sub michael x reader where she jerks him off and edges him as he sits between her thighs 👀👀
𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐘 𝐁𝐎𝐘. 🐆
IN WHICH: You edge your boyfriend. ( I really hope this is the position you meant!!)
Michael had been squirming between your thighs for about fifteen minutes now. Your hand wrapped around his eight inches, stroking him up and down as he bit down on his bottom lip.
"baby" he cried out, placing his hand over yours, trying to slow down your pace. "Don’t touch me." You mumbled, rubbing over his swollen slit on his tip.
He whimpered in defeat and dropped his hand down. "I— I just wanna cum. Please." He said, tilting his head back against your chest.
"You wanna cum? Hm?" You asked, slowly moving your hand off his cock.
"Yes.. no— what are you doing? Don’t move, please."
"I thought you wanted me to stop." You pouted, rubbing his chin with your free hand.
His eyebrows furrowed at the accusation. "What.. no, please touch me."
"You crying Michael." You said, sliding your hand back onto his shaft. "Ignore it. Please."
You smiled, stroking him up and down.
He pathetically moaned, jolting his legs wider as he felt his orgasm approach.
"Why should I let you cum? Talk to me Michael."
You could hear your boyfriend try to catch his breath before leaning up, licking over his lips. "Because.. I’ve been good, and you— I want to."
"Hmph." You muttered. "You so pretty baby, such a pretty boy." You reassured. "Ask m—"
Before you can continue you felt cum cover your whole hand, glancing at the scene quickly, he just came.. everywhere.
"Why didn’t you ask me?" You frowned, sliding your free hand from his chin to his mouth, covering it.
Before he could respond you picked up your pace, not letting him calm down from his orgasm. You felt him cry instantly, eventually soaking your hand in just his tears.
"Y/n." Michael whimpered in your ear as you slowly rode him, his hands at your hips, looking up at you, his bottom lip getting sucked in almost at every thrust.
"Please.” He begged, feeling his cock grow sensitive inside you. You let out a string of curse words under your breath, trying to regain the dominance you had two hours ago.
"Please." You repeated after him. "You look so pretty. Please keep still." You moaned out, feeling his legs move around the bed, clearly trying to hold back his third orgasm.
Michael tried to listen, he swore he did. But the more he stayed still the more he felt himself twitch inside your warm pussy. "Baby. Baby please."
You ignored him, still bouncing slowly, letting out a moan every time a clap noise filled his room.
Michael whimpered out of frustration, notching his pleads were being ignored.
“Let me cum. I’ll cater to you aft–after." He stuttered, moving his hands up more, right below your breasts.
A smile graced your face at the word cater. You slowly slid up, causing his dick to slip right out, he whined almost instantly.
“Why are you crying baby?" You asked, still hovering over him, letting his previous orgasm he let out inside of you drip onto his v-line.
He blinked a few times before looking at you. "I— wanted to cum inside you."
You tsk, carefully crawling offff him. "You did. Twice baby." You said, rubbing right underneath his eye where some tears did in-fact fall.
He finally regained control over his own body, sliding down more on the face. "Sit here."
Your eyes widen, out of shock. You have been dating Michael’s and not once have you ever sat on his face. "You sure?"
"Please."
How could you resist his begging? You two went at it. Till the break of dawn.
summary — what starts as hurt and neglect becomes a raw reminder of how deeply he needs you.
warnings — smut, profanity, implied relationship neglect, slight angst, make up sex, oral (reader receiving), p in v, pet names ( baby, sweetheart, good girl, princess, angelface, babygirl, sweet thing), praise kink, multiple positions, overstim, soft dom!michael, bratty!reader, emotional vulnerability, yearning + his vitiligo is briefly mentioned (LOTS OF I LOVE YOU’S!)
a/n : whew im so obsessed with michael i just had to whip something up im down bad also feedback is appreciated thank you and pls drop ideas in my ask box my requests are open i def wanna write more of him and follow me on tiktok @imnameiyaaa been posting michael edits :)
Soft golden light spilled across the suite like it belonged in a film warm against the marble surfaces, catching in the folds of velvet curtains, glinting off details that were clearly chosen to impress rather than comfort.
You were sprawled across the bed irritated. You had known his concert would run late this life came with waiting.
Your phone was in your hand as you scrolled with sharp, restless movements, the kind that said everything your silence didn’t.
You heard the keycard slide into the lock. The door opened. Closed. The soft pad of his expensive loafers tapped against the floor.
“Baby?” came his voice, softer than the stage version of him you knew the world worshipped. Tired. Careful. Almost searching.
"I know I'm late. The concert ran over, and then there was the afterparty, and i couldn't get away.”
You looked up from your phone. He was at the edge of the bed already, just standing there like he wasn’t sure if you were going to talk to him or ignore him.
“I don’t care about the afterparty, Michael,” you said, meeting him at the edge of the bed.
He sighed, long and deep. "Don't do this. Not tonight. I've had a long day. The crowd was insane, and I gave everything I had on that stage, and all I could think about was getting back to you."
You looked up at him, letting him see the frustration in your eyes.
“I’ve been in this suite for hours. I chose not to go to the show tonight. I watched you perform live from here, and then I just… waited. I’ve reorganized the minibar, counted bathroom tiles, watched like three soap operas I don’t even understand.”
He stood there in a all black tailored jacket, fitted shirt underneath slim trousers that clung to him so well.
He looked so good in black too good, honestly.
"I'm here now," he said softly.
"Are you?" You sat up, tossing your phone aside. "Because it feels like I'm dating a ghost. A very busy ghost who forgets I exist”
His jaw tightened, a flicker of frustration in his face before it softened. “You know that’s not true. I didn’t mean to make you feel like I wasn’t here.”
“Then why does it feel like that every time?” Your voice came out quieter now, less angry and more tired. “I know you don’t mean it, Michael… but I’m still the one sitting here feeling it.”
His eyes met yours again, softer now, less guarded. “It gets chaotic out there and I come off stage and it’s just… people pulling me in every direction. Interviews, crew, everyone needing something from me.” He shook his head slightly. “And then I get back here and I realize I didn’t even check in with you properly.”
He ran a hand over his face, exhaling slowly. “I’m not trying to make you feel like that.” A pause. “I swear I’m not.”
"Then prove it." You said smirking.
He took a step closer then another, not breaking eye contact once.
"You want me to prove it?" His voice dropped, losing that soft edge and gaining something darker. "Is that what this is about?."
That’s exactly what you wanted you were angry at him but deep down u wanted him you two hadn’t had sex in a while because he was so busy.
“Well-”
"Don't." He held up a hand, and your mouth snapped shut. "Don't lie to me sweetheart . I know you. I know that look in your eyes. That challenge. Like you're daring me to do something about it."
You met his gaze, refusing to back down. "Well maybe i do want you to do something about it."
He was standing too close. Looking too good. Smelling like that familiar cologne that made your focus slip.
“Mm.”
“Talk to me. Tell me what you need right now.”
A small breath left you. “You,” you said quietly. “I need you. Right now.”
A long pause and then, slowly, he reached up and unbuttoned his jacket.
He shrugged it off his shoulders and let it fall to the floor without looking at it.
Then he tugged his shirt over his head.
You couldn't help but let your eyes trail over his lean torso, the smooth skin, the subtle definition of muscles built by years of dancing.
He knelt on the bed. Not beside you. In front of you. He took your face in his hands, his thumbs tracing your cheekbones.
"Baby," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Look at me."
You did. Oh, you always did. Those eyes of his pulled you in like gravity.
"I know I'm gone too much. I know it's hard. Harder than you thought it would be when you signed up for this." His thumb brushed your lower lip. "But I need you to understand something. When I'm out there, in those lights... a part of me is always here. With you. You're the only real thing in my life, do you understand?"
"Then why do I feel so invisible?" The words came out cracked, vulnerable.
"Because I'm an idiot." He smiled his smile was so pretty. "Because I get so caught up in trying to be perfect for everyone else that I forget to be perfect for the one person who actually matters."
The second your hands came up to grip his shoulders, the kiss deepened instantly, turning messy and heated. His mouth moved against yours with desperation now.
“Fuck…” he muttered when he finally pulled back for air, eyes dropping to your lips he was addicted to your lips.
“Your mouth is so sweet.”
He kissed you again his tongue sliding against yours, slower this time, savoring it, and the soft sound that escaped your throat only seemed to make him melt further into you. One of his hands tightened at your waist while the other moved up your neck, holding you close like he couldn’t get enough.
“Let me take care of you,” he whispered against your mouth,
“How?” you asked softly, tilting your head just enough to look up at him through your lashes like you didn’t already know exactly what that tone in his voice meant.
His fingers slid slowly along your waist beneath the thin fabric of your nightgown. "I’ll show you."
“Show me then,”
He undressed you slowly. Reverently. Each piece like he was unwrapping a gift he'd been waiting years to open. When you were bare beneath him, your skin prickling in the cool hotel air, he just looked at you. His gaze traveled over every curve, every dip, every shadow.
"God, you're beautiful," he breathed. "Do you know that? Do you know how many nights I've thought about this? About you? When I'm out there, dancing, singing, giving myself to thousands of people... all I can think about is coming back here and being inside you."
He pressed you back against the pillows, his body covering yours. He kissed down your neck, your collarbone, the swell of your breasts. His tongue circled your nipple, and you arched into him, your fingers tangling in his hair.
"You like that?" he murmured against your skin.
"You know I do."
"I want to hear you say it."
His mouth moved lower, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your stomach, your hips. Your breath hitched as you realized where he was heading.
"Mikey.."
"Hmm?" He looked up at you, his lips inches from where you wanted him most. His nose traced along your inner thigh, and you felt his breath hot against your core. "Something you want to say?"
"Stop teasing."
He laughed, low and dark. "Always demanding." His hands pressed your thighs apart, spreading you open to his gaze you were so wet.
"But I know how to shut you up, don't I?"
He lowered his head.
The first touch of his tongue against your clit was electric. You gasped, your hips bucking, but his big hands held you in place. He licked you slowly, deliberately, like he was savoring you. Like you were a delicacy he'd been denied for too long.
"Oh, fuck..."
The words slipped out before you could stop them.
Your fingers grabbed the sheets your thoughts scattered as heat blurred everything you were trying to stay mad about.
He hummed against you, the vibration alone sending a ripple straight through your whole body.
His tongue circled your clit dipping lower against your entrance. He fucked you with his tongue, and you clutched the sheets even tighter, your mind going blank.
"That's it," he said, pulling back just enough to speak. "That's my good girl. Let me hear you.”
“Couldn’t wait to get back here and put my mouth on you."
"Oh, please"
"Please what?"
"Please don't stop."
He didn't. He ate you like a man starved, his tongue working you with a skill that made your toes curl and your eyes roll. He found every sensitive spot, every place that made you gasp and moan. His fingers joined the party, sliding inside you, curling in that perfect come here motion that hit your g-spot dead on.
"You're so wet for me," he said, his voice muffled against your flesh. "So perfect. All mine. I can just taste how much you need me."
"Yes, yes, all yours-"
"Who do you belong to?" He looked up at you, his chin glistening, his eyes dark with hunger.
"You. Only you, Michael. I promise."
"That's right." He went back to work, his tongue lapping at your clit while his fingers pumped inside you.
The pressure was building, coiling in your belly like a spring being wound tighter and tighter. Your hips moved against his face, chasing the pleasure, and he let you. He let you ride his mouth, his tongue, his fingers.
"Come for me sweet girl," he coaxed. "Let go. I've got you. Please, baby, wanna taste it." He begged.
That was all it took. The wave crashed over you, and you screamed his name, your body convulsing as pleasure ripped through you. He didn't stop, lapping up every drop, drawing out your orgasm until you were a trembling, gasping mess. He groaned against you as you came, like he was drinking in your pleasure, needing it as much as you needed to give it.
He crawled up your body, kissing your stomach, your breasts, your neck, until he was hovering above you. You could taste yourself on his lips when he kissed you.
"See?" he whispered. "That's what you've been missing. I'm going to remind you, over and over, just how much you mean to me. I need you to know it. I need you to feel it."
He reached down, and you heard the sexy rustle of his belt, the zip of his pants. "I've been thinking about being inside you all night. Every dance move. Every moment I was on that stage, I was imagining this." He kicked his pants off, and you felt his cock, hard and thick, pressing against your thigh. "And now I'm going to fuck you until there's nothing in your head but me."
"Promises, promises." You teased.
He laughed, but there was no humor in it. Just a raw, predatory intent. "Still smart-mouthing? Don't worry. I know exactly how to fix that."
He positioned himself at your entrance, the head of his cock pressing against your slick folds. He didn't push in. He just stayed there, teasing you, letting you feel the promise of what was coming.
"Look at me."
You did. His eyes burned into yours.
"I love you," he said. "I know I don't say it enough. I know I don't show it enough. But I love you. And I'm going to spend the rest of this night proving it. I need you to understand that every time I'm out there you're all I can think about."
"Show me."
He pushed in slowly inch by inch. You felt yourself stretching around him, accommodating to his size. He filled you completely, deeper than you thought possible, and when he was fully sheathed inside you, he paused.
"Feel that?" he whispered. "That's me. All of me. Nothing between us. I need this. I need you."
"Oh fuck..it feels so good."
"Tell me you love me."
"I love you."
"Again."
"I love you, Michael. I love you."
He began to move. Slow, deep strokes that hit places you didn't know existed. His hips rolled against yours, and the sound of skin slapping skin filled the room. He wasn't fucking you fast or hard. Not yet. He was making love to you, taking his time, worshipping you with every thrust.
"You feel so good," he breathed against your ear. "Taking me so well. So perfect. This pussy was made for me, wasn't it? Tell me it's mine."
"Yes, yes, it's yours-"
"All mine. Say it."
"It's all yours. Every part of me."
He kissed you, deep and demanding, his tongue fucking your mouth in time with his cock fucking your cunt. His hand found your clit, rubbing in circles, and you felt that coil tightening again.
"Already?" He smiled against your lips. "You're so sensitive tonight. Or did you miss me that much?"
"Shut up and fuck me."
"There she is." He laughed, but it turned into a groan as he picked up the pace. "There's my bratty girl. Always gotta have the last word, don't you?"
"Make me shut up then if you don’t like it.”
His eyes flashed. He pulled out, and before you could protest, he grabbed your legs and pushed them up, hooking your ankles over his shoulders. The position opened you up completely, and when he slammed back into you, he went deeper than ever before.
“I.. you’re so deep.” you mumbled not even able to finished what you were going to say fully.
"That's what I thought." He braced his hands on either side of your head, caging you in with his body. His face was inches from yours, his breath hot on your lips. "You wanted my attention? You've got it. All of it. Every fucking drop. I'm right here, baby. I'm not going anywhere."
The new angle was devastating, hitting that spot inside you that made you see stars literally. Your fingers clawed at his back, your moans turning into incoherent babbles. His skin was slick with sweat, the vitiligo patterns on his back glistened under the light.
"Look at you," he growled, his voice breaking with need. "Taking me like a good girl. And you were so angry earlier. So upset."
“I was-I am-“
"I know." He leaned down, his forehead pressing against yours, his hips never stopping their relentless rhythm. "And I deserve it. I deserve every bit of your anger. But right now, I just want to make you feel good. I need to make you feel good. I need to feel your body come apart around me."
"Michael..." you babbled that was all you could say.
"Let it all go. I've got you. I'm not going anywhere. I love you so much it scares me sometimes."
He kissed you, sloppy and desperate, his tongue sliding against yours. His hand found yours, interlocking your fingers, pressing your palm into the mattress beside your head. He held your hand tight, like he was afraid you might disappear.
"I need you," he whispered against your lips. "I need you so bad sweet thing. You don't even know. When I'm out there, when the lights are blinding me and the crowd is screaming, I close my eyes and I see your face. That's what gets me through. That's what keeps me going."
His thrusts grew more urgent, more desperate. "I can't do this without you. I don't want to do this without you. You're everything to me."
His other hand slid between your bodies, fingers finding your clit again. He rubbed you in frantic circles, matching the pace of his hips.
"Come for me," he commanded, but his voice was raw, pleading. "Please, baby."
You shattered. Your orgasm ripped through you, so intense that you saw white. You screamed his name, your body convulsing, your inner walls clenching around him like a fist. He kept his forehead pressed to yours, his eyes locked on yours, watching you fall apart.
"That's it," he breathed. "That's my princess. I love you. I love you so much."
He didn't stop though. He kept fucking you through it, riding out every wave, every pulse. And then you felt him stiffen, heard his guttural groan as he spilled inside you, hot and thick, filling you up completely. His body shuddered above you, his grip on your hand tightening almost painfully as he rode out his orgasm.
"I love you," he gasped, the words falling from his lips like a prayer. "I love you, I love you, I love you." He didn’t care how many times he had to say it.
He collapsed on top of you, his weight a welcoming pressure. His cock twitched inside you as he rode out the last of his orgasm. For a long moment, neither of you moved. The only sounds were your ragged breathing and the distant hum of the city below.
