michael jackson

Ever since Thriller went into full swing, Michael has been running on fumes. It’s only September, yet the sun doesn't set until late in the evening—like it’s been haunting him for months. He hasn’t slept properly in God knows how long between the late-night recording sessions, the rehearsals, the endless takes: singing, dancing, practicing, again and again, until his body is moving on instinct and muscle memory alone.

Naturally, humans tend to skip meals when they’re busy. It’s no big deal. But for Michael, it’s DANGEROUSTM. Because when he gets hungry... when he gets bothered, he doesn't crave food; he craves blood. And lately, the hunger has become a constant background noise. Every pulse is a reminder of the rich, metallic scent of crimson coursing under everyone’s skin—warm, red, everywhere. And he’s been so preoccupied with song lyrics that he's completely forgotten that tonight isn’t another recording session. Tonight, he’s supposed to be with you, on a date.

Despite the fact Michael was a little late, the date has been going suspiciously perfect. Michael's a gentleman; he's attentive and a great listener. The cutest smile, softness and warmth in his voice, even if his hands are cold when they brush against yours. When he slides a pretty bouquet of flowers across the table, scarlet red roses so deep they look almost black in the low light, you're so flattered you forget that anything could go wrong.

"The color reminded me of you," He says in that soft voice, gentle as a confession of love.

You giggle, flustered, and lift your glass to your lips to hide your giddy smile.

Michael doesn’t move. He just watches. Not your smile—your throat. The delicate curve of it... the way the muscles shift when you swallow. The pulse that jumps there like it’s trying to tempt him on purpose. He can hear your heartbeat from across the table as if his ear is pressed right against your chest.

Then his gaze catches yours, and he has to force himself to blink like a normal human being.

Behind his teeth, a pressure against the flesh of his cheeks builds... the insistent sharpness of his fangs—and suddenly, it feels like his whole body is completely unsettled.

By the time he insists on walking you home, he’s already wound too tight with both restraint and desire.

Outside, the night breeze is warm, but he’s ice cold beside you. He's been trying to maintain a reasonable distance between himself and your body so he can keep his urges in check... until you hook your arm through his and lean in, and it hits him all at once: your scent, rich and alive, blooming under his nose like a bruise.

Blood, warm under your skin. Everywhere. At this proximity, he can almost distinguish your blood type.

He clears his throat sharply, as if that will make the hunger go away.

You glance up at him with concern. "Are you okay? You’re freezing."

"Bad circulation," he replies quickly, flashing that easy smile before you can worry too much, like it's a practiced answer. "I’m fine."

You see he's a little tense, so you don’t push. You just tilt your head back toward the sky, half dreamy, half amused.

"The stars are beautiful tonight, Mike. Look!"

When you point, he follows your finger towards the sky.

The moon hangs there: full and bright—washing the street in milky hues of pulsing moonlight. The air becomes sharp with the metallic scent of night and blood.

Michael goes very still, but something in him falters.

You take two more steps before you feel the absence beside you. "Michael? What's wrong?"

He drags in a sharp breath like it hurts. His gaze flicks to your mouth, your throat—then away, like he’s ashamed of where it lands. The moonlight hightens all his senses until it’s unbearable. He can hear the rush of blood in your veins, the heat under your skin, the raw, living sound of you.

His hands stay buried like weights in his pockets, fists clenched around his growing nails. He keeps his lips barely parted, as if opening them any wider might reveal his sharp, pearly fangs.

"Listen, there's something I gotta tell you," he murmurs, not looking at you. "I'm not like other guys."

You laugh a little. “Of course not! That’s why I like you—”

"No," he cuts in, more aggressively than he means. He sighs, forcing it softer. "I mean... I’m different."