

He turned away, shoulders tense.

“I never should’ve trusted you.”

And then silence.

You stood there, shaking. Unable to breathe. Unable to speak.

Eventually, you would crawl back into bed and cried until your pillow was soaked.

🌤️ The Next Morning

He made you pancakes.

The smell woke you up—cinnamon, syrup, vanilla. He hummed a tune as he plated them. Wearing soft sweats. Hair tied back. Like nothing happened.

“Morning, sunshine,” he said, kissing you on the forehead.

You blinked at him. Eyes swollen. “…Morning.”

“You okay? You look tired.”

“I… didn’t sleep well.”

He tilted his head. Smiled gently. “Aww. Bad dreams?”

You nodded. Too afraid to say what really happened.

He poured you orange juice, slid the plate in front of you, and sat down.

“I was thinking… maybe I was too harsh last night,” he said, voice warm and sweet.

Her heart leapt.

“I just get scared sometimes. I’ve been burned before, you know that. I think I just… projected. That’s not fair to you.”

He reached across the table. Took your hand.

“Can we forget it happened?”

“…Yeah. Of course.”

He kissed your knuckles and went back to humming.

☁️ Later That Day

You guys were laughing in the studio—actually laughing. Michael let you record a melody he was working on, and for once he wasn’t micromanaging you. You felt seen. Wanted.

Until you complimented one of his old producers in passing.

“He was really talented,” you said casually. “That beat on ‘Break of Dawn’—genius.”

Michael went still.

“So you like his work better than mine?”

“What? No—Michael, that’s not what I said.”

“No, it’s fine. I get it. You’re probably thinking he should’ve been the one you interviewed. You’d be happier with someone younger. Someone nicer.”

“Please don’t do this again—”

“Do what? Be honest?”

“You’re twisting my words again!”

“I’m trying to be vulnerable with you, Baby. But every time I do, you make me feel like a burden. Like I’m ruining your perfect little article.”

“That’s not true—”

“Then why does it feel that way?”

You didn’t respond.

He sighed. Ran a hand through his hair.

“Maybe I should stop trying.”

And just like that, you felt it again—that deep, cold dread that you had broken something.

That you was the reason he was sad.

That she had ruined the peace.

If I could just be better, he wouldn’t feel this way, you thought.

And that was the most dangerous lie of all. You stood outside the door to the greenroom, hands trembling, tears already threatening. You’d spent the past hour locked in the bathroom, staring at yourself in the mirror, silently rehearsing your apology like a child begging not to be sent to bed without dinner.

“Just say you were wrong. Just take it back. It doesn’t matter who’s right. You don’t want to lose him.”

You wiped under your eyes and stepped in.

Michael was sitting on the velvet couch, bathed in warm light, scribbling something in his notebook. He didn’t look up.

“What is it now?”

“Michael… I’m sorry.”

No answer.

“I—I didn’t mean to hurt you. I didn’t mean to say anything that made you feel—”

“Stop.”

He snapped the notebook closed, finally looking at you with those unreadable eyes. Not angry. Not warm. Just… bored.

“You talk too much.”

“I just want to fix it—”

“Fix what?” He stood slowly, circling you like a vulture. “You don’t even know what you’re apologizing for.”

“Yes, I do. You said I made you feel—”

“I said a lot of things,” he cut in. “But none of them matter, because you’re just a child.”

You flinched. “I’m not—”

“You are. You’re twenty. You’ve barely lived. You’re just a wide-eyed little thing with a notebook, pretending to understand a world you’ve never touched.”

“Michael, that’s not fair—”

“Fair?” He chuckled coldly. “You think this world is fair? That people like me get to survive off fairness?”

He stepped closer. You backed into the wall.

“You don’t know anything about pain. About betrayal. About what it’s like to be eaten alive and told to smile through it.”

“I’m trying to learn—”

“From me?” His voice was soft now, a whisper, lips grazing your ear. “That’s sweet. But even if I laid it all out, you wouldn’t get it.”

You shook your head, voice breaking. “Why do you talk to me like I’m nothing?”

“Because you are,” he said simply. “At least, to the world. To them, you’re just some nobody intern playing dress-up in a legend’s house.”

Tears fell freely now. Your chest rose and fell like you were choking.

“You’re so mean,” you whispered, voice trembling. “Why are you being so mean to me?”

He leaned in, brushing her tears with his thumb.

“Aww,” he cooed. “Are you gonna cry again, little baby?”

You bit your lip in frustration. He laughed.

“You’re such a crybaby. Did I hurt your feelings?”

Your knees wobbled. You hated how his voice shifted—how it went from cruel to sweet, like he was holding a kitten he just scolded.

“You want me to take it back?” he asked, lips brushing your cheek. “You want me to say sorry? Kiss it better?”

You didn’t speak.

He moved in closer, hand sliding along your waist, pulling you flush against him.

“You poor thing. You just want to be loved, don’t you?”

You nodded. Helpless.

“Then be good for me. Let me show you what real love feels like.”

His lips brushed her jaw. You gasped. Your body betrayed you. Every nerve lit up like fire under snow.

“Michael…”

“Shhh,” he whispered. “No more crying.”

He kissed you. Deep, slow, possessive. The kind of kiss that says you’re mine now. And all you could think was:

Maybe this is love.

Maybe I deserve it.

Maybe he’s the only one who’ll ever see me.

And in that moment, you let him take everything.

Time skip (because I’m lazy)…

The sheets were still warm beneath you when he pulled out, breath ragged and body heavy against her back. You lay on your side, trembling—not from fear, not exactly—but from everything else. Shame. Euphoria. Need.

His fingers drifted up your thigh, sticky from where he’d finished inside you like you were something he owned.

He didn’t speak for a long time. Just breathed.

Then, finally:

“I told you not to cry,” he murmured, voice honey-thick, dragging across your neck. “Now look what you made me do.”

You closed your eyes. Your throat was raw from moaning. From sobbing.

He stroked your hair, gentle now. Too gentle. Like nothing just happened.

“You belong to me now,” he whispered, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You hear me?”

She nodded. Wordless. Weightless.