Finally, he shifted, pulling out slowly. But he didn't move away. He stayed close, his body still covering yours, his face buried in your neck.
"I'm sorry," he whispered against your skin. "I'm sorry I make you feel like you don't matter. I'm sorry I'm always gone. I'm sorry I'm not here when you need me."
“Michael, you-” your voice caught, breath uneven. “I’m sorry… I should’ve just-”
You looked away for half a second, guilt finally breaking through the frustration you’d been holding onto all night.
"No, let me say this." He lifted his head, and his eyes were wet. "I know I'm not easy to love. I know I'm complicated. I know I have all these walls and all these fears. But you... you break through all of them. You make me feel like I can be normal. Like I can just be a man in love with a woman."
“I know you’re tired,” you whispered. “I know you’ve been working nonstop and I just… I miss you so much sometimes it makes me angry.”
“Babygirl…” he breathed, forehead resting against yours. “You never have to apologize for wanting me.”
"Angelface." You said reaching up, cupping his face in your hands. "I'm not going anywhere. I love you. All of you. Every part of you."
"You mean that?"
"I mean it."
He kissed you, soft and sweet this time. Gentle. A promise.
"Let me show you again," he whispered.
"Ride me," he breathed. "I want to watch you.“
He shifted, rolling onto his back and pulling you with him until you were straddling his hips. His hands found your waist, guiding you as you sank down onto him, taking him deep inside you.
You moved on top of him, finding your rhythm. His hands slid up your thighs, your hips, your stomach, finally cupping your breasts. His thumbs circled your nipples, and you moaned, throwing your head back.
"You're so beautiful," he said, his voice full of awe. "How did I get so lucky? How did I find someone like you?"
“You’re so sweet” you muttered softly, almost shy now as if you weren’t currently riding him.
"I mean it." His hips bucked up into you, meeting your movements. "I don't deserve you. But I'm too selfish to let you go."
“You’re not selfish,” you murmured weakly, the words breaking apart as moans slipped from the both of you.
"I am. When it comes to you.”
He sat up, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you close. The position changed the angle, and you gasped as he hit that spot again. He held you tight, his face buried in your neck, his breath hot against your skin.
"I need you so much it hurts.“
"Tell me you're mine again."
"I'm yours. All yours."
He kissed your neck, your collarbone, your shoulder. His hands gripped your hips, guiding your movements, setting the pace.
"Come for me again," he begged. "Please.”
You were close. So close. The pressure was building, coiling tight in your belly. He reached between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing in tight circles.
"That's it," he coaxed. "I've got you. I'll always have you."
You came with a cry, your body shuddering against his. He held you through it, his arms wrapped tight around you, his lips pressed to your skin.
He came too, his body tensing beneath you, his groan muffled against your neck. You felt him spill inside you again the sensation sent another wave of pleasure through your oversensitive body.
You stayed like that for a long moment, tangled together, breathing together. Finally, he pulled back, looking at you with those, beautiful eyes.
"You tired yet," he said.
"Never."
"Good."
He kissed the tip of your nose. "I'm going to spend the whole night showing you how much I love you. Every hour. Every minute.”
When you woke up the suite was quiet sunlight spilled through the curtains in soft streaks, warming the sheets tangled around your legs.
At some point during the night, you must’ve drifted off completely. You didn’t even remember when.
“Morning,” Michael murmured against your skin, his voice rough with sleep.
One of his arms tightened around your waist instinctively, pulling you a little closer against him beneath the sheets.
His hand slid down your side, over your hip, settling on your thigh.
"I love you," he said again, like he couldn't say it enough. Like he needed to fill every silence with those three words.
“And i love you more.”
"I don't deserve you," he whispered.
"Stop saying that."
"It's true."
“That’s not true.”
He kissed you softly. "I'm just not used to it. Not used to someone wanting me for me."
"I want you for you. Just you."
He held you close, his body pressed against yours, his heart beating against your chest.
And in that moment, you knew that everything was going to be okay.
synopsis: being michael jackson’s personal assistant had its perks — like being the woman he fucks & cheats on his wife with and promises the world and more to. but those promises are empty when you leave your husband for him — and he’s still with his wife because he can’t choose.
warnings: sexual themes, smut, cheating, angsty romance.
One look.
One conspiratorial, distraught look was enough for Michael’s stomach to turn — his guilty conscience gnawing away at him like a starved, rapid animal.
The way your eyes flickered had him twitching uncomfortably — irrefutable despair leaking from you like a burst pipe. It was unmissable the way your ceaseless gaze ignited tension in the room like no other — goosebumps crawling up his neck in sheer agony.
His expression spoke a thousand words with one guilty look — one that had you swallowing thickly, picturing how in the hell you managed to get yourself in this position, and cursing the day you took the job at Westlake Recording Studio’s.
It started on your first day — an old blouse too tight around your chest, fighting back as you attempted to pull it looser against your obvious bust, and a tartan midi-skirt that your Mother forced you to wear. You looked like a house wife out of the 40’s. You hated it.
You were nervous, oh so nervous. Rightfully so — this job was a big deal. Being a Personal Assistant was an important role in a successful person’s life — you made sure everything in their world ran smoothly. No fuck up’s — not even one to test the waters. And it didn’t help your nervous system that whom you were personally assisting was the King of Pop, global superstar, Michael Jackson.
The thought of him had your heart hammering in your chest — you had never even seen a celebrity up close, let alone worked for them. You had no idea how you even managed to land this job with how little experience you had — but clearly your street-smart book-smart combination pushed you to the top of the list of applicants.
Walking swiftly through the hallways of Westlake Recording Studio, your heels clicked so loud that you cringed — suddenly feeling so out of place in such an important building. This was where a superstar made magic with his voice — certainly somewhere you thought you didn’t deserve to be.
The reception area of the studio took you by surprise — oh so this place was serious about not letting just anyone in. You forced your saliva down as you approached the mahogany desk where an older lady resided.
"Hello there." You greeted, the woman peering up at sound of your presence, "I’m Mr Jackson’s new Personal Assistant. I-It’s my first day."
The lady smiled, "Oh, yes, I’ve heard all about you. Come with me, sweetie, I’ll show you around."
She introduced herself as Susanna, 65 years-old, who should be retired but revealed she just loved the job too much. As she guided you through each hallway, she told you she’d been working in and around the music industry since she was a little girl in the late 20’s and had never seen a performer and musician quite like Michael Jackson.
"Now, Michael isn’t the only performer we have here, but he’s the most frequent, probably why Frank wanted you to come here first." She said, referring to Michael’s manager, Frank DiLeo, "Over there’s the lunch-room, and to the right of it is the ladies room." She stared, your eyes following her manicured fingers as they pointed in the direction of the rooms, "And up ahead is Michael’s studio."
Your heart thumped wildly in your chest with anxiety — you’d always pictured yourself with a simpler, less demanding job. Something where people didn’t rely on you too much as to not embarrass yourself or get into trouble. But, being the Personal Assistant of the world’s most well-known man was far from that. Which, rightfully, had your stomach churning.
"Now, as you probably know, he’s a little shy." Susanna chuckled, the cigarette smoke puffed from her thin lips left a stench in the air that crinkled your nose, "But, he’s a sweetheart, honestly. I’m sure you’ll get along just fine. Don’t worry too much — he’s not as daunting as he seems."
Her words provided little comfort as she stopped in front of a door labelled ‘Jackson’, with a blurred glass window in its middle. You knew from the way she came to an abrupt stop and smiled at you wishfully that you were on your own now.
"Thank you." You managed to squeak out, ignoring the way your voice wavered, your nerves peaking as you reached for the door handle.
"Have a good day, honey." Susanna smiled. With a soft squeeze to your shoulder and a wink of good luck — she walked away.
Fuck.
A shaky breath left your lips as the door knob burned into your retinas — the power it had over you taking over your body as you stared, your hand hovering over the metallic surface.
If it wasn’t for the money, you’d have run for hills right now. Part of your future self wished you did — but instead, with a soft knock and a push of the door, you walked into what you’d soon regret in 3 years time.
The inside of the recording studio was nicer than you’d pictured — warm lighting, cosy interior with quiet laughter and soft voices filling the air, a relaxing environment evident in its walls. Two familiar faces met your awkward frame, confused expressions smeared across them.
"Hi there, little lady. You lost?" You could tell from the sweet-talking slickness of his voice and familiar laid-back persona that you were talking with famous producer Quincy Jones.
"No, actually, Mr Jones, I’m Mr Jackson’s new assistant." You started, a bead of anxious sweat crawling down your back, "It’s my first day."
"Oh, yeah, Frank mentioned you were getting a new PA." Quincy nodded, wagging his finger in the air, "Thank god, the last one was a complete bust."
You gulped, silently wishing your fate didn’t end up like hers.
"What’s your name, baby?" Quincy questioned, bringing a pen between his lips as you revealed it, "Hm, cute." He smirked, eyes trailing up and down your frame, "Well, you’ll be listening to Frank while you’re not here, but when you’re here with us, you can answer to me, honey, okay?" You nodded quickly, eyes never leaving his own, "And we don’t bite, so don’t worry. But, I suppose for your first task, you can grab us some drinks from the coffee house down the road?"
"S-Sure, anything, what do you like?"
"Michael here, will have an orange soda," He started, "And I’ll have a black coffee with a couple sugar’s — but I suppose you can just stick your finger in there, huh?"
"Quincy. That’s no way to talk to a lady."
Michael was even more beautiful in person — the soft and gentleness of his tone had you repressing a relaxed sigh that threatened to escape your lips. He sounded so calm and collected, more so than any of his gorgeous songs. And by God was he handsome — the ringlet curls that framed his face and the contagious smile that adorned his lips had you blushing more than you cared to admit.
Quincy laughed as Michael stood up, approaching you quickly, "I’m sorry about him. I’m Michael." He extended his hand out to you, a small smile on his face as he towered over you.
"I-I know." You blurted out, flustered, grasping onto his hand. Your words hit you like a brick to the face, suddenly flushing your cheeks pink, "I’m sorry, that sounded better in my head. I’m just nervous."
Michael laughed, a slight chuckle that left his smiling lips, "You’re okay. Everyone’s nervous on their first day of a job, no matter what it is." He reassured, "I promise there’s nothing to be worried about. We’re all great friends here. Like one big family."
You nodded, listening intently — absorbing in every word he spoke like a sponge in the ocean. You didn’t notice the way Michael glanced down at your connected hands, his smile wavering slightly.
"When’s the wedding?"
His voice baffled you at first, the question hitting your ears in confusion as you held your gaze with one another still, "Sorry?"
Michael glanced down to your hands once more, his own in contact with your engagement ring that clad your ring finger. You connected the dots as you laughed awkwardly, "Oh. It’s so recent, I’m still not used to that question." You admitted, tucking a stand of hair behind your ears as your hands slipped apart, coming down to toy with the gold ring, "November 8th."
"Ah, soon." Michael grinned, "What’s his name?"
"D-Daniel."
"Well, congratulations. Daniel is a very lucky man."
"Thank you." You whispered, peering up at him, noticing the flicker in his eyes at your words, as if there was nothing threatening to be seen. Envy? Disappointment? You couldn’t put your finger on it, but you could sense Michael knew you’d seen too, "A-Are you married?"
"Yes. Only recent, much like your engagement."
A similar, questionable feeling crept up your spine at his words — something you also couldn’t place as you nodded. This clearly wasn’t in the press yet as you hadn’t heard about it, either way, you definitely felt something about it, but you weren’t sure what. Yet.
"How about those drinks, sweetie?"
Michael rolled his eyes with a smile at Quincy’s words from behind him as he lit a cigarette, "Ignore him. Classic 80’s Producers." You giggled softly at his joke, "I know you’re more than that." Your heart throbbed, "Come and talk to me anytime if you’re nervous or upset or don’t know where to go. I’ll always be here to help. Just say the word."
Your nods of agreement grew increasingly more rapid as Michael went on, your eyes, bulging with adoration, peered up at him once more before leaving him with a smile.
And as you pushed the door open, glancing back to observe Michael joining Quincy in the swivelled chairs, scolding him for not being a gentlemen, you couldn’t help but smile — a burst of sensation in your chest swelling at the sight, one you weren’t used to. You left, grinning ear to ear, like a little girl with a crush.
And that’s how it stayed for the rest of your career at Westlake.
Every morning, you’d bring Michael and Quincy a drink — either a warm tea with a spoonful of honey or a freshly squeezed orange juice for Michael, and always a black coffee, accompanied with a ‘dip your finger in it, sweetie’ sugar joke, for Quincy, everytime without fail.
You began to adore your job working for Michael — running errands for him, refilling his tea, sorting out scattered papers in the studio, scheduling meetings with managers and potential features with other artists’ for his new album. Everything, as simple as bringing him his lunch, made your day.
But soon, as all professional male and female relationships do, things became not so simple.
Brushes of hands as you passed over a drink, a buzz of electricity shooting through your veins and an overly thankful smile back from him, accompanied with comforting hands atop one another when times got hard, or a gentle kiss on the cheek when he was nominated for his new album in congratulations, had you questioning everything.
Your relationship was purely flirtatious, subtle and under-wraps — something to toy with at the comfort of your employment, and never to take home with you.
But, in the immaturity of your heart, you let yourself get personal. You let the professionalism slip. You began to feel things you shouldn’t. Anyone unwed would call it a crush — something juvenile and invalid longterm. However, the way your heart fluttered as he looked at you, or how your cheeks flushed red as he touched the small of your back — you knew were more far gone than you cared to admit.
And fail to admit your feelings, you did. Every night you lay beside your now husband, every interaction between yourself and Michael replayed in your head, drowning out the man beside you’s snoring. You knew deep down it was wrong to think of another man as your husband slumbered next to you — but, he was your friend, your boss, someone you spent everyday out of the week with. You saw him more than your own husband — leading you to secretly often referring to Michael as your work husband.
But no marriage was perfect — your own was far from it. In the darkness of the night, when your mind would graze over your boss, it would also land on the evident feeling of numbness when you looked at your husband. You were practically forced into marriage by your Mother — Daniel being someone familiar from childhood, simple, reliable, and intelligent, someone easy. Someone to sign the leases, fix the pipes, file the taxes — all the mainstream, traditional marital aspects of a man. And every time he’d rock into you unprotected, hoping for a baby, you’d lay there, faking every noise and every orgasm — wishing and hoping for something more. Convincing yourself that when your mind slipped to Michael as your husband lazily thrust into you from behind, that it was simply platonic with no underlying intention, and just a way to escape from the sheer displeasure your husband brought you.
Your husband, clearly butt-hurt that he wasn’t the breadwinner, hated your job. He would often badmouth every aspect of your job, the outfits you wore, how late you worked, how many date nights you missed to attend to a request made by Frank. But, what he hated most was Michael. He hated how infatuated and dedicated you were to him — pulling a face of disgust every time you mentioned his name or answered a phone call about him. This lead to relentless arguments — him claiming you cared too much about another man, and you persisting that it was your job and he was being controlling.
Just like today.
"Daniel. For the last time - it’s my job." You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose as your knuckles flexed around the phone handle that was held up to your ear, "No, God—Daniel, are you serious? Cheating? For Christ’s sake, get a hold of yourself!"
The noise of his incessant rambling on at you had you zoning out, shaking your head as his voice drowned out in your head. You were so tired of this — the moment you took this job you knew he’d have something to say about it. He knew exactly what he was getting himself into when he proposed to you, but still decides to fight you about it every chance he gets.
"Daniel. I’m sick of this. I’m at work, I’m busy. Stop calling here because you’re bored at home with nothing better to do — go do something, okay? Get a hobby, find something to fix or clean — just leave me alone for once."
You slammed the phone down harder than intended — a wave of annoyance washing over you as his words repeated in your head. Accusations of unfaithfulness and infidelity once again — you were growing tired of it. And him for that matter.
You were ready to leave the studio for the night — now wanting nothing less than to leave and head home for the day. You couldn’t be bothered to continue the argument when you arrived home, something that you knew your bored husband would want to do. Instead, you took your time closing down the studio for the night. Deliberating taking longer to stroll the halls — switching off each light, locking each door, checking each room for stragglers. At last, you reached the familiar blurred glass door — one you’d come to grow fond of.
Knock, knock!
"Michael?"
In your many months spent growing closer to the popstar, you began to feel comfortable to address him by his first name. Pushing open the door, you peered your head around it, your eyes meeting the man you called for, all alone, his hunched over frame meeting your gaze.
"Hey, come in. Everything okay?" He spoke, glancing over at you briefly with a smile, before returning his focus onto the sound board.
"Yep, just wanted to let you know I’m heading out for night." You informed him, jingling your keys, "Shall I leave these out for you?"
"Actually." Michael started, "Would you mind staying for a little while? I would love your help with something."
Your eyebrows furrowed, ignoring the way your stomach flipped at the thought of the one-on-one interaction, "Oh, uh, sure." You let the door slide shut as you entered the room, "What’s up?"
Michael shuffled, pushing stray pieces of paper out the way of all the various buttons you weren’t familiar with, "Take a seat."
You swallowed, your throat suddenly dry and tight as you did as he asked — sitting comfortably in the chair next to him.
"Listen to this and tell me what you think."
Without allowing your words of protest to exit your lips — Michael pressed a few buttons before sliding one upwards to increase the noise of a demo that began sounding throughout the room.
It was his voice — his angelic, magical voice that hit your ears. You smiled softly as you looked down at your hands, ignoring the flash of your wedding ring as you admired the beautiful work that flowed around the room. He sounded amazing.
It ended abruptly, silence filling the space once more. He turned to you, "So?"
"Wow." You breathed, "Michael, you’re so talented. That sounds incredible."
Michael smiled bashfully, bowing his head at your kind words, "Oh, thank you. I really appreciate it." He started, "But, I just feel like something is missing."
You scoffed out a laugh, "Boy, do I know how you feel." You shook your head, eyes fluttering shut briefly at the thought of your controlling husband.
Michael peered over at you, eyebrows knitted together in confusion, "What do you mean?"
"Oh, hah, nothing. Just my husband."
Michael’s attention was fully on you now — his chair swivelled to face you as you spoke, "Why? What’s missing?"
"Nothing, nothing." You brushed off, fearing you said too much, "Just a joke."
"Didn’t feel like a joke." He spoke softly, pursing his lips together, "Hey," His hand came to fold over yours delicately, igniting flames over your skin, "You know you can talk to me about anything."
Michael missed the way your breath hitched in your throat. The touch and the closeness bringing heat to your body like a furnace as your breathing became irregular.
Your mouth opened as you went to speak, ready to vent about all your marital issues — complain about his lack of respect for your job, his boring attitude and his profound sexual incompetence, but words failed you.
Michael noticed this.
"It’s okay." He spoke, giving your hand a squeeze, "I understand how you feel."
Your heart lurched up at his words — your despaired expression meeting his own, "You do?"
"Yes." Michael breathed, "Marriage isn’t easy."
You despised the way your heart throbbed with hope.
"Are you having problems with your wife too?"
Michael peered up at you, revelling in the way your doe-eyes, fluttering through your lashes, gazed at him with more love and attention he’d seen from a female in years. He, too, hated himself for the way he looked at you sometimes with such captivation — longing to reach out and touch you further after a brush of a finger, or to lean down and capture your lips in a kiss after you laughed at one of his jokes.
And he, like you, despised the way he felt a sliver of optimism at the depleting description of your partner.
Michael nodded, a saddened expression present on his face — mismatching the twinge of anticipatory excitement that bubbled in his chest.
"Oh, Michael." You breathed, your voice soft and attending — playing with his damaged heart strings, "It’s going to be okay. We always have each other."
God, you were so sweet. It physically hurt him to look at you when you had that irresistibly spellbinding look on your face — like a single tug of your plump lips into a smile could send a man to Heaven and back. He thought you were utterly gorgeous — something he’d believed in since the moment he locked eyes on you.
Michael’s hand twitched above your own, knocking your attention down to your enclosed hands. With one small, calculated move — you managed to manoeuvre your hands upwards, now palm to palm with Michael. You noticed the intense silence that flooded the room, both your fixated stares latched into your hands — touching so subtly, yet fuelling the desire in both of your souls. Michael shuffled ever so slightly, forcing your hands to slide against one another — now connecting fingertips.
"Your hands are so soft." You whispered, breathing out a soft laugh, your voice hushed and tender — both of your gaze still on your touching fingers.
"So are yours."
The honesty in his voice paired with the feather-light touches had your head spinning — the potent smell of his cologne fogging your senses, rendering you brainless as all you could focus on was him. Him, and his beautiful eyes, beautiful smile, beautiful lips, hands, fingers, body—
You gasped in a quiet breath as your mind ran a mile a minute. Michael peered up at you momentarily, sliding his fingers in-between yours — interlocking your fingers so slowly, if he were anyone else, you wouldn’t have noticed. But, that simple gesture had your legs tightening as they crossed.
"Talk to me, doll."
The nickname had your mouth hanging agape ever so slightly — the sheer volume of desire that burst inside of you, oozing out of you like molten lava as your eyes fixated onto your interlocked hands.
"Michael, please." You whispered — the neediness in your voice so visible, Michael could’ve passed out.
"‘Please’ what, angel? Tell me what you need." His voice was so sincere, so full of warmth with an undertone you so desperately wanted to uncover, that it had you trembling against him.
Your eyes flicked upwards — landing on his pretty lips, the way they glistened in the light from his previous wetting of them, before sliding up his face to his eyes. He was staring down at your hands, the way they connected so perfectly, so intimately, something so dangerously beautiful about the way you slotted together.
When his eyes fluttered up to meet your gaze was when the mask slipped.
You lurched forward — your once connected hands now flying to his face, cradling his burning hot cheeks in your hands as you connected your lips in a ferocious kiss. Your body lunged at him — legs straddling his hips, forcing the wheeled chair backwards as the intensity of your jolt pushed you both in a dazzling smoulder flying across the room. Michael, kissing your eager lips back, slid his hands up your back in an attempt to drag you closer. The chair slammed against the wall, making no attempt to slow you both down as you attacked each others lips — whines and breaths of pure desperation exiting your needy mouth.
Your hand clutched at the wall behind you, nails scraping down the plaster as Michael’s swollen lips latched at your neck, licking and sucking your warm skin.
"No marks." You breathed, a hand snaking into his hair, clutching at his curls, "We’re married, remember?"
Michael hated the way his body had no reaction to your words — right now, he didn’t care.
"Happily?"
The one word rhetorical question he asked, huffed against your neck, before returning to grazing his teeth along your collarbone, had your back arching into his chest, a breathless moan leaving your mouth.
You hated that you didn’t need to give him an answer — he already knew it.
No, you weren’t happily married.
Your hips involuntarily ground down into his crotch, skirt bunched around your waist, a gasping whine leaving you as your throbbing nub nudged against him. Hard, thick and prominent — a proud statement of his arousal. From then on your hips didn’t stop — the roll back and forth on his hardened length had him whining into your neck, stopping every so often to regain his breath from the way you humped his clothed cock.
"Michael, please, need to feel you."
That was enough for him.
Michael was a gentlemen — and had been from the very moment you met him. But, right now, he had to fuck you like a greedy slut.
Michael picked you up quickly, wrapping your clothed legs around his waist and flailing you both to the floor, with a handle cradling your head to brace the fall.
He sat up on his knees, freeing himself quickly from his slacks and boxers, forcing them down his thighs swiftly. While doing so, you worked your way on the buttons of your blouse, fingers fumbling on each one as you shook in lust.
"Fuck this."
The profanity that left his gentle mouth had you gasping as he leant down to rip your blouse apart, buttons spraying across the room as your bouncing tits sprung free.
He didn’t stop there.
His hands, shoving your shirt further up your stomach, reached the crotch of your dark tights, before ripping a hole as wide as a basketball, revealing your soaked panties.
"Michael!—“ "Shut up — Need you, now. Can’t wait."
His bold, harsh words stung pathetically pleasureful in your chest as his nimble fingers pushed your panties to the side. They slid between your folds, gathering your slick on his digits, nudging your clit with each slide. You whined beneath him, a manicured hand reaching up to grasp his flexed biceps as he slid two fast working fingers inside your eager hole. Your back arched off the floor, head pounding as he worked you open.
"That’s it — give it to me."
His words only egged you on as they abused the spongy, sweet spot inside you, his thumb rubbing tight circles on your throbbing nub.
For the first time in years, or maybe even in your life, you were about to cum around a man’s hand.
"M-Micha—Michael, I’m gonna—I’m gon—"
"Cum for me, doll. Show me how much you need me."
The next twenty-three seconds had you reeling. You saw stars, your nails digging into his tensed arm as he worked you open — your first-time flowing juices oozing down his fingers as you squirmed and cried beneath him, sobbing into the air as your first real orgasm hit you full force.
Michael wasted no time lining his cock up to your quivering entrance after you came down — sucking your essence off his fingers before pressing the tip of his throbbing manhood into you.
You whined — the feeling of his cock forcing you open so perfectly had you huffing and whinging around him, your head falling back against the wooden floors.
"Lord — so fucking wet for me." Michael huffed, stuffing you full, inch by inch, too caught up in his own arousal to ease you open.
He bottomed out with a groan — head lolling forward into your neck, his hot breath against your chest perforated goosebumps over your skin. You were so full it rendered you speechless — his cock was much bigger than your husband’s, length and girth, forcing you further open than you’d ever been before.
His name left your lips like a chant as he moved with swiftness beyond belief — his hips snapping flush against you as he fucked into you like a slut on his Studio floor, which creaked and groaned beneath you. Michael lips remained hot and heavy on your skin, pressing kisses from your tensed collarbone to the sweetness of your mouth, as he pulled your legs around his waist, further up in the air so his cock angled deeper inside you.
With a cry he’d only ever imagined in his late night pleasures — Michael knew he was fucking you like you’d never felt before. The way you dragged your nails down his shoulders, ground your heels into his lower back to force him further into your tight cunt, and the way your noises refused to quieten — he was certain he was going to be the best you’d ever had.
His wife was nothing compared to you.
The way your pussy clenched and squelched around his twitching dick had him tightening his grip on your hair — his fingers tangling in the locks, tugging ever so slightly to make you whimper into his mouth.
"So close." You whined — mumbling against his lips, voice muffled from the feverish kiss he held you in, tongue swiping your lower lip to gain access to your filthy mouth.
You let him in — the hot muscle exploring your mouth, savouring the way you taste like spearmint gum and how you moaned even louder when muffled against him.
"You wanna cum for me again, baby?" Michael pressed, his pelvis rubbing so sweetly against your pulsating clit, "Let me feel it — let me feel you. Give me what you won’t give him — what he can’t make you do. Cum for me. Harder than he’s ever made you."
"He never has." You panted, eyes locking on his as your private confession hit his ears.
"O-Oh, Lord."
Michael’s broken prayer left his lips as his hips snapped into you a few more times — revelling in the way you admitted he’d made you feel better in one night than your husband ever has in two years. Whining as you came around him perfectly, legs tightening around his waist, before he spilled inside you himself. You both finished together — lips clattering together messily as you panted against one another.
As the climax fluttered to a stop — reality set in.
You, married, had just fucked your boss, also married.
Panic flooded your system. Instant, unwavering, unstoppable panic.
"Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God — what the fuck? What the fuck, Michael!" You exclaimed, instantly shimming him from inside you, your breath hitching at the loss of fullness as he sat upright on his knees, panting, "We just had sex."
Michael furrowed his eyebrows, catching his breath, "Baby, calm down—“
"Don’t call me that! I’m not your wife! Oh my God, you have a wife. And I have a husband."
You were rambling — blabbering panicked nonsense as you scrambled to grab your clothes, forcing your unusable blouse around your breasts spilling from your bra. You shoved your skirt down your front, covering the gaping hole in your tights and Michael’s cum dribbling down your thighs, as you slipped into your heels.
"Angel, wait!"
You didn’t stop for a second after half dressing yourself before flying out the Studio door — racing down the quiet, darkened hallway before he could catch you. Michael stood in the doorway, chest heaving, guilt threatened to creep up his spine as he watched you sprint away.
Guilt never came.
For either of you.
It bugged you.
The way you got home, tears streaming down your face as you crept up to bed, after tossing all of your besmerched clothes into the trashcan outside, and slithering into bed with your husband, who only turned the other way as you weighed down the bed, and the only thing you could feel was ecstasy.
Sure, you panicked at first — but even in your frantic rant, not one bone in your body felt guilt or remorse for your actions. Just pure shock at what you’d done after waiting so long for it.
You hated the way you slept next to your husband that night — clit throbbing lovingly after getting the attention it so desperately needed as Michael’s seed drooled out of you, soaking your panties.
That was where your affair with Michael Jackson started.
The next day, after your late-night rendezvous, Michael sought you out at work. You’d been hiding from him all day — trying to do as much as Quincy asked you before actually having to speak to Michael. But, he found you and cornered you.
"Michael, please, not here." You pleaded, eyes darting behind him as he backed you into the small corner of a hallway, "We can’t talk about this at work."
"So, we can have sex here, but not talk here?"
Your eyes shot open at his words, "Michael." You hissed, sending a shove to his chest which moved him nowhere.
Michael grabbed your hand that thumped his chest, eliciting a surprised gasp from your throat at the sudden contact, "I’m telling you now, I don’t feel sorry about what we did last night." Your mouth fell open at his words, eyes meeting his meaningful, but serious ones, "My marriage is…ruined beyond repair." He admitted, "I needed you. I still need you. And I think you need me. Please. Don’t give up on me just yet."
Words failed you initially, the seriousness and vulnerability of his words setting in, "M-Michael, I-I do need you, but.."
"But, what? Can’t we just be what we are?”
"We’re married, Michael. That won’t go away."
"I know, I know. Things like that take time — I know." He spoke, reaching up encase both of his hand around your own, "But, I also know you’re not happy." He admitted, "And after all these years, I make you happy, don’t I, sweetheart?"
Your aching heart throbbed lovingly at his words and glint of adoration in his eyes as he gazed down at you — your lips parted slowly, before you nodded your head.
Michael leant down, pressing a long, tender kiss to the back of your hand, then another to your fingers — missing the shaken breath that slipped past your lips.
"Let me continue to make you happy."
In that moment, words failed you. You swallowed thickly at his promise — nodding meekly, blushing at the way he pressed another affectionate kiss to your knuckles.
From that moment on, Michael was no longer your boss. To you, he felt like the husband you were deserved but never got. Expensive gifts would show up at your door for your birthday —Flowers before he took you to a private, secluded dinner — Late-night talking as you nestled against his chest after an evening of love-making. He truly felt like your man.
Until you went home — where you were met with your legal husband, who had never felt less connected to you in your whole marriage. You were distant, cold, snappy — wanting absolutely nothing to do with him. And, every night when you trudged home, sheathed in Michael’s cologne, hair a mess, clothes battered and a soreness between your legs — your husband knew what was going on.
"You’re fucking him, aren’t you?"
You jumped — you thought he was asleep. His gruff, exhausted voice hit your ears like a horn as you froze. You knew you weren’t even trying to hide your affair anymore — but, you didn’t expect him to confront you.
"No."
"Don’t lie to me."
You gulped, not daring to move a muscle as your back faced him — not brave enough to look him in the eye. Silence filled the room as you failed to answer him — that speaking more words than you ever could.
"Do you love him?" Yes.
The word hit your brain faster than you anticipated— feeling surprised by your own inner dialogue as you tensed again, sleep suddenly feeling like a foreign concept as you glared at the darkened wall.
"Go back to sleep, Daniel."
Your dismissive response gave him every answer you failed to give — Yes and yes. You both didn’t sleep that night, just listening to the silence and the occasional shuffle of the sheets as the ever reminding final factor swirled your brain.
Your marriage was over.
He knew it and you certainly knew it.
By the time your husband woke up that morning — you were gone. Clothes packed and divorce papers you’d had saved for months on the countertop.
You were finally saying goodbye to this chapter of your life.
Walking into work that day, giddy with excitement, finger free of a ring, you couldn’t hide the smile on your face. You knew the secrets and the lies would come to an end now you had decided to take the leap of faith and end things with your husband. You’re only reasoning? Michael had promised you that whenever you decided to leave him — he assured you, he would leave his wife.
So, when you called Michael late last night, shoving clothes into boxes and whispering your plan to be gone by the morning, with nothing but a sticky note attached to the divorce papers demanding he sign, he promised you he’d leave her that coming morning.
You heard Michael before you saw him — his sweet laughter filling your ears before you turned a corner, clutching your clipboard of To Do list’s to your chest, your heart fluttering at the sound of his voice.
This was the moment you wished you never took the job as a naive, money-hungry, selfish young adult.
Your heart, once skipping beats at the sound of Michael’s laughter, was now threatening to stop at the sight before you.
Michael stood, arms wrapped around his wife, a genuine smile on his face as he pressed kisses to her face — revelling as she giggled into him, hands sliding around his back, pulling him closer.
"Oh, honey, I love you." His words forced bile into your throat as he connected their lips — fluttering her eyes closed.
Michael, pressing his lips into hers, opened his eyes for a split second. His heart stopped, too, once he caught sight of you. Tears streaming down your face, a distraught expression plastered across it as you watched in horror. He knew you knew he had lied — he was never planning to leave his wife.
His giggling spouse pulled away from the kiss, looking up at catch his eyes, fixated on a figure behind her. You turned away before she could see your tear-streaked face, your hand coming up to wipe away the tears.
Michael caught sight of your bare finger — his chest on the verge of collapse as the realisation of his actions hit him.
"Who’s that?" His wife asked, furrowing her eyebrows.
He stared at you, your eyes meeting for the last time, speaking a thousand words, before you turned on your feet, back the way you came.
By the time Jaafar gets you upstairs, you’re basically attached to him. One arm around his neck.