“Good.” He kissed your shoulder. “No more asking questions. No more running. You stay where I put you.”

His hand found your waist. Gripped it possessively.

“You wanted to be loved? Well now you are. Whether you like it or not.”

You whispered, barely audible, “I do like it…”

He smiled against her skin.

“I know you do.”

🌞 The Next Morning

You woke up alone.

The bed was cold. Your body ached. A spot of red stained the sheets and it made your stomach twist with something unnameable—shame or pride or maybe both.

When you came downstairs, Michael was at the kitchen table drinking coffee and reading a folder.

“Morning,” you whispered, soft and hopeful.

He didn’t look up.

“You need to keep your distance today,” he said plainly.

Your heart dropped. “What?”

“Press is coming by. Lisa might stop in. It’d be inappropriate.”

Inappropriate. Like last night hadn’t happened. Like you hadn’t let him break you open and rewrite your body in his image.

You blinked hard. “Okay.”

“Don’t get emotional,” he added, flatly. “This is how it has to be.”

Later that afternoon, You were quietly organizing sheet music in the studio when you heard Lisa’s laugh echo down the hallway.

Sharp. Loud. Artificial.

Michael’s voice was different too—tight, clipped, borderline icy.

You peeked out the door.

There Lisa stood in sunglasses and a fur coat, talking about some club in Vegas. Michael barely responded. Just nodded. Crossed his arms. Didn’t touch her. Barely looked at her.

“You’re being weird again,” Lisa said, rolling her eyes.

“And you’re being loud.”

“Michael—”

“I’m busy.”

Lisa huffed and walked off, heels clicking down the marble.

Michael turned away without a second glance. And then—just barely—his eyes flicked to where you stood watching.

Your gazes met for half a second.

And in that half second, you saw it.

Favoritism. Possession. The confirmation of what you’d been too scared to believe.

He didn’t love Lisa.

He loved you.

Even if it ruined them both.

🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤

The gift was waiting for you in the sunroom.

Wrapped in pale pink tissue paper, tied with a soft ivory ribbon. You gasped when you saw it—Michael was nowhere in sight, but she knew he left it for her. The card said “For my Sweetheart.” in looping silver ink.

Inside: a necklace. A single pearl hanging from a fine gold chain. Simple. Delicate. Like her.

“It’s beautiful,” you whispered aloud, even though no one was there.

You found him by the piano later that afternoon, humming quietly, eyes closed.

“You liked it?” he asked without looking.

“I love it,” you said breathlessly.

He smiled to himself.

“It reminded me of you. Soft. Innocent.”

You blushed.

“You didn’t have to—”

“I know.”

He turned to face you, eyes heavy with that sleepy affection you’d started craving like a drug.

“Come here.”

You obeyed without hesitation, sitting beside him on the bench. He reached up, brushed your hair behind your ear, and whispered:

“If I asked you to run away with me… would you?”

Your breath caught. “What?”

“I’m serious.” His voice was low, intimate. Hypnotic.

“If I said I was leaving it all behind—Lisa, the music, everything—and wanted a new life… just you and me. Would you come?”

Your eyes welled. “Of course I would.”

“Even if it meant giving up your dreams?”

“Michael, you are my dream.”

He smiled.

“And if I asked you to love me forever?”

“I already do.”

“Even when I’m cold?”

“I’d warm you.”

“Even when I say mean things?”

“I’d forgive you.”

“Even if I wasn’t famous?”

“You’d still be mine.”

He went still. Silent.

And in that moment… he really saw you. This sweet, naive, trembling little thing with hope in your eyes and no idea what you were walking into. No idea what he was capable of. No idea what he was planning.

They would give me everything, he thought.

And they wouldn’t even know I took it. He tilted her chin up.

“You’d make a beautiful wife,” he murmured.

“And a perfect mother.”

You blinked, starstruck. “You… you think so?”

“Mmhmm.” He kissed your temple.

“One day. Maybe sooner than you think.”

You melted against him, dizzy with love.

And he closed his eyes, smiling.

Mine.

🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤

The two of them were curled up in the music library. Rain pattered against the windows, soft jazz hummed from the record player, and you had her your resting on Michael’s chest.

For once, it felt peaceful.

His fingers lazily traced the curve of your hip under the blanket.

“What were you like in school?” he murmured.

You smiled. “Kinda nerdy. Always writing. I had a blog that nobody read.”

“That’s cute.”

“Yeah. I guess I always wanted to… I don’t know. Work for a magazine. Publish something real. Something people would feel.”

He tensed slightly, but didn’t speak.

“My dream job,” you continued, unaware of the shift in his breathing, “would be writing for Rolling Stone or The New Yorker. Telling stories that matter. Being taken seriously.”

Silence.

Heavy. Wrong.

You glanced up. “Michael?”

He didn’t look at you.

“Why are you still thinking about that stuff?”

You blinked. “What?”

“Careers. Magazines. That world.”

His voice was calm. But colder now.

“You don’t need any of that anymore.”

“I wasn’t saying I—”

“You live here now. With me. You’re part of my world.”

You sat up slightly. “I know, I just… I thought maybe someday, you know, after everything settles—”

“There is no ‘someday,’ baby.”

His voice dropped an octave. Dangerous now.

“You’re not going back to who you were before me.”

You stiffened. “I wasn’t saying I wanted to—”

“Then why bring it up?”

“I just meant… writing was always part of me. I thought you’d understand that.”

He laughed once. Cold.

“That’s the problem. You keep thinking we’re equals. Like you can have what I have and still chase your silly little dreams.”

Your stomach sank.

“Michael…”

“No.” He stood now, the blanket sliding off his lap.

“You want the truth? Here it is: you don’t need a career. You don’t need a voice. You have me. I’m your dream now.”

You felt yourself shrinking. Dimming.

“I just wanted to feel like I still mattered—”

“You do matter,” he interrupted.

“But only when you’re with me. That’s when you shine.”

You looked down. “So what am I supposed to do?”

He crouched in front of you. Touched your face. Smiled.

“Be mine. Be soft. Be still. Be my love,soul and heart.”

Your lip trembled.

“You’re not losing your dreams, baby. You’re trading up.”

🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤

The next morning, you found your old notebook in the trash. Torn. Pages missing.

A note in Michael’s handwriting sat on top.

“No more stories. Just live the one I’m giving you.”

[chrisrashizushi]

Welcome to His World

⚠️ CONTENT THEMES:

• Age-gap power imbalance (21 year age difference)

• Emotional manipulation / trauma bonding

• Grooming elements (subtle but present)

• Toxic dependency masked as romance

• Slow-burning realization of abuse

“You know I’m married, Baby. But I’d leave her if you really wanted me to.” 🖤

Characters:

✨You/Reader/OC (20)

• Intern. Journalism student. Raised on ballads and bedtime fantasies. You dream of changing the world with your writing and heart.

• You’re gentle, people-pleasing, and easy to impress—especially by someone who seems to “see” you.

• You don’t recognize the red flags. You think his sadness is romantic. His isolation? Tragic. His possessiveness? Proof of love.

• You convince yourself he’s just “broken,” and all he needs is someone patient. You believe you’re is that someone (you aren’t he needs therapy!)

🥀Michael (41; Invincible/This is it)

• Married, but emotionally detached from Lisa. The marriage is dead, but he won’t leave—because he doesn’t believe in happiness anymore. Only survival.

• He sees you and instantly latches on. You remind him of innocence, of hope, of a time before the rot set in. But rather than protect you—he possesses you.

• He tells you he loves your without saying it. Uses guilt. Emotional withholding. Seductive affection followed by sudden coldness.

💔 THE POWER IMBALANCE

• You think you’re special because he opens up to you.

• He feeds you just enough affection to keep you loyal, confused, and attached.

• He gaslights you when you ask about Lisa:

“Why are you asking me that? Don’t you trust me?”

“You’re acting like a child. Maybe you’re not ready for a relationship like this.”

• When you try to regain your footing—when you write something honest about him or tries to leave—he reminds you:

“You said you’d never hurt me. So what is this?”

🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤

If you could write a headline for the first hour of her “dream assignment,” it’d probably be:

“Pop Icon Clearly Hates Me: Local College Student Sweats Through Blouse”

You stood in the back of the rehearsal room, clutching your spiral notebook like a security blanket. Michael Jackson hadn’t so much as looked at you since you’ve arrived. His assistant had done the talking—walking you through the ground rules like it was a military operation.

“Don’t ask about his marriage. Don’t ask about his children—biological or spiritual. Don’t record him without permission. Don’t speak unless spoken to.”

And yet your professor’s email said, “Shadow him for a month. Capture the real man behind the legend.”

Real man? So far, the real man was cold, hyper-controlled, and seemed to pretend you didn’t exist.

You watched as Michael worked with his dancers—every movement sharp, precise, like a blade. His body flowed like liquid light, but his face was unreadable. He didn’t smile. Didn’t laugh. Barely even blinked.

Until he finally acknowledged you. Barely.

“What are you writing?” he asked, not even turning around.

You jolted. “Uh—I’m just jotting down notes. For the—uh, the piece.”

He spun, towel around his neck, chest heaving from the routine. His stare was ice.

“Lemme see it.”

“S-Sorry?”

“The notebook. Let me see what you wrote.”

Her throat closed up. You handed it over with trembling fingers. He flipped through the pages, scanning. His brow furrowed.

“Don’t write that I was ‘tense.’ I wasn’t tense. I was focused.”

“Y-Yes. Of course, I—I can change it.”

He tossed the notebook back into your hands without another word and walked away.

You stood frozen in place, cheeks burning. She could hear the dancers giggling behind their hands. Your heart dropped into your stomach.

Later that evening, you tried again.

“Mr. Jackson, I wanted to say thank you again for allowing me to—”

“Don’t thank me. Talk to my team.”

He didn’t even look up from his tea.

You sat in awkward silence across the dining table, trying not to fidget. Trying to think of something—anything—that wouldn’t make him shut you out.

“You, um… have a beautiful home.”

“Mmhmm.”

“I… grew up listening to ‘Butterflies.’ It helped me through a breakup once.”

He paused. Lifted his eyes. Something flickered across his face. Disbelief? Pity? Annoyance?

“Journalists don’t usually say that,” he murmured, then went back to sipping his tea.

You smiled, nervous and unsure. You felt like a shadow in his presence. A ghost at his feast.

But what you didn’t know was this:

Michael was watching you. Testing you. Measuring your every move.

He just hadn’t decided yet whether you were another parasite—or something much more dangerous.

🖤To be continued….

[chrisrashizushi]

Wife Swap Season 12, Episode 3: Too Sweet to Handle, Too Sour to Stay

💣 “This week on Wife Swap… two very different couples will trade wives in the ultimate relationship experiment.” 💣

🎥 [Upbeat country music plays]

🎙️ NARRATOR:

“Meet Chrissy and Caleb — a married couple from small-town Indiana who seem like a perfect match… if you don’t look too closely.”

👩‍🦰 [Shot of Chrissy baking banana bread, smiling softly as Caleb scrolls on his phone in the background, unfazed]

🎙️“Chrissy is a sweet, Christian woman with a heart of gold… and a people-pleasing problem the size of the Bible. She believes love conquers all—especially when it comes with home-cooked meals and zero boundaries.”

👩‍🦰 Chrissy in interview: “I just want to make everyone feel safe and loved! That’s what marriage is about—serving each other… right?”

👨‍🦱 [Cut to Caleb reclining in a gaming chair, headset on, while Chrissy vacuums around him]

🎙️ “Caleb, on the other hand, believes the world revolves around one person: himself.”

👨‍🦱 Caleb in interview, smug: “She likes doing stuff for me. I let her. That’s what being a man is. I work hard—well, when I feel like it.”

🎥 [Sharp music switch—gritty blues-rock]

🎙️“Now meet Lisa Marie and Michael, a couple from a dingy suburb outside of Detroit, where love is on life support… and sarcasm is a second language.”

👱‍♀️ [Lisa Marie flicks a cigarette out the window while yelling at someone offscreen]

🎙️“Lisa Marie is a no-nonsense, zero-patience firecracker who says exactly what she thinks… whether you asked or not.”