The other holding absolutely nothing important.Your missing heel situation has still not been resolved. “Baby,” Jaafar laughs softly while unlocking the apartment, “where's your other shoe at?” You blink slowly. Then gasp. “Oh my days.”
“What?”
“I had two.” He starts laughing immediately. Like fully laughing now, shoulders shaking while you stare at him offended. “Y-you’re not helping.”
“You losin’ pieces of your outfit outside and I’m the problem?”
“You’re supposed to support me emotionally.”
“I am supportin’ you emotionally.”
“No, you’re bein’ mean.” Jaafar finally gets the door open and the second you step inside, you immediately grab onto him with both arms again, very clingy...He almost stumbles backward from the force of it. “Damn,” he laughs. “Missed me that bad?”
“Yes.” The answer comes so fast he actually pauses. Then his whole expression melts.
“Aw my sweet girl.” You shake your head against his chest dramatically. “Don’t leave.”
“I’m literally right here.”
“No but like…just don't.”Jaafar has to bite his lip to stop laughing again.You look up at him suddenly with wide sleepy eyes.“You’re so pretty.”
“Oh? am i?.” He Softly laughs. “No seriously.” Your hands squish his cheeks together. “Like stupid pretty. t-that's not okay.”
“Stupid pretty?” he says confused. “Mhm.” He kisses your forehead softly while you continue staring at him.
Drunk you was dangerously affectionate. And Jaafar loved every second of it. “You need water first,” he says gently.
“No! No.”
“You absolutely do.”
“Noooo,” you whine, following him into the kitchen attached to him. “Kiss me first.”
“Baby—”
“Pleaseeee.”Jaafar turns around immediately, smiling helplessly before kissing you softly. And immediately you kiss him back way too hard. Missing his mouth once because you’re laughing.
Jaafar laughs against your lips too, hands steadying your waist while you keep kissing him between giggles. “There she go,” he murmurs softly. “Shh..N-Nooo talking.”
“M’not talkin’.”
“You literally are.” You kiss him again before he can defend himself. And again, And again. Jaafar eventually starts laughing into your mouth because you genuinely won’t stop. “Baby,” he says breathlessly between kisses, “lemme breathe.”
“Nooo.”
“That’s so selfish.”
“You’reee mineee.” The way you say it almost visibly affects him. His smile softens instantly. “Yeah?” he murmurs quietly.
“Mmhmm.” You kiss the corner of his mouth this time, then his jaw, then somewhere near his cheek because your aim is questionable now. Jaafar’s holding your waist tighter now just to keep you standing. “You drunk-drunk,” he whispers affectionately. “I’m in love-love.”
“That too.” You bury your face dramatically into his neck afterward. And immediately start kissing there too. Little sleepy kisses all over his skin while Jaafar just stands there smiling like an idiot.
“Baby,” he laughs quietly, “what are you doing?”
“Lovin’ youuu.” That one hits him directly in the chest. You can tell too because suddenly Jaafar gets quieter. His hands slide warmly up your back while he presses one kiss into your hair. “My sweet girl.. you need some sleep,” he murmurs. You hum happily against his neck, still refusing to let go of him for even one second.
When he tries reaching for the water bottle again, you tighten your grip immediately. “No.”
“You holding me hostage now?”
“Yes.”
“That’s crazy.”
“You like it.” True..Very true, Jaafar finally gives up on pretending he needs space and just lifts you onto the kitchen counter instead. You immediately pull him closer again between your knees. “There,” you mumble proudly. “Now stay.”
“Yes ma’am.” You smile dreamily before kissing him again slower this time.
Still smiling into it. Jaafar kisses you back gently, one hand resting against your thigh while the other brushes hair away from your face.
And Oh Goodness-
he looks at you so softly when you’re like this. Like being loved by you is his favorite thing that’s ever happened to him. “You know what?” you whisper suddenly. “What?”
“I’d cry if you..cry.” Jaafar stares at you for one second. Then bursts into laughter so hard he nearly folds in half.“That’s your declaration of love?”
“It’s serious!” You stare. “Oh my baby..”
“You can’t cry.” You pout. “I’ll do my best.” You squint suspiciously. “Promise me.”
“I promise.” Satisfied, you nod once, Then immediately kiss him again because apparently that’s the solution to everything tonight.
Summary: Broadway's leading lady. The most famous man in the world. Three months of restraint, one jealous breakdown in the rain, and a midnight knock at the door. He's done being patient and you're done waiting.
Tags: 18+, possessive + jealous michael, he's a bit older, dangerous/history era, theatre setting, you are an actress in the 90s, michael is slightly avoidant and dramatic, but ever so sexy ;), he legit rips your panties rather than taking them off oop
Word Count: 11621
Author’s Note: request for @moonshadowsx, i hope this is ok for u. it got really long, i have been writing since 8 this morning and its now 7pm lmao. i loved exploring this world as i LOVE a streetcar named desire.
If you'd like more, send me an ask ;)
There was a stillness in the house tonight that wasn't the usual Tuesday vibe. Streetcar Named Desire always pulled a quieter audience than the musicals next door; people came to listen, and to fall deeply in love with Blanche and her unwinding madness.
It was your 108th show. Eighteen months on and off as Blanche Dubois in the infamous St James Theatre, performing rigidly through illness, mental anguish, family drama, and public scrutiny. Being a popular theatre actress had been a dream since childhood and you had gone on to achieve what you wanted. It was divine timing.
But as you finished Scene 8 in Act 3, something niggled in your stomach. You had a sickly feeling someone of enormous fame was watching, somewhere out there in the stalls.
You pushed it away. You owed Blanche every drop of yourself, eight times a week, regardless of who was sitting in the dark.
When the lights went down for the final time and you came off into the wings, Sandra was already there with the wet cloth for the back of your neck.
"Oh you little darling," you said. "I'm so peaky tonight."
"I wasn't going to say a thing. But I had briefly assumed it had something to do with our star-studded audience member sitting out there."
You froze.
"Who?"
She bit the inside of her cheek, holding back a smile. "Michael Jackson. Third row, centre. And it's his third night."
You stared at her. Heart thundering.
"Third night?"
"Third night, baby."
You let her walk you back to the dressing room without saying anything else, because you didn't want her to know how hard your hands had started shaking. You sat down in front of the mirror — the old, dirty NYC theatre mirror with the bulbs around it and lipstick stains from starlets long gone and pictures of your family tucked into the edges — and you tried to look unbothered.
You were a fan of his. He had just released Dangerous. He was at the crux of his fame, and you'd read his book in your twenties and looked up to him for years.
There was a knock at the door. James, the front-of-house manager, burst in.
"Y/N. A dashing performance, as per usual." He held out an envelope. Heavy cream paper, your full name on the front in beautiful handwriting. "Secret admirer. He said if you agree to the arrangement, you're to call his assistant."
You took it with shaking hands.
Sandra ushered James out. Then she ushered herself out too, with a knowing look over her shoulder.
You broke the wax seal.
Y/N,
Forgive me for writing to you like this. I am a very shy person off stage — quite the departure from the onstage persona, but I'm sure you can understand, being a performer yourself.
I have seen your show three nights in a row. The first night I came because I'd read about you in the NY Times. The second night I came because I didn't believe what I'd seen and needed to know if you could do it again. Tonight I came because I've realised you do it every night, and I haven't been able to stop thinking about you in between.
I would like to take you to dinner. Anywhere you want to go, whatever night you have free. If your answer is no, I won't write again and I won't come back to the theatre. The work is yours and I would never want to be the reason you were uncomfortable.
If your answer is yes, please call the number below.
With great care, Michael Jackson
You called the next morning, still in your pyjamas, coffee going cold beside the phone.
You'd rehearsed three opening lines and abandoned all of them by the time the line picked up. You just gave your name and said you were returning a call about a dinner. The assistant was warm and easy. He didn't make it weird. He asked what night you had free and whether you'd eaten at La Grenouille. You said Thursday. You said no. He said a car would come for you at the stage door at half past eleven. He said the driver's name was Frank.
You hung up and sat at the table for a long time, looking at the letter still folded on the kitchen counter where you'd read it again over breakfast. Twice.
₊˚°⊹˚
Thursday came around faster than you could prepare for.
You did the show in a strange, light-headed state. Blanche came out of you anyway, because muscle memory wouldn't be shaken by one dinner regardless of who was on the other side of it, but you walked off the stage feeling like you'd performed through gauze.
Sandra had your dark green silk dress laid out before you got there. She zipped you up and smoothed the back of your hair.
"You look beautiful, sweetheart."
"Sandra, I am really nervous."
"He'll love you. And if he doesn't, you have a really cool story for those fancy cocktail nights you go to."
She squeezed your shoulders once and pushed you toward the door.
₊˚°⊹˚
La Grenouille was on East 52nd. Frank had you there in twelve minutes.
You stepped out onto the pavement, into the kind of restaurant where Jackie Onassis used to lunch — low light, white tablecloths, an absurd quantity of fresh flowers. You knew the place by reputation. Only the rich rich dined here.
You stepped inside.
It was empty.
He had bought it out for the night.
Your stomach turned over once, slowly. What kind of mad person buys out a whole restaurant?
The maître d' walked you the length of the room to a table at the back, beneath an arrangement of roses you could have hidden behind. And sitting at the table, already standing as you approached —
Michael.
Dark trousers. White shirt, open at the collar. A black jacket cut close to his shoulders, a sparkly brooch on the lapel. His hair was tied back loosely, dark curly strands framing his face. He looked expensive but matter of fact. He looked nervous.
He looked at you like you'd walked into a room he had been waiting in for a long time.
"Hi," he said softly, with a cheeky grin.
"Hi."
He pulled your chair out himself. You sat. He sat opposite. He folded his hands on the white tablecloth and looked at you and didn't say anything for a beat too long.
Then —
"I wasn't sure you'd come."
"I wasn't sure I would either."
He laughed; small, sudden, more relieved than amused. It was a wonderful sound — soft and slightly cracked, like he hadn't laughed in a few days and his throat had to remember how.
You stayed at the restaurant until almost two in the morning.
He asked you about Blanche — he actually wanted to know. He told you the one moment in the second act, after the line "I don't want realism. I want magic," when your smile faded before the sentence was over. He said it genuinely moved him, the nuance in the performance. He said he'd been thinking about you for three days.
You stared at him.
"You're not like other men," you said.
He didn't do anything performative with the line. He didn't deflect. He just looked at you across the table with that quiet attention, like he already knew it.
"Good."
When Frank appeared at the door at quarter to two, Michael stood first, came around the table to pull your chair out, walked you to the car. He helped you into your coat. His hands lingered very briefly on your shoulders.
Outside, on the dark pavement, you turned to face him.
"Will you let me write to you again?" he asked quietly.
"Yes."
"Will you let me call you?"
"Yes, Michael." You laughed.
He nodded. He looked down at his shoes. Looked back up. He was nervous again, properly nervous, the calm of the dinner falling away now that the night was nearly over.
"Can I —" he started.
You didn't let him finish.
You stepped forward, reached up, and put your hand on the side of his jaw.
He stilled completely under your touch. His eyes went huge.
Then you kissed him.
It was meant to be a soft thing. A thank you for the evening thing. A see you soon thing.
It became something else within about two seconds.
His mouth was warm and he made a small sound against you — somewhere between a sigh and something raw — and then his hand was at the small of your back, gentle but very present, and he was kissing you back like he had been thinking about kissing you for the last three hours and could not quite believe he was being allowed to.
He broke the kiss first. Slowly. Like he didn't actually want to.
His forehead came to rest against yours. His breathing was uneven. So was yours.
"Get in the car," he said. "Before I ask you to come home with me."
So you got in the car.
You touched your lips with the back of your fingers as Frank pulled away from the kerb. You looked back through the rear window and saw him standing on the pavement outside La Grenouille with his hands in his jacket pockets, watching the car go.
You barely slept that night.
₊˚°⊹˚
That was three months ago.
Three months of him in your life now, properly. Three months of his handwriting on the envelopes that arrived at the stage door every 2 show day, without fail, never anything elaborate, just a card, a few lines, sometimes a pressed flower from wherever he was that week.
Three months of long phone calls at strange hours, because he was on the road and the time zones rarely lined up, and you would pick up the phone at one in the morning to hear his voice on the other end saying he was sorry, he was sorry, he should have called yesterday and the day got away from him.
You always told him to stop apologising. He always apologised anyway.
He came to New York whenever he could. He sent a car. The car always took you to somewhere thoughtful; a private dining room at a restaurant he'd remembered you mentioning, a quiet table at a hotel bar after your show, once to a small jazz club in Harlem where the owner had cleared the back room for the two of you and the band had played until three in the morning and Michael had held your hand under the table for the whole set.
He kissed you a great deal. He said he loved to kiss.
He kissed you in the back of cars and in the corridor outside your dressing room and once, memorably, on a fire escape in the Village at four in the morning when neither of you had wanted the night to end. His hands had been at the small of your back and in your hair and skimming the edge of your waist over your coat, and you had been pressed against the brick wall behind you with his mouth at the side of your throat, and you had genuinely thought — yes, tonight, here, in this freezing alley if it has to be —
And then he had pulled back. Pressed his forehead to yours. Breathed out slowly.
He had said not like this.
You hadn't known what to do with that, so you'd nodded, and he had walked you to your front door and kissed the back of your hand like a man from another century and gone home alone.
He had never once brought you back to his place. Wherever his place was in the city; a hotel suite, a friend's townhouse, you weren't entirely sure — he kept it separate. He took you out. He held you close in perfectly picked out places. He left you at your door.
You had asked him about it once, gently, you didn't want him to think it was a complaint. He had looked at you for a long time and then said — I've done this wrong before. I don't want to do it wrong with you.
You had not pushed the subject after that.
He was smarter than you had expected, and that was the thing that had made you fall for him more than anything else.
You'd known he was talented. Everyone knew that. You'd known he was an adorer of all things theatrical, — three nights at Streetcar had told you that before you'd ever spoken to him.
What you hadn't been ready for was how widely he read, how carefully he thought, how much he knew about your world specifically.
He knew theatre. Properly. Not the surface of it, not the famous productions and the names everyone could recognise; he knew Stanislavski and the Group Theatre and what Lee Strasberg had been doing in the basement of Carnegie Hall in 1948. He could tell you which production of Long Day's Journey Into Night he thought was the best one ever staged and why. He had opinions on Stoppard. He had read Mamet.
You had asked him, once, where he had learned all of this.
He had shrugged, a small private shrug, and said — I had a lot of time on tour buses when I was young. I read everything I could find.
You had been smitten before then. After that you had been quietly, comprehensively gone.
In April he flew you out to LA for a long weekend.
He was working on a short film for his new album. A piece for the History record — something elaborate, something cinematic, with a proper script and proper scenes that needed acting rather than performing. He told you over the phone that he was nervous about it. He told you he didn't quite trust his own ear for the dialogue. He asked you, very tentatively, if you would mind sitting with him for a few hours and helping him run the lines.
You had said yes before he had even finished asking.
He sent a car for you at JFK and you flew first class and Frank; Frank was apparently a permanent fixture in your life now, kind, quiet and secretly very funny. He picked you up at LAX and drove you to a house in the hills you had never been to before, and you understood, by the way he stopped the car a respectful distance from the front door, that this was where Michael lived.
He came out of the front door before you had got out of the car.
You had not seen him in three weeks. He was in a soft white t-shirt and dark trousers and his hair was loose and he looked, in the late afternoon California light, like a slightly different version of the man you had been spending time with in the cold city. More relaxed. More at home in his own skin.
He held you on the gravel drive for a long minute without saying anything, cradling your head in his hands.
You spent two days running his lines for him.
You sat on the floor of a sun-filled living room, grand piano and all with the script between you. You ran scenes. You pushed back on line readings. You asked him what his director had said about a particular beat and then told him gently that you disagreed. He listened. He took notes.
He made you cups of tea and brought them over without spilling a drop. He asked you, at one point, what your second year movement teacher at Juilliard would have said about the way he was holding his shoulders in a particular scene, and you laughed so hard you had to put the script down. He was filming some sort of horror short and he was taking it entirely too seriously.
He kissed you on the sofa in the late afternoon of the first day and you spent an hour there together, just kissing, his hand under the back of your shirt, hovering on your bra clasp, the script forgotten on the coffee table. He stopped before it could go anywhere. He always stopped. You were starting to understand it as a kind of devotion; a careful patience — even though you privately wished, more and more, that he would stop being so careful with you.
He drove you back to the airport on Monday morning himself. No Frank. Just him in a car he kept in the garage, with the windows down and the radio low and massive sunglasses on his face, so he wouldn't be recognised.
At the curb of the airport drop off, he kissed you politely on the side of your face and told you he would call you that night.
He did. And the night after. And the night after that.
You came back to New York and back to Blanche and back to the eight shows a week.
You felt — for the first time in a long time; like a person whose life had a bit of excitement outside work in it. A private part. A warm element.
Your relationship with michael was like a room with the door closed that nobody else got to see inside.
You had no idea you were about to walk into the worst of it.
₊˚°⊹˚
You had been nominated.
You had received the call on a Tuesday morning from your agent and you had sat down on the floor of your kitchen and cried, properly, the way you had not cried in a long time. Best Actress in a Play. A Streetcar Named Desire. Your second Broadway nomination and your first in a lead role.
Michael had been the third person you'd called. He had gotten very emotional on the phone. You couldn't really tell if he was crying or not. He had said I knew it, I knew it, I knew it about six times in a row.
The luncheon was at the Rainbow Room. Three weeks after the nomination. The whole industry would be there. He was flying in from LA the night before to come with you. He had asked you, very seriously, if you were sure you wanted him there. He had said he didn't want to be the story and would be very happy to wait at the hotel and meet you afterward if you would prefer.
You had told him you wanted him with you. You wanted to become public and let the world know that you were fully, incomprehensibly in love with him. But you had to tell him this first, and you had no clue how to say it out loud.
You had also told him, more carefully, that Daniel was going to be there and would be a large fixture within the day.
Daniel.
Your co-star. Your Stanley. The man who had been pawing at you and breaking you down and dragging you across a stage for fourteen weeks of the run, eight shows a week. A wonderful actor and a carefree socialite with a great career ahead of him, who had never, in all the time you had worked together, ever made you feel uncomfortable for a single second.
He had been nominated too. Best Actor. The two of you had done press together for the nominations. You had hugged him on stage at the press call and the photograph had gone everywhere — Streetcar leads embrace after Tony nods.
You never really brought up Daniel to Michael, because you assumed he knew: it was all business.
He had been excited about the event and he had been excited for you. The morning of the luncheon you had got ready in your apartment and he had arrived to collect you in a dark suit with a flower in his pocket and he had told you, quietly, that you looked extraordinary.
₊˚°⊹˚
The Rainbow Room was at the top of 30 Rock and it was a beautiful, slightly absurd venue for a lunch.
You had been there once before, briefly, for some industry thing. You had not been there as a nominee. You had not been there with a date, never mind an international heart throb.
Everything had been fine on the lead up, until your agency in collaboration with the production team of Streetcar, threw a hefty stick of dynamite your way that changed the tone of what would play out.
The call was quick, snappy, almost 2 days before the event.
It had been Greg, your producer. Greg who you trusted. Greg who said the words darling, listen, this is a wonderful opportunity in a tone of voice that made your stomach drop.
"The studio had a thought"
You rolled your eyes, you already knew. Daniel was single. You were nominated together.
"The press already loved the photograph of the two of you embracing. The buzz around the production was good but it could be great — and the Tonys were only 3 weeks away, and a little bit of fanfare around the two leads going into the awards could move the needle on a Best Revival nod for the production itself.
Would you consider going to the luncheon together?
Just as professional dates. Just for the photographs."
You had stared at your kitchen wall for a long moment.
You had said "Greg, I'm seeing someone."
He had said "I know, darling, and I would never ask you to do anything you weren't comfortable with. But it's one event. It's a few hours. The story writes itself for the morning papers and then it's done."
You had said you would think about it.
You had thought about it.
You had said yes, eventually, because Greg had been good to you and because the production deserved the boost and because Daniel had been a generous co-star for fourteen weeks and you wanted him to win Best Actor.
And because — and this was the part you hadn't quite admitted to yourself — you and Michael had not yet had the conversation about what you were to each other. Not properly. He had not asked you to be anything specific. He had kissed you on fire escapes and held you on his sofa in LA and told you he didn't want to do it wrong with you, and that had been wonderful and patient and lovely, but it had also left a great deal in the room undefined.
You did not have a boyfriend.
You had Michael, and Michael had you, and neither of you had said the word yet.
So you said yes to Greg.
And you called Michael that night.
You told him on the phone.
You told him exactly what Greg had said, exactly, and what it was and exactly what it wasn't. You told him it was for the production. You told him it was photographs and a luncheon and two hours and then it was done. You thought he'd know these things, coming from the industry himself.
You said "Michael, I would still very much like you to come. I want you there. I want you there with me. We can arrive separately and you can sit at the table with my agent and I think Sandra is going, and it will all be fine. People can finally see us in public together"
There was a very long silence on the other end of the line.
Then he said very quietly, evenly — "of course. Whatever you need."
"are you sure?"
"I'm sure. I want to be there for you."
"Michael."
"Honestly. I am fine with it. Get some sleep."
He hung up before you could say anything else.
You sat on your bedroom floor for a long time with the phone in your lap.
You had known him for three months. You had been on enough phone calls with him to know what every register of his voice meant. The voice he had used to say I'm fine had not been fine.
You wanted to call him back. You knew that calling him back would make it worse.
So you didn't.
He arrived at your apartment in a dark suit with a flower in his pocket and he kissed your temple and told you you looked extraordinary, and you held onto him for a beat longer than you meant to in the hallway, and he stroked the back of your hair and didn't say anything further about it. One of his spare drivers would take you, separately and you'd meet up.
You hoped deep down that you'd be able to juggle responsibility and still introduce Michael to your industry friends and just… have a good time.
₊˚°⊹˚
Daniel was waiting at the entrance to the Rainbow Room.
He looked good. He always looked good. He was thirty six years old and had perfect bone structure, and that was basically what had got him cast as Stanley in the first place. Broad through the shoulders, slightly rough at the edges, the kind of handsome that worked better in person on stage, rather than in the movies.
He was wearing a navy suit and his hair was pushed back from his forehead and he was grinning at you, wiggling his eyebrows at the presence of a man; of Michael, as you came across the marble floor toward him.
You felt Michael's hand drop from the small of your back about three feet before you reached the door.
He had peeled off to find his seat. You had not seen him do it. You realised it in the second after it had happened and your stomach churned with anxiety.
Daniel reached for you.
You let him. He kissed your cheek and held both of your hands and looked at you the way Daniel always looked at you when there was a camera nearby — a little too warm, a little too proud, a little too here she is — and the photographers on the press line started flashing immediately.
"There she is," Daniel said, loud enough for them to hear. "There's my Blanche."
You inwardly grimaced at the use of that statement.
"There's my Stanley," you said, because the script of these things wrote itself.
He kept hold of one of your hands. He drew you in toward the press line. The flashes started in earnest now — the proper, blinding, sustained kind that you only got at events like this, when you were the photograph the photographers had been told to get.
Daniel was wonderful at it. He had grown up on a soap opera, multi camera, before he had moved to the theatre. He knew exactly how to angle his body, exactly when to laugh, exactly when to lean in toward you and say something private into your ear that the cameras would read as intimacy. His hand was at the small of your back now, creeping toward your backside, where Michael's had been not ten minutes ago. It was lower than it needed to be, and you knew; you just knew, professionally, that this was the kind of touch that sold a photograph. The only kind, really.
You forced a smiled at the photographers.
You let him put his arm around your shoulders for a posed shot. You let him kiss the side of your head for another. When one of the photographers called out give her a proper one, Danny, come on, Daniel laughed and ducked his head and kissed you on the cheek, very close to the corner of your mouth, and held it for a beat too long, and the flashes went off so brightly you saw spots for thirty seconds afterward.
When you finally got past the press line, when Daniel finally released you to go and stand with his own publicist, you turned around to look for Michael.
He was at the table. He was already sitting down. His back was to you.
You crossed the room.
You made your way to the table with your stage smile on, greeting the people who stopped you, accepting congratulations on the nomination, kissing cheeks. You had done this a hundred times. You could do it on autopilot.
Michael stood up to pull your chair out for you. He did it without even thinking, a true gentleman. Courteous attention; that had been one of the first things you had ever loved about him. He smiled at you; small, warm, a little bit out of control — and helped you into your chair.
He didn't say anything.
You knew, by the angle of his jaw and the jittery mess of his hands, and the way he had not yet looked at you since you had sat down, that something was really wrong.
"Michael," you said quietly.
"Mm."
"Are you alright?"
He turned to look at you. He smiled. It did not reach his eyes.
"I'm fine, these things make me really anxious."
He turned back to the table, and politely asked Bill to hand him the salt.
You felt your stomach drop as you saw Daniel approach the table.
He was being a good sport about the whole scenario, was the thing. However, he had no idea what was happening, he had no idea Michael was anything other than a friend who had come with you for moral support, because the production had not told him anything different and you certainly hadn't. He was laying on the charm; and thick.
He shook Michael's hand.
He said it was an honour.
He said
"thank you for coming to support my girl " — and he meant it warmly, he meant it in the goofy way, the way an older brother might tease; but you watched Michael's hand tighten very briefly on his napkin under the table.
Michael smiled at him.
"My pleasure," Michael said. "She's spoken highly of you. I've been looking forward to meet the man behind the Stanley."
Daniel laughed. Clapped Michael on the shoulder.
You saw Michael flinch very faintly under the contact.
Daniel went back to his own table.
You turned to Michael.
"Michael —"
"I said I don't really want to talk about it. Let's just eat lunch and get through this."
His voice was perfectly even. He still wasn't looking at you.
You started to overthink; maybe it was a mistake to bring him here? Maybe he wasn't ready to commit to someone? Show the world that you were his?
You chewed the inside of your lip, totally catastrophising the situation. When your eyes flickered up, Sandra gave you a woeful look.
Everyone could sense the tense energy.
It got worse during the speeches.
The production's publicist had clearly briefed Daniel. He truly was a sweet man with no malice in him at all, but he was also an actor, and when he was given a brief he ran with it.
During the cocktail portion of the afternoon, while you were trying to talk to Greg, Daniel kept appearing at your elbow. He kept putting his hand on the small of your back. He kept laughing at things you said and tipping his head back the way the photographs liked.
The photographers loved it. They were getting their story. You could see the headlines already Streetcar leads electric at Tonys luncheon, sources say more than chemistry between the stars than even the characters themselves.
You simply could not get back to the table. Back to him.
Every time you tried, somebody stopped you. A nominator. A producer. An old friend. They wanted to congratulate you. They wanted a photograph. They wanted to introduce you to someone.
You looked over at the table.
He had not moved. He was talking politely to Sandra, who had been seated next to him as a buffer and a familiar face, and Sandra was watching you across the room with a look on her face you knew very well. The Sandra look that said I see what is happening and I am keeping him calm but you need to get over here.
His security detail was intimidating enough that no other guests approached the table. He must have been jealous, and feeling rather left out. Regret started rushing through your body.
You tried.
You really did.
You were two feet from the table when Daniel caught your elbow.
"Photographer wants one more by the window," he said cheerfully. "Light's perfect. Five minutes, darling."
He looped his arm through yours.
You looked toward the table. Michael was watching now. He had turned his head slightly. He was looking at Daniel's arm through yours.
His face was completely blank.
You felt sick.
"Daniel," you said quietly. "I really need to —"
"Five minutes, darling. Greg's orders."
He was already steering you away.
You looked back over your shoulder. Michael was standing up. He was buttoning his jacket with those gorgeous hands. He was saying something to Sandra. Sandra was reaching for his arm. He was shaking his head, gently, and stepping past her. His security entourage followed.
He walked toward the door at the back of the room.
He did not look at you on his way out.
You stood frozen by the window with Daniel's arm through yours and a photographer asking you to look this way please, miss, just one more, and you felt every part of your heart slowly shatter. How could you have let this get so screwed up?
You don't remember making the decision to run, your brain was in complete overdrive.
And then you were moving.
You pulled your arm out of Daniel's so abruptly that he stumbled half a step.
"Darling, wait —"
"I'll be back."
"Greg said —"
"Tell Greg I'll be back."
You were already walking. Half walking. Mostly running, by the time you got to the door — and you did not care, in that moment, that you were a Tony nominee in a designer dress and heels who had just abandoned her co-star in front of half the New York theatre press. You did not care about a single one of them.
You shoved the door open.
You were in a service corridor. White walls, fluorescent strip lights, a janitor's trolley parked against one wall. The sound of the luncheon dimmed behind you the second the door swung shut.
You ran.
You did not know where he had gone. You followed the corridor on instinct — the instinct that came from years of touring theatres and knowing how back of house corridors worked. Service routes always led to service exits. Famous people who didn't want to be seen always went out the back.
You took a left.
Then a right.
You came down a flight of metal stairs in your heels too fast and almost went over, caught yourself on the railing, kept going.
You burst out of a fire door onto a loading dock and the rain hit you like someone had thrown a bucket.
It was coming down hard. It had not been raining when you'd arrived — the sky had been overcast but holding — and apparently in the last hour the weather had broken properly and now it was the kind of New York summer downpour that turned the city's gutters into rivers.
You saw him immediately.
He was at the bottom of the loading dock ramp, in the alley. Bill was beside him. There was a black car pulling up at the kerb. Michael was already moving toward it.
"Michael!"
He stopped.
He didn't turn around. Not at first. He stopped in the middle of the alley with the rain coming down on him, and his shoulders went up slightly, and then very slowly he turned to face you.
He looked at you across the alley.
You came down the loading dock ramp. Your shoes had no grip. The rain was already in your eyes. You could feel your hair flattening against your scalp and your makeup running and you did not care. Heart hammering in your chest.
You crossed the alley.
Bill stepped back slightly, gave the two of you a space, and then slid into the back of the black car.
You stopped in front of Michael.
He was soaked through already. His suit was ruined. His hair had come loose where he had been pulling at it and was sticking to the side of his face. He was looking at you with an expression you had never seen on him — not anger exactly, but something much rougher than anything he had shown you in three months.
"Michael —"
"Go back inside Y/N."
"What?"
"Go back inside. They're going to be looking for you."
"I don't care."
"Yes you do."
"Michael, I don't —"
"You should." His voice cracked very slightly.
He looked away from you, down the alley. "You should care. That's the whole point of today. That's the whole point of life, to care. You've worked your butt off for this and you should be in there right now with your co star, smiling for the cameras, and not out here in the rain ruining your dress."
"I'd rather be out here with you."
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't say things like that." He was still not looking at you. His jaw was working. "Don't make this harder than it has to be."
You felt something shift very coldly in your chest.
"Make what harder?"
He looked at you.
The rain was running down his face. His eyes were wet and you could not tell, in that downpour, whether any of it was tears or whether it was all just water, and you understood, in a slow terrible way, that it didn't matter.
"I shouldn't be here," he said.
"What?"
"Today. This. I shouldn't be here. I knew it when you called me on Tuesday and I came anyway because I'm — " he stopped, gathered himself. "Because I'm selfish. Because I wanted to be near you. But I should not be here."
"Michael, what are you talking about?"
"You're at the start of something." He gestured vaguely toward the building behind you. The rain was coming off his sleeve in a sheet. "You're at the beginning. You've built this on your own. You've done everything right. You've got reviews and a nomination and a co star who looks like that; touches you hungrily, and a publicist who knows exactly how to position you. And I am — "
His voice cracked properly this time.
"I am not a good thing to attach yourself to right now."
You stared at him.
"What are you saying?"
"You know what they say about me."
"Michael. You can't seriously be doing this to me right now."
"You know what they print. You know what the papers do. You know what they were doing last summer. They are not done with me. They are not going to be done with me for a long time, and you do not deserve to be standing next to that. You do not deserve the questions. You do not deserve some journalist asking you in the middle of an interview what you think about — " he stopped dead, pressing the heel of his hand to his eye.
"You don't deserve any of it. You deserve someone better. You deserve someone proud to be with you in public, and I don't know if that can be me right now."
The last few words were like a butcher knife carefully plunged straight through your heart.
"I knew this was too good to be true. That you'd be like every other celebrity - underneath all the exquisite fame and fortune - cold and unbothered." You seethed.
"I don't even know why I trusted you. I fell for you Michael, invite you out here to show you off because I was proud and you pull this?"
You pushed the wet hair from your face, the rain still pouring down heavy. "How very cliche of you."
He didn't flinch.
He looked at you for a long moment with the rain coming off his face, and you watched something in him settle into a shape you had not seen before. Not anger. Not defensiveness. Something more depressing. Something that had been sitting in him for a long time, maybe his whole life, and had just been waiting for the right night to come out.
"Y/N."
He said your name like it was the last time he was going to.
"Look at me."
You were looking at him. You did not understand what he meant.
"No," he said softly. "Look at me. Look at me."
You looked.
You looked at his ruined suit and his soaked hair and the rain running off his jaw, and you looked at his eyes, and you looked at the way he was holding himself — slightly hunched, slightly small, like a man who was trying to take up less space than his body actually took up.
"You see me. Right?"
"Michael —"
"You see what I am. The papers tear me apart. The hair. My face. The —" he gestured at himself, vaguely, the whole of him — "everything. You see it."
"I see you. the real you."
"Yeah." A small, sad smile. "But you see all that too. You have to. Everybody does."
"Michael, what are you doing."
"I'm trying to be honest with you. For once. I've been — I have been pretending for three months that this could work, and I came here today and I sat at that table and I watched you walk around with him and I watched the way the room moved for the two of you, and I understood something I should have understood a long time ago."
"Don't."