👱‍♀️ Lisa Marie in interview, smirking with a slushie in hand: “I’m not mean. I’m honest. There’s a difference. If my husband can’t handle that, maybe he should’ve married a doormat.”

🍬 [Cut to Michael in the kitchen piping icing onto cupcakes like he’s hiding from the apocalypse]

🎙️“Her husband, Michael, is a quiet, sensitive soul who communicates his feelings through frosting and emotional collapse.”

🧍‍♂️ Michael in interview, teary-eyed but smiling: “I just wish she’d… see me, you know? I make her favorite candies every Thursday. She hasn’t touched one since February.”

🎙️ “Now, these two very different women will switch places for two emotionally exhausting weeks…”

👩‍🦰 [Chrissy hugging her Bible goodbye while Caleb yawns]

👱‍♀️ [Lisa Marie lighting a cigarette in front of Michael’s glove collection]

🎙️“Will Chrissy’s kindness melt Michael’s candy-coated heart? Or will his sad boy antics be too sticky to scrape off?”

👱‍♀️ [Lisa Marie stares Caleb down like she’s ready to gut a deer with her stare]

🎙️ “And can Lisa Marie survive in a household where the husband thinks chores are ‘a woman’s thing’… without committing a felony?”

🎶 Cue suspenseful violin plucks and the sound of uncomfortable shoes walking across tile.

Split screen fades into full shots of the wives entering their new homes, suitcase in one hand and judgment in the other.

⸻

🦋 CHRISSY enters MICHAEL’S HOUSE

Chrissy gently opens the front door. Immediately, the scent of vanilla, brown sugar, and… sadness hits her.

🧁 Confessional Cutaway – Chrissy, smiling nervously:

“It smells like someone’s been baking… or crying while baking.”

She steps inside and looks around. Everything is muted. Grey walls. Pale furniture. There’s a candy display shelf shaped like a heart but covered in dust. On the fridge is a note: “Eat if you want. Or don’t.”

Chrissy: “Oh… that’s a little… sad.”

She picks up a tea towel. Monogrammed. With the initials “L.M.P.” Embroidered in red.

🦋 Confessional – Chrissy, softly:

“I think his wife might be… intense.”

She walks into the kitchen and sees a journal open on the table with sketches of candy hearts and… someone crying?

Chrissy stares at it for a second, then folds it shut with shaky fingers.

Then she finds The Rule Sheet—written in the saddest, tiniest handwriting you’ve ever seen.

👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀

📜 MICHAEL’S RULES (let’s be Frl he’s the wife of the house):

• Please don’t touch my things without asking.

• I usually eat alone.

• If I’m not in the room, I’m probably in the kitchen. Or hiding.

• You don’t have to say nice things, but I’d like it if you did.

• Don’t ask about Lisa.

🦋 Confessional – Chrissy, blinking back emotion:

“I think he’s in a lot of pain. And I think no one’s asked if he’s okay in a very long time.”

She picks up a broken candy rose left on the counter. One petal falls to the floor.

⸻

💅 LISA MARIE enters CALEB & CHRISSY’S HOUSE

The door swings open like she kicked it. Lisa Marie steps in, wearing giant sunglasses and chewing gum like it owes her money.

🎀 Confessional – Lisa Marie, unimpressed:

“Looks like Hobby Lobby threw up and called it a home.”

The house is warm. Pastels everywhere. Plants. Butterflies. Little signs that say “Faith • Family • Flan.”

She picks up a pillow. It’s embroidered with “Love is patient.”

Lisa: “Cute. Vomit-inducing. But cute.”

She opens the fridge and sees an entire labeled meal-prep shelf.

“Wednesday – Caleb’s Lunch.”

“Thursday – Caleb’s Snack.”

“Friday – Caleb’s Emotional Support Quesadilla.”

Lisa blinks. Then laughs.

💅 Confessional – Lisa Marie:

“Okay. I get it. She’s his mom with a wedding ring. I’m gonna have fun ripping this open.”

She walks through the hallway, passes a mirror, and catches a glimpse of herself.

“Damn I look good,” she mutters, tossing her hair. Then she sees The Rule Board—painted with chalk calligraphy and little flower doodles.

🥲🥲🥲🥲🥲🥲🥲🥲🥲🥲🥲🥲🥲🥲🥲🥲🥲

📜 CHRISSY’S RULES:

• Speak with kindness.

• All meals must be eaten together—at the table.

• Please don’t raise your voice in the house.

• Caleb is sensitive to stress—be gentle with him.

• If you’re having a bad day, bake something. Or pray.

Lisa reads them out loud.

💅 Confessional – Lisa Marie:

“Oh, I’m definitely gonna raise my voice. Probably before lunch.”

She opens a drawer and sees a list of Caleb’s “likes and dislikes.” There are 36 bullet points.

Lisa tosses it in the trash.

🤪🤪🤪🤪🤪🤪🤪🤪🤪🤪🤪🤪🤪🤪🤪🤪🤪

Back-to-Back Cutaway – Chrissy & Lisa Reading About Each Other:

Chrissy (reading Lisa’s profile):

“She’s… direct. And honest. And fiercely independent. That’s… wonderful.”

Confessional – Chrissy, sweetly trying to mean it:

“I think… she’s going to challenge Caleb. And that’s… a good thing. I think.”

Lisa (reading Chrissy’s profile):

“She makes handmade soap? Okay, Little House on the Prairie. Let’s go.”

Confessional – Lisa Marie, smirking:

“I think she needs a wake-up call. And a cigarette.”

👩‍❤️‍👨👩‍❤️‍👨👩‍❤️‍👨👩‍❤️‍👨👩‍❤️‍👨👩‍❤️‍👨👩‍❤️‍👨👩‍❤️‍👨👩‍❤️‍👨👩‍❤️‍👨👩‍❤️‍👨👩‍❤️‍👨👩‍❤️‍👨👩‍❤️‍👨👩‍❤️‍👨👩‍❤️‍👨👩‍❤️‍👨

🎬 TO BE CONTINUED…

[chrisrashizushi]

My Psychiatrist told me Michael Jackson is dead and I am very mad rn, like did I ask!!?!!? I was just tell you how much I love him 🥲

Then I left with a hurt ego because he told me that I was probably being delusional and marked it on my chart and now I’m very sad 😔

[chrisrashizushi]

The Hugger HUNGER Games

Disclaimer: I have not watched or read the Hunger Games I only know from what my sister told me lol.

🏹🏹🏹🏹🏹🏹🏹🏹🏹🏹🏹🏹🏹🏹🏹🏹🏹

Imagine this:

You get reaped for the damn Hunger Games, and you’re already like “I’m gonna fight, survive, slay, and maybe stab a bitch.” Then you turn around and guess who’s standing there? Michael. Jackson.

But not “Thriller” Michael. Not “Smooth Criminal” Michael. No, no, no. This is soft, sheltered, wide-eyed ‘why-are-we-fighting’ Michael. He’s in a sheer blouse, glitter on his cheekbones, trembling like a leaf, whispering “…do we have to kill people? Is that really necessary?”

And you’re like, “YES MICHAEL IT’S CALLED THE HUNGER GAMES NOT THE HUGGER GAMES—get your ass up!”

Meanwhile, he’s cowering behind a bush, clutching a rock like it’s a damn grenade, saying “I don’t wanna get dirty…” while you’re already out here making snares, setting traps, breaking necks with one hand and holding his with the other.

He’s the type to scream every time you kill a squirrel. Like full-on “OH MY GOD!!! WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT?!?!”

And you’re like, “For the stew, babe. We starving.”

And don’t even get me STARTED on the cornucopia. You out there sprinting, dodging axes, tackling bitches—meanwhile Michael’s hiding behind a crate crying because “they looked at me funny.”

BUT WAIT.

Plot twist: somehow, this useless man ends up being the key to your survival.

Like you’re dying of thirst, hallucinating, bleeding out—when suddenly he shows up with a handful of berries and says “I didn’t know which ones were safe so I just prayed and tried them all. These ones didn’t kill me.”

AND THEY’RE ACTUALLY LIFE-SAVING MEDICINAL BERRIES. He’s got divine luck. You’re the blade, he’s the charm. You’re Katniss with PTSD, he’s your sparkly Peeta with emotional damage and a whole lot of whimpering.

🏹🏹🏹🏹🏹🏹🏹🏹🏹🏹🏹🏹🏹🏹🏹🏹🏹

Should I write this?!?!

[chrisrashizushi]

Your War, My Worship (WIP)

Pairings: Peasant!Slave!Michael Jackson X Princess! Reader

Word Count: Count for me Babes 😌

Warnings: Fantasy, Pet Play, Power dynamics, smut, submissive Michael, dominant Reader, mentions of slavery

Summary: A former slave turned loyal pet, Michael worships his royal mistress, You!

👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑

They shouldn’t be here.

The garden was sacred after dusk—sealed off, watched by guards, drenched in moonlight and scandal. But you were the princess. And he? He was yours. Your pet, your prize, your pretty little toy soldier trembling beneath the lace of your lifted gown.

His back rests against the marble statue of your kingdom’s founder—how poetic. You straddle him, skirts pushed up, fingers tangled in his wild curls as your hips grind against his lap like he’s the battlefield and you’re here to conquer.

He gasps. Chokes. Moans into your neck like he’s dying and being reborn all at once. “My Goddess,” he whimpers, lips brushing your throat, “You feel like heaven. Please don’t stop. I—I can’t—”

You slap his cheek lightly. Focus, pet.

“Think of it like your last night alive,” you whisper against his ear, slow and wicked. “If I sent you to war tomorrow… if you were bleeding in the dirt… what would you want to remember?”

“This,” he breathes. “You. Like this. Riding me. Making me yours.”

Your pace quickens, the sound of your bodies echoing off stone and ivy. His hands tremble on your hips like he’s holding something divine, unworthy but greedy. His breath catches. His toes curl in his boots.

And then—

“Ohhh—”

His head falls back with a cracked sob as he releases deep inside you. His eyes roll up, lashes fluttering, lips parted in blissed-out worship. His body spasms like he’s been blessed and cursed all at once.

“I love you,” he mumbles, almost like he’s in a trance. “I love you I love you I love you—”

You stroke his face with two fingers, quieting him like one would a fevered pet. “Of course you do,” you purr. “You were made for me.”

And just like that, your war-sick little soldier falls limp in your arms, drunk off love, fucked into faith.

👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑

To be finished…

[chrisrashizushi]

I’m Going to Hell with This One

Well actually…this isn’t even my worse idea…

Imagine this:

This version of Michael? He’s not just some voyeur. No, he’s a conductor of chaos, a man who orchestrates the entire thing like it’s a symphony. He’s high off control, obsession, and the thrill of watching his wife (YOU! Obviously twin 🤪), his perfect little dove, desecrate herself with others—because he told her to.

He sits in a velvet chair. Silk robe. Maybe shirtless. Champagne in hand. Watching. Always watching. Dark eyes locked on her body while another man (or woman—Michael doesn’t discriminate when it comes to entertainment) does the things Michael taught her. Or tries to.

But the kicker? Michael’s rules are always in place. She has to make eye contact with him the whole time. Her mouth has to ask his permission before she comes. And if she moans too much for them? Oh, there are consequences.

He’s obsessed with the way she looks when she’s being devoured by someone else—like some sacrificial offering. His wife is his property, and this? This is his favorite show. But it isn’t just lust. It’s twisted love. He wants to push her limits because it makes her come crawling back to him each time. And baby, when she does? That’s when the real fireworks go off.

And sometimes—sometimes—he joins. When he’s feeling generous. Or jealous. Or completely fucking unhinged.

[chrisrashizushi]

The Bite of 89’

Pairings: 1989! Michael Jackson x Vampire Gothic! Vampire! Grunge! Single MILF!OC/Reader

Word Count: Ask your parents

Warnings: Bullying, Insecurities, and a plot that doesn’t make sense but it’s sweet.