"You're going to leave me eventually."
"Michael —"
"You are. You're going to. Maybe not this year. Maybe not the year after that. But you are going to wake up one morning next to me and you are going to look at me and you are going to realise that you could have had — " he stopped. Swallowed. "I want you to have the easy version. You could have had the man who walks into a room with you and the room doesn't make up a crazy tabloid rumour about you. You could have had the man who can take you to your own award show without ducking out the back."
"Michael — stop —"
"I'd rather you leave now."
You felt the bottom drop out of your stomach.
"What?"
"I can't do this again. I can't be the thing that gets left."
"Michael, please look at me — "
"Go back inside."
"Michael — "
"Go back inside. Please."
You reached for him.
He stepped back.
It was the worst thing he had done to you yet. He stepped back from you, further out of the alley, and you watched his hands come up between you like a barrier. You understood that he had decided this and that you were not going to be able to talk him out of it.
"I am asking you," he said quietly. "I am asking you please to let me go"
You could not speak.
"Please."
You could not speak.
you stood in front of him with your mouth open and nothing coming out — he nodded once, very slowly, like you had answered him.
"Take care of yourself."
He turned around.
He walked to the car. Bill was holding the door. Michael got in without looking back at you. The door slammed shut, the rain still plummeting down, bouncing off the black sidewalk.
The car pulled away and turned left at the end of the alley and disappeared into the wet smear of traffic on the avenue.
₊˚°⊹˚
You don't remember the cab ride home.
You don't remember Sandra getting you into your building or up the stairs or through your front door. You don't remember her running you a bath or peeling the ruined dress off you or wrapping you in your dressing gown. You remember pieces of it. You remember her hands at the zip and her voice somewhere above you saying baby, baby, baby in the soft repetitive way she said it when she didn't know what else to say.
You'd asked her to leave eventually.
She had not wanted to. She had stood in your doorway in her own coat with her own hair still damp and looked at you for a long time, and you had told her, quietly, that you needed to be by yourself. You had told her you would call her in the morning.
That had been an hour ago. Or two. Or six. You weren't sure.
You were sitting on the floor of your bedroom.
You did not know why you were on the floor. You had walked in here to find a hairbrush and you had sat down with your back against the foot of the bed and you had not got up again. Your body could not manage any task, for the thought of him completely disabled you.
Your dressing gown was loose at the front and your hair was still wet and there was a small dark patch on the rug where your hair was dripping, and you watched the patch grow without doing anything about it.
You kept replaying it.
The alley. The rain. The way he had stepped back from you when you reached for him. The red brake lights at the end of the alley.
You kept replaying the wrong parts of it.
You should have grabbed him. You should have grabbed him by the lapels of his ruined jacket and pulled him into you and told him every single thing you had been too composed to say for three months. You should have told him, in the alley, in the rain, in front of Bill — you should have told him that you were in love with him. You should have told him you had known it since the night on the fire escape in the Village. You should have told him that you didn't care about the papers. You should have told him you would walk into any room in the world with him as long as he was the one walking in with you.
You had stood there with your mouth open like an idiot and you had let him decide for both of you, and now he was somewhere in the city — a hotel, a friend's apartment, a car going to the airport, you had no idea — and you had no way of reaching him because you had never been to his place and you didn't even have a number for him that wasn't Wayne's, and Wayne was not going to put you through tonight, you knew that, Wayne was going to be polite and protective and very firm, just as an assistant should be.
You had let him go.
You had let him go and you had not even fought for him properly, and now he was alone and he thought he was right and he thought he had done you a favour.
The worst part was that he had been wrong about everything.
You did not want the easy version. You had never wanted the easy version. You had spent fourteen weeks playing a woman who had been destroyed by the easy version, by the man who looked right on paper, by the brother in law who fit into the family photograph — and you had walked off that stage every night and gone home to phone calls with a man who blissfully did not fit anywhere, who was complicated and strange and famous and shy and clever and gentle and could not eat lunch in a restaurant without buying it out first, and that was the man you had wanted. That was the man you had been falling in love with. The complication had never been the problem. The complication had been the point.
He didn't know because you had never told him. You had spent three months letting him think he was a luxury you were graciously accommodating in your otherwise clean and uncomplicated career, and now he had decided to remove himself from your life as a kindness, and you were sitting on the floor of your bedroom realising you had loved him for at least eight weeks of those three months and had not said a single word.
You had been so careful. You had been so good and so professional and so grown up about the whole thing. You had not wanted to scare him. You had not wanted to push. You had wanted to be the woman who held back, who let him set the pace, who was patient and understanding about his patience.
You wished, now, that you had been someone completely different.
You wished you had been the kind of woman who, on the fire escape in the Village at four in the morning, had said yes, like this, exactly like this, please don't stop. Take me right here and now.
You wished you had told him, on the sofa in his house in the hills that you would burn your career to the ground for him if he asked you to. You wished you had said it like that, exactly, in those words. You wished you had been melodramatic and naked and unreasonable and thirty three years old, the way you had every right to be. You wished you had been less of a professional.
You wished you had told him you were in love with him.
You wished —
There was a knock at the door.
You froze.
You looked toward the bedroom doorway. The apartment was dark beyond it — you had not bothered to turn any lamps on after Sandra had left — and the only light was the spill from your bedside lamp pooling at your feet on the rug.
It was past midnight.
It might be Sandra. She might have come back. She might have decided not to leave you alone tonight after all.
The knock came again.
Not Sandra's knock. Hers — three quick taps, businesslike, the same knock she used at your dressing room door. This was different. This was harder. This was the knock of a person who had been standing on the other side of a door for a long time trying to work up to it.
You got off the floor.
You did not breathe properly. You walked through your dark apartment in your bare feet with your damp hair sticking to your neck and your dressing gown loose around you, and you reached the door, and you put your hand on the latch.
You did not look through the peephole.
You opened the door.
Michael was standing in the corridor.
He didn't speak. For a long moment, he just stood there in the dim light of the corridor, his chest rising and falling with ragged breaths, rainwater still gleaming on his skin. The silence between you was a live wire, humming with everything that had been said and everything that hadn't.
Then he moved.
It wasn't a slow movement. It wasn't gentle or hesitant. It was a sudden, decisive lunge, as if he'd been holding himself back by a thread and the thread had snapped. His hands came up, not to push you away this time, but to seize you.
One hand clamped around your upper arm, the other went to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your damp hair. He pulled you into him with a force that knocked the air from your lungs.
His mouth came down on yours.
He kissed you like a man trying to undo his own decision. There was no softness, no exploration. It was hard and desperate and wet with rain and something saltier—tears, maybe his, maybe yours, you couldn't tell.
He kissed you like he was drowning and your mouth was air. He kissed you like he was trying to erase the alley, the last hour, the last three months of careful distance. His tongue pushed past your lips, rough and demanding, and you gasped into him, your hands flying up to clutch at his soaked shirt.
He broke the kiss only to breathe, his forehead pressed to yours, his eyes screwed shut.
"We drove eight blocks," he rasped, the words torn from somewhere deep in his chest. "and then I told Frank to turn around. I told him to bring me back here. I sat in the car downstairs for hours mulling over what I said to you. How unfair and jealous I was..."
You tried to speak, but he shook his head, a sharp, frantic motion.
"Don't," he said. "Don't say anything. If you say anything reasonable, if you tell me to go, I will. I'll go. So don't."
He kissed you again, swallowing any response you might have made. This time, his hands began to move. The hand on your arm slid down, over the slippery silk of your dressing gown, finding the tie at your waist.
He fumbled with it, his fingers clumsy with urgency, and when the knot gave way, he shoved the fabric apart. The gown fell open. The cool air of the corridor hit your bare skin underneath—you had nothing on but your panties.
A low, guttural sound vibrated from his throat into your mouth.
He pushed you backward, into your apartment, kicking the door shut behind him with a heavy thud that echoed in the dark space. He didn't turn on a light. He just walked you back, his mouth still devouring yours, until your shoulders hit the wall beside the entryway table. The impact made a frame rattle.
He tore his mouth from yours, his breath scorching hot against your cheek. "I tried," he whispered, almost to himself. "I tried to be the good one. I tried to let you go. I can't. I can't do it. Even if this life is complicated"
His hands were everywhere. One palm slid up your ribcage, rough and warm, and closed over your breast, his thumb sweeping over your nipple in a circle that made you arch off the wall with a sharp cry.
He bent his head, his mouth leaving a trail of wet, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw, your throat, the hollow of your collarbone. When he took your nipple into his mouth, biting it slightly, you cried out again, your fingers digging into his shoulders.
"Michael—"
"You said my name in the alley like that," he muttered against your skin, his teeth grazing the peak. "I like the way it sounds coming out of your mouth."
He straightened, his eyes blazing in the near-darkness. With a sudden, shocking strength, he turned you around, pressing your front against the wall. His body covered yours from behind, lean and hard and trembling. You felt the rigid line of his erection through his trousers, pressed against the curve of your ass. He groaned, a raw, pained sound, and ground himself against you once, twice, a slow, deliberate friction that had you pushing back against him, seeking more.
One of his hands splayed across your stomach, holding you to him. The other went to your hip, his fingers hooking into the lace of your panties. He didn't peel them down. He ripped them.
The sound of tearing lace was obscenely loud, and then the scrap of fabric was gone, falling to the floor at your feet. The cool air hit your exposed skin, followed immediately by the scorching heat of his palm cupping you from behind, his fingers sliding through your wetness with a rough, exploring stroke.
"Fuck," he breathed into your ear, his voice shattered. "You're so wet. You're so wet for me. Even after— even after what I said."
You were beyond words. You could only press your forehead against the cool plaster of the wall and whimper as his fingers found your clit, circling it with a pressure that was just shy of painful, perfect, maddening. He worked you like that for a minute, his breath coming in harsh gusts against your neck, his body a tense, vibrating line against your back. Then his fingers slid lower, pushing inside you, two of them, curling upward. You cried out, your knees buckling. He held you up easily, his arm like an iron band around your waist.
"I thought about this," he whispered, his lips moving against the shell of your ear. "In the car. I thought about having you like this. Against a wall. On the floor. In my bed. I thought about how you'd feel. How you'd sound."
He added a third finger, stretching you, and you moaned, long and low, the sound torn from somewhere deep in your belly. He fucked you with his hand, his pace relentless. You were climbing fast, too fast, the sensation in your abdomen tightening to a breaking point.
"Not yet," he commanded, his voice rough. He withdrew his fingers suddenly, leaving you empty and gasping. He turned you around again to face him. In the faint light from the streetlamp filtering through the blinds, you could see his face clearly for the first time.
His eyes were wild, dark pools of hunger and anguish.
His lips were swollen from kissing. Rain and sweat had plastered his dark hair to his forehead. He looked at you, his gaze dropping to your bare body, to where his own hand had just been. His expression was one of ravenous, almost frightening need.
"I need to taste you," he said, the words simple and devastating.
He sank to his knees on your hallway floor. You swayed, your hands coming to rest on his shoulders for balance. He didn't give you time to process it. His hands gripped the backs of your thighs, pulling you toward him, and then his mouth was on you.
The first flat stroke of his tongue made you seethe. How could he have kept this side of himself from you?
It was hot and wet and impossibly intimate. He didn't start slow. He dove in as if he'd been starving for it, his tongue laving broad, firm stripes through your folds before zeroing in on your clit. He sucked it into his mouth, applying a steady, rhythmic pressure that had your legs shaking.
His nose bumped against you, his breath hot. One of his hands left your thigh to slide back inside you, his fingers pumping in time with the suck of his mouth.
The dual sensation was overwhelming. Pleasure, sharp and bright, ripped through you, building with terrifying speed.
You looked down. In the dim light, you could see the pale, beautiful patterns on his neck and chest, the patches of vitiligo stark against his skin where his shirt had come open — a constellation of light on dark that made him seem otherworldly, a creature of myth on his knees for you.
The sight of it, the sheer vulnerability of him in this position combined with the aggressive, consuming way he was devouring you, sent a fresh, violent wave of heat through your core.
"Michael, I'm— I'm going to—" you choked out.
He hummed against you, the vibration tipping you over the edge. Your orgasm crashed into you, a silent, seizing wave that tore a ragged scream from your throat. You bucked against his mouth, but he held you firm, his tongue working you through the convulsions until you were limp and shuddering, your fingers clenched in his hair.
He didn't stop. As the last pulses faded, he gentled his mouth, licking you softly, cleaning you with a tenderness that was at odds with the frenzy of moments before. Then he rose, his movements fluid. His face was glistening with you. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes never leaving yours.
"Why the hell did you not do this to me that night in the village?" You asked, completely out of breath.
He was breathing hard. His hands went to his own clothes.
"Honestly, I didn't know if I had it in me or that you were the one for me. Clearly I do and you are" He said darkly. "So I am doing this now, because I know I need you. Be mine. Properly. No more hiding."
He ripped his tie off and tossed it aside. Your breath caught at his words, at the weight of them, at the way he said them like a man who had spent the entire car ride back here deciding.
His fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, and in his impatience, a few popped off, pinging against the floor.
He shoved the shirt off his shoulders, letting it fall. Then his belt buckle clanged, his zipper hissed, and he pushed his trousers and boxers down in one rough shove.
You saw his body fully for the first time.
He was wiry, all lean muscle and long lines, just as you'd imagined. His shoulders were narrow but defined, his chest smooth, his stomach flat. A dark trail of hair leading down the way. The vitiligo you had glimpsed earlier extended further than you had realised, sprawling across his ribs and down one hip, the contrast making him look pieced together from moonlight and shadow.
He was painfully erect, his cock standing thick and hard, the tip flushed and wet.
He was the most breathtaking thing you had ever seen.
He closed the distance between you in one stride. "I need to be inside you," he said, the words a raw scrape of sound. "Now. I can't wait. I can't be gentle."
"I don't want gentle," you breathed.
A shudder ran through him. He lifted you as if you weighed nothing, his hands under your thighs, and you wrapped your legs around his narrow waist.
He carried you like that, through the dark living room, into your bedroom. He didn't lay you on the bed. He laid you on the rug, the same rug you'd been sitting on earlier, the one with the damp patch from your hair. He came down over you, bracing himself on his arms, his body caged between your legs.
He positioned himself at your entrance, the broad head of his cock nudging against you, and he paused, his eyes searching yours in the lamplight. For a second, the shy, hesitant man was there, flickering in the depths of his gaze.
"Tell me to stop," he whispered, agony in his voice. "If you want me to stop, tell me now." You reached up, cupping his jaw, your thumb stroking over the patch of pale skin on his cheekbone.
"Don't you dare stop."
He drove into you in one deep, relentless thrust.
The stretch was immense, a burning fullness that stole your breath. He was big, and he didn't give you time to adjust. He buried himself to the hilt, his hips flush against yours, and let out a broken groan that sounded like it was ripped from his soul. He held there for a moment, trembling, his forehead dropping to your shoulder.
"Oh, God," he choked. "Oh, God, you feel— I can't—"
He began to move.
There was no rhythm at first, just a frantic, driving pace, as if he was trying to fuse himself to you. Each thrust was deep, punishing, hitting a spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyelids. The rough material of the rug scraped against your back, his body was a heavy, delicious weight on top of you, and the smell of rain and sex and his skin filled the air.
"Look at me," he demanded, his voice rough.
You forced your eyes open. His face was above you, strained with pleasure, his lips parted.
"You're not settling," he gritted out, punctuating each word with a thrust. "Do you understand me? You are not. Settling."
"I know," you gasped.
“I love you.”
He said it like it hurt.
“I love you so much.”
"Fuck, Michael. I love you too--"
"I can’t do another almost.”
His hand tightened around yours. The thrusts ragged.
“If this is happening, then it has to really happen.”
"I'm yours. I'm yours, Michael —"
He kissed you again, swallowing your cries.
His pace became more controlled, deeper, each stroke a deliberate claiming.
He shifted, hooking one of your legs over his arm, opening you wider, changing the angle. The new position made him go even deeper, the head of his cock rubbing directly over that sweet, sensitive spot with every plunge.
You were coming undone again, a second orgasm building greatly. Your nails scored down his back, feeling the ridges of his spine, the smooth expanse of his warm skin. He hissed at the sensation, his movements growing more ragged.
"I'm close," he warned, his voice thick. "I'm not going to last. Come with me. Please. Come with me."
It was the "please" that did it. That same shattered, vulnerable "please" from the alley, but now drenched in desire instead of despair.
Your orgasm detonated, a silent, shattering explosion that clenched around him, milking his length. He shouted, a raw, unfiltered sound, and drove into you one final, brutal time, his body locking as he emptied himself deep inside you in hot, pulsing waves.
He collapsed on top of you, his full weight pressing you into the rug, his face buried in your neck. His breaths were great, heaving gasps against your skin. You could feel his heart hammering against your own, a frantic, syncopated rhythm slowly calming.
For a long time, neither of you moved. The only sounds were your slowing breaths and the distant hum of the city at night.