Summary: (WIP) Just a Vampire Queen with some realm hopping and Michael Jackson who doesn’t remember having sex with this woman who someone has a kid that looks just like him in 1969.

This story is not completed! I just wanted to share a part of it!

🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸

The grill sizzled. Children screamed. Someone’s radio was blaring New Edition, and there was not a single shadow in sight.

Chrissy hated it here.

She stood stiff as a corset rod under a wide-brimmed beach hat and a lacy black parasol clutched like a holy relic. A sheer long-sleeve velvet top layered under a floor-length skirt was wrapped with gauze like mummy chic, and her sunglasses were stacked—two pairs—perched like armor over her glowing brown skin. A ski mask hid most of her face.

She looked like she was about to commit a heist at the Vatican.

“Is she okay?”

“Is she cold?”

“Is she in mourning?”

The whispers circled like flies around potato salad. But Chrissy stood tall—dramatic, deliciously overdressed, and entirely unbothered. She sipped her iced blood-tea through a biodegradable black straw.

While Chrisstella was being tormented by her surroundings Michael was pacing. “Mikey,” he called out for the fifth time, “Why don’t you go play tag with your cousins?”

Mikey, meanwhile, was stalking a squirrel near the tree line. “Don’t wanna,” he mumbled, crouching low like a tiny, curly-headed predator. He was wearing a black T-shirt with a glittery moon on it and shorts with little bats on the pockets. Chrissy had packed him garlic-free vampire-shaped fruit snacks in his bento box.

Michael tried again, kneeling beside him. “Don’t you wanna play with other kids your age?”

Mikey looked up, blinked, and tilted his head. “Not really. They talk too loud. And they don’t know how to stalk prey.”

Michael blinked.

“…Right.”

Behind them, under the pop-up canopy, three older cousins were whispering too loud to be subtle.

“He’s weird.”

“His mom looks like she crawled out a coffin.”

“My mom said she saw her at the grocery store once and the lights flickered.”

“I bet she drinks blood.”

Mikey froze.

He wasn’t supposed to hear that.

But he did.

His hands dropped from the tree bark. His smile disappeared. Slowly, like someone draining the color from a dream.

He turned and looked at his mom.

Chrissy, still standing tall under her parasol, didn’t hear them. Or maybe she did. Her expression was unreadable behind her sunglasses. But her knuckles whitened around the parasol handle.

Mikey stared at her, really stared.

His mom… was different.

She didn’t laugh like the other moms. She didn’t go in the sun. She didn’t smile with teeth.

She wore black all the time and read spellbooks and let him sleep in her coffin.

Was that weird?

Was he weird?

He felt small.

Chrissy did notice. She crossed her arms and huffed to herself, “Kids are being brats.”

“…Do you want me to say something?,” Michael asked her as he walked up behind her.

Chrissy finally turned her head just slightly, her voice velvet-wrapped glass.

“No. Let them talk. We’re not here to be understood. We’re here for the ribs.”

But Mikey didn’t want ribs anymore.

He was sitting on the edge of the folding chair, picking at the plastic tablecloth with quiet fingers.

Chrissy appeared beside him like a shadow born of smoke, kneeling down and lifting her glasses slightly to look into his eyes.

“Mikey,” she said, voice soft. “Talk to me.”

He shook his head.

“Did the sun get to you?”

He shook again.

She leaned in. Close enough for him to see the pink in her eyes, that strange glow that always comforted him at night.

“You think Mommy’s weird?”

Silence.

He sniffled. Just once. Didn’t cry. Didn’t want to.

“…They said you drink blood,” he whispered.

Chrissy blinked. “Well, they’re not wrong.”

Mikey looked up, alarmed.

Chrissy smiled gently, brushing his cheek with a lace-gloved thumb.

“You know what I am. But you also know what I do. I brush your teeth. I cut the crust off your sandwiches. I sing you lullabies in dead languages. I’m not scary. I’m just… spooky with love.”

Mikey’s lip trembled.

“But… they said I’m weird too.”

“You are weird,” Chrissy said. “Beautifully, wonderfully weird. Just like me.”

He blinked. “Really?”

She leaned closer and whispered like it was a secret:

“We’re the coolest things here. They just don’t know it yet.”

Mikey smiled. Wide.

And Chrissy—still in a full face of contour, ski mask slightly askew, lace trailing in the breeze—took his hand and walked them both over to the drink cooler like she hadn’t just given her son the most important lesson he’d ever learn:

You don’t have to be normal. You just have to be you.

🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸

To be completed…

[chrisrashizushi]

Deliver Us From Temptation (But Not This Time)

Part 2 : part 1 linked below and in comments

🖤❤️🖤❤️🖤🖤❤️🖤❤️🖤❤️🖤❤️🖤🖤❤️🖤

The sun cracked through the blinds like a snitch.

Dust danced in the air. The motel A/C rattled like a dying cough. Somewhere, a baby cried two rooms down. But in Room 209, Michael Jackson was on his knees. Literally.

Hands clasped. Head bowed. Tears shining in his lashes. He was whispering, “Dear Jehovah… forgive me. I have defiled my temple. I let the harlot of Babylon ride me like a beast of burden—”

Chrissie from the bed, groaning, “Oh my GOD—are you seriously praying right now?!”

She sat up, yanking the crusty motel sheet over her body like it could protect her from the secondhand embarrassment radiating off him like microwaved shame. Her lashes were stuck to one eyelid, her hair looked like she fought a raccoon in the parking lot, and her cherry gloss was smeared across one cheek like the ghost of last night’s sins.

“Boy, get your pants on and get the hell out. You over here cryin’ to Jehovah while your dick still inside me.”

Michael flinched like she slapped him with a Bible.

He stood up slowly, pulling up his pants with shaking hands, hoodie slipping off one shoulder like a nun caught doing something nasty. He looked wrecked. Spiritually and physically.

But he didn’t leave. “I think I wanna live here.”

“Huh?”

“Like… move in. Be with you. Forever. You changed me, Chrissie. I don’t even want to go back to Kingdom Hall. I want to go to Chrissie Hall. I saw Jehovah in your eyes last night. And I think—maybe—you could meet my mother.”

Chrissie blinked. Once. Twice.

Then threw her flip-flop at his head.

“BOY. GET. OUT.”

One Week Later

Michael didn’t leave.

He moved in.

Kind of.

His suitcase was now open in the corner. Two crisp button-ups, a travel-sized cologne, and a copy of The Watchtower were stacked on top like a cursed altar. His toothbrush was in her sink. He rearranged her motel Bible. He put his underwear in her drawer.

Chrissie was spiraling.

Every night he sat on the edge of the bed reading Bible verses out loud like bedtime stories. Every morning he’d hum “Human Nature” while folding her thongs into neat little origami swans.

And worst of all?

He kept talkin’ about marriage.

“You ever think about a wedding dress, Chrissie? I see you in white. Maybe ivory. Strapless. I’d cry. You’d cry. We’d wash each other’s feet like the disciples.”

“Michael, you’re in a motel.”

“But not forever. I was thinking—once we save up—me, you, a little dog named Jericho. Maybe a townhouse in Pasadena. I’ve been looking at house listings…”

Chrissie exhaled slowly.

Her money had been low all week. Not because business was slow—but because Michael scared off every client.

He glared at them from the window like a watchdog for virginity. One man tried to come up the stairs and Michael said “You shall not pass” like Gandalf in the parking lot. Another got chased off with a rolled-up Awake! magazine.

And now?

Chrissie had had enough.

That Afternoon She stood in the middle of Room 209, arms crossed, wearing nothing but a robe and a fed-up expression.

Chrissie:

“Michael. You gotta go.”

“Go where, baby?”

“To your mama house. To Neverland. To ANYWHERE BUT HERE. You messin’ up my money.”

“But I thought we were building a life.”

“The only thing you building is an eviction notice. You think Motel 6 don’t notice you ain’t paid for no nights? That I’m covering your food? You know how many lashes I glued down just to keep you fed, Bible boy?!”

Michael sat up, frowning. His curls flopped in front of his eyes.

“I can contribute Or… I can teach moonwalking and you can teach pole dancing classes at the Y. Something wholesome. And you can make money that way.”

Chrissie sighed so hard her soul left her body and circled back.

“Michael. I’m not your wife. I’m not your girl. I’m not your mission trip. You had one good night of coochie and lost your entire religion.”

“But I meant it. I love you.”

“Well I loved having clients. And money. And privacy. So unless you plan on paying for this room with Jesus coins, I need you out by 5.”

He didn’t move out. Instead it got worse and it all started with the toothbrush.

She noticed it on Day Two.

A sleek, white, clearly-expensive electric toothbrush with gold accents and the initials “MJ” engraved on the handle like it was some kind of Grammy award for dental hygiene.

By Day Three, it was the cologne. Black Orchid. Sprayed liberally. Constantly. It clung to the motel curtains like regret.

By Day Five, it was everything.

He had taken over.

The closet—tiny, warped, and meant for one nightstands and murderers—now hung with custom military jackets, silk shirts, and at least four sequined loafers lined in a row like holy relics.

The bathroom counter was overflowing: hairbrushes, La Mer moisturizer, rosewater mist, toothbrushes, gloves, nail files, organic shea butter, a lavender silk bonnet, and one single, perfectly folded white glove perched on a towel like it was about to host communion.

The motel fridge?

FILLED.

Avocados. Bottled spring water from Norway. Cut-up fruit in Tupperware. Even oat milk.

Chrissie stood in the middle of the room, arms crossed, breathing like a bull in stilettos. “Michael. We need to talk.”

Michael from the bed, eating her chips that she PAYED for, “Good morning, my angel. Want a smoothie?”

“I want you to get your shit and GO.”

He stopped mid-crunch. Sat up, curls bouncing, “Why would I leave? We’re building a life here. I bought candles. Look, sandalwood!”

He pointed at the candle he lit proudly. The smoke rose gently above the stained motel wall. Romantic. Pathetic. Terrifying.

Chrissie snapping and at her limit said, “Michael, this is a MOTEL. Not your f**king summer cottage! You got Grammy awards in my makeup drawer and I ain’t been able to find my concealer in three days!”

He blinked.

Michael:

“Well, that’s because I used it.”

Chrissie:

“WHAT?!”

Michael:

“It’s high quality, right? You said it’s good. And it covered my dark circles wonderfully. You can’t even tell I’ve been crying every night.”

Chrissie sat down before her knees gave out. Her money was gone. Not because of her usual expenses, but because Michael Jackson, the King of Pop, had scared off her income. Again.

Every client she tried to book got intercepted like a biblical plague.

He stood in the motel parking lot like a one-man security system.

“I rebuke you in the name of the Father!”

“You shall not touch what the Lord has claimed!”

“Her body is a temple!”

NO ONE came back after that.

And now her wallet was dry. Her nails were lifting, Her hair was stressed, and her bills were very touched. “I’m not making money, Michael. You got me out here broke with glitter in my scalp and two days left on this room.”

“I told you, I’ll pay for the room. I got money.”

“You handed the Motel Manager a Thriller vinyl and called it currency.”

He paused.

“…He said he liked it.”

“You said he could autograph it himself.”

Michael looked genuinely wounded. Like she kicked his inner child. He reached into his glittery duffel bag and pulled out a crumpled sheet of paper. “I’ve been budgeting. I even wrote a proposal.”

“‘Motel 209 Expansion Plan: Hot Plate, Fairy Lights, Outdoor Plants from Home Depot.’ Are you HIGH?”

He reached for her hands. His eyes were big. Wet. Full of glitter and delusion. “I want to build a future with you. A home. We can paint the walls pink. We can get bunk beds. I’ll pay off your motel debt. I’ll turn the ice machine into a private studio.”

“Michael. This ain’t Neverland.”

“It could be.”

She blinked.

Then blinked again.

Then calmly walked into the bathroom and screamed into a hand towel.

The lights were low.

The sandalwood candle was lit.

Anita Baker whispered from a tiny pink speaker. The air was thick with lavender and delusion.

Michael had gotten up and taken a shower.