Slowly, carefully, he rolled off you, taking his weight but keeping an arm around your waist, pulling you with him so you lay on your sides facing each other on the rug. His skin was slick with sweat, his hair a mess. He looked wrecked. Beautifully, completely wrecked.
He reached out a trembling hand and brushed a strand of damp hair from your forehead. His eyes, now soft and exhausted, traced your face.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
"For which part?"
A faint, shattered smile touched his lips. "The part where I ripped your underwear. And possibly the part where I was… rough."
You shook your head, your own hand coming up to trace the pale pattern on his shoulder. "Don't be sorry for any of it."
He caught your hand, brought it to his mouth, and pressed a kiss to your palm. It was a gesture from another century, infinitely gentle, a stark contrast to the animal hunger of minutes before.
"I meant what I said today," he said quietly, his eyes serious. "I am… a lot. It's not going to be easy."
"I don't care."
"I know you don't. I believe you now." He sighed, a deep, weary sound. "I think I just needed… proof. Not from you. From me. That I could want something this much and not run from it. And seeing you with another man just wrecked me. I didn't know what to do"
You shifted closer, until your foreheads were touching. "So I'm yours now?" You said.
He was silent for a moment. You felt his breath against your lips. "Mine. Properly. No more hiding."
He caught your mouth in a deep, hard kiss.
Outside, the rain began to fall again, a soft patter against your window. You lay there together on the floor, in the pool of lamplight, skin to skin, his wiry, marked body curled around yours, and for the first time all night, you felt the terrible, hollow ache in your chest begin to mend.
contains: ❤︎ anxiety, protective jaafar, both of you being clingy.. jaafar being your sexy and devoted fiancé.. all fluff! with sexual references.
you were the it girl of manhattan, born into luxury as the daughter of a major fashion designer. you had millions of followers on your socials, a new modelling contract, great people around you, and you glowed from the inside out, always priding yourself on your confidence. recently however, you’d been getting endless abuse from girls online, jealous of your long-term relationship with jaafar jackson, especially since you were now his fiancée. usually hate never got to you, but you were only human, and tonight you were uncharacteristically nervous to attend the michael premiere. you knew that this event was going to triple the amount of hate you’d already been getting while you anticipated jaafar’s inevitable title as the it boy of next month. however, you had no need to worry, because your man was prepared to devote himself entirely to ensuring you felt as comfortable as possible on the red carpet.
❤︎ under the bright sky of a beautiful april evening, you were sitting in the back of your chauffeured limo beside your handsome fiancé, en route to the los angeles premiere of his new film. jaafar had worked so incredibly hard to honour his uncle through such a dedicated creative medium, and you couldn't wait to see the final product, along with everyone's reactions. you'd both been excitedly anticipating this night for many months—or rather, throughout the entire process, the four years it had taken to create the movie before it had finally been ready for release.
but the closer it came to the night itself, you noticed you were feeling unusually anxious, and while the feeling was out of the ordinary for you—being so used to public events like these—you knew exactly what had produced the emotion. four weeks ago, jaafar had proposed to you, on what you now considered to be the best day of your life, and not long after, you'd shared the news on instagram with a picture of the gorgeous rock on your finger, and the beautiful landscape he'd chosen as the backdrop to the treasured moment. most of what you saw online were happy, supportive responses to your engagement, but it was very hard to ignore the loud minority—those women hiding behind anonymous accounts to attack you with relentless comments on your looks and your character, simply because they wanted the man you had the privilege of calling your own.
jaafar wasn't yet the huge star you knew he was about to become. he was of course known of by name, and known more closely by fans of the jacksons, but since the film hadn't been released yet, it startled you to see such harsh levels of anonymous aggression. you tried to remind yourself that while indeed the hate was harsh, it really was just a loud minority, and you also reminded yourself that what they were saying wasn't even true anyway, therefore you shouldn't pay it any mind. they loved to say that you were using jaafar for his connections—despite the fact that you very much had more than enough connections and wealth of your own—and they also loved to pick at every supposed 'defect' of your appearance, telling you jaafar wasn't actually in love with you and was just stringing you along. but you knew what they said was bullshit, so why did you still find yourself affected?
you hadn't wanted to tell jaafar about the hate—you felt it was too embarrassing firstly, and secondly you didn't want to burden him with anything like that, conscious that it might make him feel bad. however, he eventually found out anyway, because he saw you scrolling through some comments one night in bed, and he gave you the space to vent to him about how you felt. then, once that emotional catharsis was over, he made the sweetest love to you, telling you how perfect you are, reminding you of all that you deserve. that night, you fell asleep crushed peacefully in his warm embrace, and he had dozed off into his slumber believing he had resolved all your anxieties.
except, that was two weeks ago, and still they nagged at you in the back of your mind. the evening before the premiere, while you were cuddled up on the couch watching tv, you told him again that you were nervous. and just as before, you felt stupid for having to admit it and for burdening him with a worry he clearly couldn't fix for you. but you had always felt so safe with jaafar—he never ever judged you, and that evening he made a promise to try to keep you as relaxed and supported as possible on the night that followed. throughout the event, he would have to answer questions from reporters, meet with his coworkers and his family, but he would do his utmost to keep you protected with his presence.
and now, while you sat with him in the limo, just a few minutes from hollywood boulevard, he made sure you understood that.
you were wearing a white dress adorned with intricate silver beadwork, and the gown hugged your figure perfectly, as it was a dior gown designed specifically for you. a sculpted sweetheart neckline framed your shoulders, and your sheer crystal-embellished sleeves made you feel like you were in an old hollywood movie. your hair and makeup looked perfect, topped with diamond earrings. everything was, at least outwardly, in alignment. beside you, jaafar wore saint laurent, a handsome black suit that you already couldn't wait to get him out of.
as you stared out of the dimmed window, deciding to people-watch to distract yourself, you couldn't decide how you felt. after all, they always say that anxiety and excitement have the same effect on the nervous system, so it's not always easy to tell which is which.
of course, jaafar noticed your emotional disconnect. he'd had his hand on your inner thigh the whole journey, thumb consistently rubbing gentle circles—barely there, but so soothing. he mostly looked ahead, but you'd been quieter than usual—the two of you were normally always laughing and smiling—so he guessed easily that your worries were on your mind, and turned to look at you.
"hey," he whispered, squeezing your thigh softly. you felt the squeeze, but the whisper went unnoticed, and your system registered the touch itself as mere unconscious movement on jaafar's part, so you remained in your own world, still gazing out of the window.
"baby," he said a little louder.
you turned your head, raising your brows. "yeah, j?"
"how are you feeling?" jaafar asked sincerely, his soft eyes searching yours.
you took a deep breath, but the exhale came out strained. "i'm good. just, uh... thinking about all those people that are gonna be out there." you chuckled to yourself, looking down at your freshly manicured nails and the ring that adorned that particular finger on your left hand.
"that's never bothered you before," he smiled. "i've always been the shy one."
you looked at him again, wordlessly returning a small smile.
"it's still bothering you?" jaafar asked gently. "you're still worried what they might say?"
another difficult breath. how stupid for you to feel this way.
"well..." you started. "it's just... i think that from now on everything's just gonna be heightened, you know? every time a male celebrity blows up on the internet, the woman they're with gets slaughtered."
jaafar bit his lip, hating that you had to feel that way, but also hesitant to agree with your so certain prospect that he would become the next it boy on the internet. you always made him very aware of how attractive he was, but he was naturally shy, therefore admitting to it and believing that he could ever be the object of millions of women's desires didn't come as such an obvious possibility to him.
"okay, listen to me," he lowered his tone and took your hand, maintaining eye contact, "if that does happen, it has no impact on you unless you let it. you're the strongest woman i know, and i also know that you're worth way more than any of these trolls on the internet."
you opened your mouth to respond, although you weren't sure what exactly you meant to say.
"do you understand me?" he asked, running his thumb over your knuckles.
god, he looked so beautiful.
"yeah," you nodded. "i really don't know why i care. it's so not like me. and i also don't want it to seem like there's any part of me that doesn't want you to succeed—like as if i'm 'dreading' your fame because of what it might do to me."
"no, i know that's not what you're thinking," he assured, and at that you felt a little more relieved.
"i'll probably be fine after tonight," you sighed. "i guess i just struggle to enjoy myself when there's something on my mind, even if i try to push it away. and when we get home tonight, you need to lock away my phone and hold me hostage, seriously." you chuckled softly. "i cannot read anything about myself, at least not before tomorrow."
"alright, i'm on board with that plan," jaafar nodded, that beautiful smile lighting up his face once again. "and..." he leaned to whisper in your ear, "if you find yourself out there tonight thinking about what they might say, just remember who had my dick for three hours straight last night."
your mouth flew open in surprise, giggling at his words. "j..."
"and," he kissed your cheek, continuing to whisper, "remember who's gonna get it all night tonight..." a kiss to your jaw... "for however long she wants..." another cheek kiss, while you struggled to contain your bashful blush... "and in as many positions as she wants."
then he held your jaw and angled your face, kissing your lips softly. "yeah? you hear me?" he raised his brows, a light smirk playing on his pretty features.
your giddy expression satisfied him enough. you were his girl—always—and it didn't matter what anyone else said because you were always going to be the one getting that dick every night.
"i do hear you," you grinned, "loud and clear."
"good." he pecked your lips again, and wrapped an arm around your waist. "now, if you feel even the slightest bit anxious, hold my hand, alright baby?"
you nodded.
"in fact, no—forget that. as long as you're beside me, i'm gonna be holding you in one way or another." he squeezed your thigh again. "does that make you feel a little better?"
"yes," you smiled and kissed him, already feeling a lot better, actually.
you had now arrived at your destination, the vehicle coming to a halt. your chauffeur stepped out and walked around to open the door for the two of you. it was you who stepped out first, and jaafar followed, helping guide your gown as you stood up. it flowed into an ethereal train that swept across the carpet.
immediately, you were met with flashing lights, cameras everywhere from every angle, shouts of your name and of jaafar's from paparazzi and from fans. you were a star in front of the camera, and behind you your man couldn't hide the wide smile on his face because he knew it too.
while you'd been feeling so anxious beforehand, now that you were in the spotlight again—the object of each camera flash—you effortlessly brought your natural confidence to the forefront. hand in hand with jaafar, diamond ring displayed to the excitement of those with the cameras and microphones, you walked across the red carpet with pride. you posed for what felt like a million pictures, some with jaafar and some solo, relishing in the glam of it all.
and for the duration, jaafar would not leave you untouched. he held your waist for the photos, held your hand whenever you walked, and when you both stood aside after the initial photos, he treated you like a princess, forgetting about all the people around, and the people he needed to be talking to.
you were both standing out of the way of the paparazzi's cameras, though still very much in direct view of all the fans recording. you had the fans in mind as you stood there, and so did jaafar, but he was thinking about how their videos would be the perfect opportunity to display publicly how much he adored you, to say a big fuck you to anyone who actually believed you weren't the light of his life.
you both couldn't stop smiling and blushing as you looked at each other, as he wrapped an arm around your waist protectively and rubbed his thumb over your cheek. "my baby..."
"j, people are looking," you blushed, resting your wrists on his shoulders, but really you loved being treated like a princess in public by the man who was so reserved and shy with everyone else.
"yeah, they are," he repeated unfazed, pressing a kiss to your nose. "let them look, angel." then he started pressing quick, ticklish kisses from your forehead to your chin as you giggled in his arms.
you sighed happily, and he only smiled wider. "you're fucking beautiful, sweetheart... there's nobody like you."
the two of you were lost in your own world, fully aware of the extremely public space you were in but uncaring all the same.
you were disrupted eventually by a woman's voice, a reporter from variety who called you both over. you hadn't expected a dual interview tonight, being that the premiere was of jaafar's movie, which you had nothing to do with, but at the same time it was hardly surprising that some reporters would prioritise couple talk over anything of relevance to the film itself.
"hello, mr jackson and soon-to-be mrs jackson!" the reporter grinned, directing her gaze to your ring, as you expected.
jaafar had his arm tight around your waist, rubbing those soothing circles over your hip through your dress. he smiled brightly at the mention of the name mrs jackson, and so did you.
"you both look great tonight, and i must say [Y/N] that dress looks incredible on you."
"oh, thank you so much!" you beamed. you truly did look insane.
"goes perfectly with that rock on your finger. the star of the show," the lady said, gesturing for you to show it to the camera, and you had no shame in doing so.
"yes, thank you, but the real star is this man right here," you smiled, leaning your head on jaafar's shoulder for a moment.
he laughed, pulling you in closer and fighting the urge to kiss you, because that wouldn't be appropriate for an interview. "my number one fan."
"you two are a truly beautiful couple. [Y/N], i imagine you're very proud of jaafar tonight. how have you enjoyed watching the process of your fiancé honouring michael's legacy in this way?"
"oh, it's been a blessing to watch." you turned to him briefly with a proud smile. "i am incredibly proud, i can't even explain. we started dating around the time he first got the role, and i remember clearly how hesitant he was in the beginning to take on something with so much importance—"
"yeah, the pressure was an immensely difficult thing to deal with, especially in the beginning," jaafar added.
"so to see first-hand how much he's grown during the process of filming this movie, how he has succeeded in embodying michael better than anyone could... it's the most beautiful thing to witness."
"oh, that's very sweet of you," jaafar murmured playfully.
the reporter continued. "jaafar, we are all eagerly anticipating tonight's premiere, and i think we can all agree that it will most likely be the biggest movie of the year. i expect your whole family will be just as proud, and you already have your fiancé's seal of approval," she smiled.
"yeah," he chuckled. "i'm really looking forward to everybody seeing the movie. i put a crazy amount of effort into this role—it's probably the most important thing i'll ever do—so i really hope i represented my uncle in the way he deserves."
you held his hand that was still resting on your hip and squeezed it comfortingly.
"i can't imagine how difficult it must have been, but i bet it feels very satisfying now that all the hard work has paid off," the reporter replied.
"yeah, definitely. although, i do have part two to focus on now," he laughed, "so the hard work isn't over yet."
"oh yes—this film only covers the first half of his life, correct?"
"yes, there's way too much to fit into just one movie, so there will be a part two. that's in early development right now."
"well, you'll certainly be busy for a while longer then?"
"yeah, i will be. we don't know how long it's gonna take, but we're looking forward to getting started."
"alright, thank you for talking to us today—i wish you both a great night," she grinned. "you look like you can't keep your hands off of each other."
the two of you exchanged a glance and laughed, a little shyly, but still remained effectively cuddled up together.
"thank you," you both said in unison, before walking away to head in the direction of the rest of the cast. they all greeted you and jaafar, and then you both went over to say hello to all the members of his family that had attended. whenever jaafar was stood by you, he had his arm linked into yours, always checking in on you to make sure you were feeling okay, but he had already succeeded in relaxing you. now you could enjoy the night as you wished, feeling peaceful in the certain knowledge that you were going to be marrying the man who was about to deliver the most phenomenal talent to the world.
if you had to deal with more jealous fangirls, then so be it. you and jaafar would laugh at the nonsense they spouted, and you'd each pity them for leading such sad lives. because of course you wanted the whole world to talk about jaafar jeremiah jackson, your baby—your one true love. he deserved the adoration, even if it also came with a few negatives.
as you walked out of the theatre with him that night, you shed a tear reflective of your immense pride, and cuddled him so close during your ride home. then when you got back to your hotel, he gave it to you so good all night just like he promised, and set a camera up so that you could watch his display of affection back if ever you felt any doubt or worry again...
𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ thanks for reading! stay tuned for more jaafar content... xx
18+. minors dni. rue bennett definitely has the sort of strap game that has you face down sobbing into the bed— especially if you were mouthing off to her before? she’s mean enough to make you work for it, watches you bounce yourself back onto her dick. she leans down, chest pressed against your back only to murmur “yeah, see? there you go. good girl, show me you fuckin’ want it.” she lets out a cocky, airy laugh when you whine out daddy. “feels good, huh, baby? you like that shit?” you can only respond with a whiny sob when her arm finds its way around your neck.
“whiny little mess— so fucking mean before, but now i’m daddy. too fuckin’ easy, baby.” she always starts to ramble when she’s fucking you, talks filth into your ear relentlessly. it does nothing but make you clench around her strap. “shouldn’t even be giving it t’you right now, fuckin’ brat.” you cry out when she crooks her hips in a way that lets her get impossibly deeper in you, your hands grabbing at the arm around your neck. “i’m sorry, daddy, ‘m sorry— gonna be better, i promise,” you babble. it’s bullshit— you and her both know it. it’s why she loves this, though. getting to watch you curse her out and jab your little fingers at her chest… all while knowing she gets to fuck the attitude out of you once you’re done bitching at her.