His curls were damp, his skin glistening, and he wore nothing but silk pajama pants, no shirt, and a hopeful expression. “I thought maybe… if you’re not tired, we could… you know. Reconnect. Spiritually. Physically. Biblically.”

He sat on the bed slowly, all thighs and timid glances, hands clasped like he was preparing to take communion between her legs. He smelled like cocoa butter and sin-in-progress.

Chrissie didn’t even look up.

She was filing her nails with the focus of a surgeon.

“How much money you got?”

“…Pardon?”

“I said—how. Much. Money. Do. You. Got.”

Michael’s mouth dropped open like she’d just hit him with a stray lyric from ‘Dirty Christina’, “I—I thought we were… a couple?”

She finally turned to face him, face blank, lashes deadly. “Michael, baby. This pussy costs money. I don’t care who you are. I’m out here working with synthetic hair, six chipped nails, and a MAC foundation that’s been empty for two weeks and you talking about making love?”

She stood up. Dramatically. In her robe and rhinestone bonnet. “Let me break it down for you.”

She grabbed a notebook.

Opened it.

Cleared her throat.

“$75—fill in for the nails you bit during sex.

$120—hair maintenance, because you out my good conditioner.

$46.99—sheer lingerie you ripped trying to find the coochie like it was a treasure map.

$19.99—Food Delivery, because your dramatic ass fainted after nutting and needed ‘emergency waffles.’

$15—plan B.

$28—candle refills.

$350—lost client income, because you stood at the motel gate yelling scriptures and scared off Terrance with the good credit score.”

She looked up. “TOTAL: $654.98. Rounded up for emotional damage.”

Michael was… frozen.

Absolutely shattered.

Mouth parted. Eyes glistening. As if the math alone had slapped him across the face. “I thought you loved me.”

“I do. But love don’t pay the bills, and you have the audacity to ask for repeat business without even tipping.”

Michael stood up, clutching his pants at the waist like he was about to deliver a monologue in a tragic opera. “I left my mansion for this. I left my chef. My fountain. I left bubbles the chimp in Encino to sleep on your broken motel mattress with bed bugs that speak in tongues—for you, Chrissie.”

“And now you can leave this room, too.”

She handed him a laminated invoice.

“…‘Dick Tax’? What’s that?”

“That’s the charge for busting a gallon inside me then cuddling like a Build-A-Bear. $200 minimum, cash only.” The room was silent. Too silent. Chrissie could hear the storm brewing behind her without even turning around.

The shuffle of silk pajama pants.

The trembling breath.

The soft “hmph” sound of a man who’s about to spiral into a tantrum not even his PR team could fix.

“This isn’t fair.”

“Life isn’t fair, baby. That’s why my rent’s due and your glove is hanging on a motel hook like a crackhead’s chandelier.”

Michael’s lip trembled.

He clenched his fists.

His curls bounced with righteous rage.

“I gave you everything! I cancelled a tour date for you!”

“That’s wild. I canceled two clients who were gonna pay me $400 apiece because your ass decided to read Leviticus from the balcony.”

And then he snapped. “I’M MICHAEL FUCKING JACKSON!” The voice cracked. The falsetto dipped into fury. He stomped his foot like a child who just got told he couldn’t have cereal for dinner. His hands flailed. His curls whipped dramatically.

Chrissie blinked.

“Are you throwing a tantrum right now?”

“Hmph! Shut up dummy!” He flopped face-down onto the bed like a Victorian woman swooning over unrequited love. He pouted into the pillow. Curled into himself like a cinnamon roll of entitlement and unsatisfied horniness.

Michael (muffled):

“You don’t love me. You just used me for a paycheck and sandalwood candles.”

Chrissie rolled her eyes, “Michael, get your dramatic ass OFF my bed.”

He didn’t move.

So she did what any woman running out of patience, rent money, and edge control would do:

She kicked him in the face.

Not hard. Not malicious.

Just… a gentle flex of dominance. A reminder that this was her turf. Her kingdom. And she was the one with the pussy, the power, and the last dollar in the bag.

Her toes—polished baby pink, freshly filed—connected right with his cheek. A soft bop. A press of authority. Her heel against his jaw.

Michael gasped. Not from pain. Not from shock. But from realization. “…Do it again.”

Chrissie blinked. “Huh?”

“Please. Kick me again.”

A silence fell between them.

Chrissie lowered her foot. Slowly. Suspiciously.

Then raised her eyebrow.

“You got a foot fetish?”

He tried to deny it but the more he explained himself the more guilty he looked. “Your toes are… divine. Like the Sistine Chapel. Like pink candy. Like holy little cherries from heaven.”

Chrissie stared at him like he just told her he eats lotion.

“Boy, what?!”

He grabbed her foot with reverence. Held it like a sacred object. Kissed her ankle with trembling lips like it was a Bible verse.

“ Not saying I would but I could die between your toes.”

Chrissie yanked her foot back.

“Michael. What the fuck.”

“I’ll pay the rent. I’ll pay the bills. Just please don’t judge me!!!!”

She stared at him.

Then down at her toes.

Then back at him.

Then sighed.

❤️🖤❤️❤️❤️🖤❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️🖤❤️❤️🖤❤️❤️

To be continued…

[chrisrashizushi]

i feel like your fics need to be studied. like put in a museum. like. your brain. confounds me. thank you for writing!!!

OMG THANK YOU!! I’ve been writing for a while and for a few years I’ve been a fan of Michael so when I found out people actually write fan fictions for him you know I had to jump in on that.

I have so many ideas I’ve written and planning to write. Like Thriller!Michael X MILF! Reader (already written), Dangerous!Vampire! Michael X Damsel In Distress! Reader (WIP), DILF Michael X Neverland Maid! OC/Reader!, Professor Michael X College Student! Reader/OC.

And some of my favorites that I have written include OCPD! Dom! Michael X Assistant! Reader, LandLord! Michael x OC/Reader and my favorite Best Friends to Lovers story with friends with benefits elements story that I wrote up.

I do this for pure enjoyment lol!

[chrisrashizushi]

Yall i need some shifting ideas , i needa see my man ☺️

[chrisrashizushi]

hello writers.

[chrisrashizushi]