I was wondering if you could write some sort of angst/comfort? maybe they have an argument before Michael performs or goes on tour??
thank you 💌
hiii thank you for adoring my work 🥹 i hope you adore this as well !!!
when the lights go down
after a fight with you, michael can’t wait to get home and make things right.
michael jackson x femreader
SEPTEMBER 7, 1988
the argument starts the second he raises his voice, sharp and sudden, slicing through the room like something that’s been waiting to explode. "why are you bringing this up right now?" he snaps, pacing across the bedroom with that restless, electric energy that always coils around him before a performance, but tonight it feels different, harsher, like every step he takes is pulling him further away from you. you stand near the dresser with your arms crossed tight against your chest, trying to keep your breathing steady even though your heart is pounding so hard it hurts. you’ve been holding everything in for days, swallowing the loneliness, the late nights, the way he’s been slipping through your fingers like he doesn’t even notice, but tonight it all bursts out of you before you can stop it. "because you keep pretending nothing’s wrong, michael. you keep acting like i’m not even here."
he stops pacing but doesn’t turn around, his shoulders rising and falling with a slow, frustrated breath that only makes your chest tighten more. he shakes his head like he’s trying to shake off your words, but you know he heard you. you know he feels it. still, he stays facing away, and that hurts more than anything he could say. "i told you i’ve been busy. i told you this week was going to be insane." his voice is clipped, cold, nothing like the soft warmth he usually gives you, and it makes something inside you crack. you take a step toward him, your voice trembling despite how hard you try to keep it steady. "busy doesn’t mean you get to shut me out. you come home at two in the morning, you barely look at me, you barely talk to me, and now you’re leaving again like i’m not even worth a conversation."
michael finally turns around, and the look in his eyes hits you like a punch. he’s tired. stressed. overwhelmed. but instead of letting you in, he builds a wall higher than the last. "i can’t do this right now. i have a performance in a few hours." the words slice through you, sharp and careless, and you feel your throat tighten as you stare at him, stunned. "you can’t do this right now? michael, i’m not asking you to solve world peace. i’m asking you to talk to me. to look at me. to act like you actually care about what’s happening between us." he runs a hand through his curls, pacing again, the sound of his boots hitting the floor echoing through the room like a countdown. "i do care. but i can’t deal with all this emotion before i go onstage."
your breath catches, your chest tightening painfully. "all this emotion? you mean me. you mean my feelings. you mean the fact that i’m upset you’ve been treating me like i’m invisible." he flinches, just barely, but he still doesn’t soften. "you’re twisting my words." you shake your head, tears burning behind your eyes. "i wouldn’t have to twist anything if you actually talked to me instead of shutting me out."
he steps closer, but not close enough to touch you, not close enough to bridge the gap he created. "i’m under pressure. you know that. this performance is important." you stare at him, your voice cracking as you answer. "and i’m not?" he freezes, but he doesn’t answer. he doesn’t say no. he doesn’t say you’re important. he just stands there, silent, and that silence is louder than any scream. you feel something inside you crumble, slow and painful, like a fault line finally giving way. "you know what hurts the most? you don’t even notice how much you’re pushing me away."
michael’s expression tightens, frustration flickering across his face. "i’m not pushing you away. you’re making this bigger than it needs to be." the words hit you like ice water, and you take a shaky breath, trying to hold yourself together even as tears slip down your cheeks. "i’m making it bigger? michael, i haven’t had a real conversation with you in days. i don’t even know how you’re feeling about tonight because you won’t let me in. you come home exhausted, you barely look at me, and when i try to talk to you, you shut down. what am i supposed to do? pretend it doesn’t hurt?"
he exhales sharply, rubbing his forehead like your feelings are something he has to endure. "i don’t have the energy for this. not tonight." your heart drops, your voice breaking completely now. "you don’t have the energy for me." he opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. he doesn’t deny it. he doesn’t reassure you. he just stands there, breathing hard, torn between the pressure of the night and the weight of your hurt. "i’m trying to focus. i need to be in the right headspace." you laugh, but it’s hollow, painful. "and i’m ruining that, right? i’m messing up your perfect night because i dared to feel something."
michael’s jaw clenches, and he looks away, unable to meet your eyes. "that’s not what i said." you wipe your cheeks with the back of your hand, your voice barely above a whisper now, fragile and breaking. "it’s what you meant." the room feels too small, too heavy with everything neither of you has said. you swallow hard, your voice trembling. "i’m not asking you to choose between me and your career. i’m asking you to stop acting like i’m in the way."
he hesitates, guilt flickering in his eyes for the first time, but it’s too late. the damage is already done. you take a step back, your heart aching so deeply it feels physical. "just go. you clearly don’t want to be here." michael’s eyes widen slightly, and for a moment you think he’s going to reach for you, apologize, pull you into his arms the way he always does when things get too heavy. but he doesn’t. he grabs his jacket instead, the movement sharp and final. "we’ll talk when i get back." you shake your head, tears streaming down your face. "there won’t be anything left to talk about if you keep treating me like this."
he freezes in the doorway, his back to you, and you swear you see his shoulders tremble for a second, like your words finally hit him where it hurts. but he still walks out. he still leaves. the door closes behind him with a soft click that feels like the loudest sound in the world, and you stand there in the empty bedroom, tears falling silently as the weight of everything crashes down on you.
the moment michael steps out of the house, the argument slams into the back of his mind like a door he forces shut. he doesn’t want to think about it. he can’t think about it. not now. not when the entire world is waiting for him to walk onto that stage and deliver a performance people will replay for years. he climbs into the car with a tight jaw and a stiff posture, staring out the window as the city lights blur past, refusing to let his thoughts drift back to the way your voice cracked or the way your eyes filled with tears. he pushes it down, buries it deep, locking it behind the same mental walls he uses before every show. he tells himself he’ll deal with it later. he tells himself he has to focus. he tells himself he doesn’t have a choice.
the second michael steps into the wings, everything else disappears. the argument, the tension, the sting of your voice cracking, all of it gets shoved into the farthest corner of his mind. he doesn’t let himself think about anything except the stage in front of him. the arena is vibrating with anticipation, the crowd a living, breathing thing, thousands of people pressed together, screaming his name before he even appears. the lights sweep across the audience in wide arcs, catching glitter, posters, hands reaching up like they’re trying to touch the air he’ll breathe. the smoke machines hiss softly, filling the stage with a low fog that curls around his boots. the bass from the opening track thumps through the floor, through his bones, syncing with his heartbeat until he feels like he’s part of the sound system.
he rolls his shoulders back, stretching his neck side to side, loosening the tension in his muscles. his breathing evens out, slow and controlled, the way he trained himself to do before every major performance. he taps his fingers against his thigh in time with the beat, grounding himself in the rhythm. he can feel the heat of the stage lights even from backstage, the warmth brushing against his skin like a warning of what’s coming. he closes his eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply, letting the adrenaline settle into his bloodstream like fire. he’s tired, he’s stressed, he’s carrying the weight of a fight he refuses to think about, but none of that matters now. now he’s michael jackson, and the world is watching.
the stage manager gives him the cue.
the lights drop.
the crowd explodes.
and michael steps into the spotlight.
the arena erupts instantly, a wall of sound so loud it rattles the rafters. the screams hit him like a physical force, vibrating through his chest, through his spine, through every nerve in his body. he snaps into the opening pose, legs planted, shoulders squared, chin tilted just enough to catch the light. the fog swirls around him, the lights flash in sharp bursts, and the music slams into the first beat with a power that shakes the floor. he moves immediately, his body snapping into the choreography with precision so sharp it looks unreal. every muscle fires on command, every step lands exactly where it should, every isolation hits with the kind of crispness that only comes from years of discipline.
he feels the rhythm take over, guiding him, pulling him deeper into the performance. he glides across the stage, boots sliding effortlessly over the polished floor, his movements fluid and sharp all at once. he hits a spin, fast and controlled, stopping on a dime with his head snapping up toward the crowd, and the arena screams even louder. he feeds off it, letting their energy push him further, letting their excitement fuel him. he points into the audience, smirking slightly, and the front rows practically collapse with joy. he steps forward, hips hitting the beat with perfect timing, shoulders rolling, chest popping, every movement clean and powerful.
when he starts singing, his voice cuts through the arena like a blade. strong, steady, controlled. he hits every note with precision, projecting his voice across the stadium, letting it blend with the music in a way that feels effortless even though it takes everything he has. he moves with the mic like it’s an extension of his body, switching between singing and dancing without missing a beat. he feels the rhythm in his chest, in his spine, in the soles of his feet. he feels the music take over, guiding him, lifting him, carrying him through the performance like a wave.
the cameras zoom in on him, capturing every bead of sweat, every flick of his eyes, every sharp movement. he knows exactly where they are without looking. he angles his face toward them at the perfect moments, giving the tv audience the intensity they came for. he hits the signature moves with force, the kind that sends shockwaves through the crowd. he slides across the stage, drops low, snaps back up, spins again, all of it seamless, all of it electric. the dancers behind him match his energy, but he’s the center of gravity, the one everyone is watching, the one the lights follow like he’s the only person in the world.
the dance break hits, and he pushes himself even harder. he throws his body into the moves with a ferocity that sends the audience into a frenzy. he hits the isolations with a sharpness that looks almost inhuman, every muscle firing in perfect sync. he spins so fast the lights blur around him, stopping with a precision that makes the crowd scream his name. he kicks high, lands low, slides across the stage with a smoothness that looks like he’s floating. sweat drips down his temples, down his neck, soaking into the collar of his jacket, but he doesn’t slow down. he can’t. he refuses to. he knows people will study this performance, replay it, analyze it, compare it to every other show he’s done. he knows he has to be perfect.
he moves across the stage, interacting with the crowd, pointing, smiling, letting their energy push him further. he hears them chanting his name, screaming lyrics, crying, reaching for him like he’s something holy. he gives them everything. he gives them the intensity, the charisma, the fire. he gives them the michael jackson they came to see. he doesn’t think about home. he doesn’t think about the argument. he doesn’t think about the tears he left behind. he thinks about the music. he thinks about the fans. he thinks about the show.
by the time the final chorus hits, his chest is heaving, his muscles burning, sweat dripping down his spine, but he doesn’t slow down. he gives the ending everything he has left, pouring every ounce of energy into the last sequence, hitting the final pose with a force that sends the crowd into a deafening scream. the lights flash, the music cuts, and the arena erupts. thousands of people on their feet, cheering, clapping, screaming his name like he just changed their lives.
he bows, breathing hard, sweat-soaked and exhausted, but he keeps his expression calm, composed, professional.
and then,
only then,
when the lights dim and the applause fades and he steps offstage, the wall in his mind cracks.
the noise of the arena fades behind him in a slow, heavy way, like the world is dimming around the edges. his body is still buzzing from the performance, his chest rising and falling with the leftover adrenaline, sweat cooling on his skin, but the moment he steps into the quiet hallway, the weight he pushed aside before the show settles back into him with a quiet, undeniable heaviness. he doesn’t speak. he doesn’t sigh. he doesn’t let anything show on his face. he just walks, slow and steady, his head slightly lowered, his hands brushing against the sides of his jacket as if grounding himself. he doesn’t think about the argument in words. it’s more like a feeling, a pressure in his chest, a tightness in his throat, a heaviness behind his ribs that reminds him he left something unfinished, something fragile.
he doesn’t go straight to the car. his feet carry him out a side exit, where the cool night air hits his overheated skin and makes him breathe a little deeper. he pulls his hood up, not to hide, but because he feels strangely exposed without it. the street is quiet, the lights soft, the city humming in the background. he walks slowly, his steps steady, his mind focused on something simple and gentle. he passes a small flower shop still open, its warm glow spilling onto the pavement, and he stops in front of the window. inside, the shelves are lined with soft colors and delicate shapes, petals that look like they’d fall apart if touched too roughly. he steps inside without hesitation, the bell above the door chiming softly.
the florist greets him, but he only gives a small nod, his voice low and warm when he says hello. he doesn’t ask for anything. he doesn’t explain. he walks slowly along the display, his fingers brushing lightly over the petals of different flowers, his expression thoughtful and quiet. then he sees them. pink peonies. full, soft, layered like they’re holding something gentle inside. he stops in front of them, his hand hovering for a moment before he touches one carefully, the softness of it making something inside him loosen. he picks out each stem himself, choosing them with a quiet care, turning them slightly to make sure they’re perfect. he brings them to the counter, and the florist wraps them while he stands there with his hands in his pockets, his eyes lowered, his posture small in a way only someone who knows him well would notice.
when she hands him the bouquet, he holds it with both hands, careful and steady, his thumb brushing over the petals with a tenderness that feels instinctive. he thanks her softly before stepping back into the night, the flowers held close to his chest as he walks toward the car. the ride home is silent, the city lights flickering across his face, highlighting the softness in his expression, the way his eyes keep drifting down to the bouquet like he’s afraid it might bruise if he looks away too long. he doesn’t rush the driver. he doesn’t fidget. he just sits there with a stillness that feels heavy and gentle at the same time, his thoughts circling quietly around the same truth. he hurt you. he left you alone. and he needs to make it right.
when he gets home, he unlocks the door quietly, slipping inside without turning on the lights. the house feels still, the kind of stillness that settles deep in the walls. he walks down the hallway with slow, careful steps, the bouquet held securely against his side. when he reaches the bedroom door, he pauses for a moment, his hand resting on the knob before he pushes it open.
the room is dim, lit only by the soft glow of the lamp on your nightstand. you’re curled up on your side with your back to the door, the blankets pulled up to your shoulders. at first he thinks you’re asleep, but then he hears it. the soft, uneven sound of you trying to breathe through tears, the quiet sniff you try to hide, the way your shoulders tremble beneath the blanket.
michael doesn’t freeze dramatically. he doesn’t gasp. he just stands there for a moment, the flowers held loosely in his hand, his expression softening in a way that looks almost painful. he walks toward the bed slowly, each step quiet and steady. he doesn’t kneel. he doesn’t hover. he sits down on the edge of the mattress beside you, the bed dipping slightly under his weight. he places the bouquet gently on the blanket near your pillow, the petals brushing the fabric softly. he sits there for a moment, his hands resting loosely in his lap, his gaze lowered, his breathing slow and quiet.
then he speaks, his voice soft and warm, the kind of softness he only uses when he’s afraid of breaking something delicate.
"i picked these for you."
he pauses, his eyes on the peonies, his voice even quieter when he continues.
"i’m sorry, baby."
the words hang in the air, heavy and thick with a sincerity that vibrates through the small space between them. you shift slowly, the fabric of the blankets rustling as you sit to face him, your eyes red rimmed and glistening in the amber light of the lamp. for a long moment, neither of you speaks, the only sound the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the wall and the heavy, uneven cadence of your breathing. michael doesn’t move, he stays perched on the edge of the bed, his presence a grounding force in the wake of the storm that had been raging inside you all evening. he watches you with a gaze that is raw and stripped of all pretence, his heart practically visible in the way his chest rises and falls. when you finally reach out, your fingers trembling as they brush against the sleeve of his shirt, he lets out a breath he seems to have been holding for hours. he leans in, his forehead coming to rest against yours, the heat of his skin a stark contrast to the chill that had settled in your bones. "i didn't mean to leave you feeling like this," he whispers, his voice cracking just slightly, a rare fracture in his usual composure. "i hate that i'm the reason you're crying."
you let out a shaky sob, the sound muffled against his shoulder as you suddenly lung forward, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him down into the mattress with you. the impact is soft, the pillows swallowing them both as he wraps his arms around you, holding you with a desperation that speaks louder than any apology. he buries his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling the scent of your skin, his grip tightening as if he’s afraid you might vanish if he lets go for even a second. you cling to him, your fingers digging into the fabric of his back, letting the weight of him anchor you back to reality. the sadness doesn't disappear instantly, but it transforms, shifting from a cold, isolating ache into something warmer, something shared. he begins to murmur things against your skin, quiet promises and soft admissions of how much he missed you, how the house felt empty without your light, and how he would do anything to make it right. the tension begins to bleed out of your muscles, replaced by a slow, humming heat that starts in your chest and radiates outward.
he reaches up, his thumb brushing away a stray tear from your cheek with a tenderness that makes your breath hitch. his gaze drops to your lips, and the air between you suddenly feels electric, charged with a hunger that has been simmering beneath the surface of their argument. when he finally kisses you, it isn't the tentative, cautious kiss of a man asking for forgiveness. it is deep and demanding, a claim and a surrender all at once. you moan into his mouth, your tongue meeting his in a desperate dance, the taste of him filling your senses and drowning out everything else. his hand slides from your cheek to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair to tilt your head back, exposing the line of your throat to his searching lips.
you lean into him, your hands sliding over his shoulders, feeling the tension in his muscles, the way he shivers slightly when your fingers trace the back of his neck. the kiss grows deeper, warmer, more consuming, and he follows your lead with a soft, breathless sound that vibrates against your mouth. he pulls you closer still, his hand drifting lower along your hip, his touch bold but still gentle, still michael. he kisses you like he’s trying to make up for every second he spent away from you, his breath warm and uneven as he presses his forehead to yours for a moment, his lips brushing yours again and again.
his restraint slips in the smallest ways, the way his fingers press into your waist, the way he pulls you closer, the way he breathes your name like he’s afraid it’ll disappear if he doesn’t say it. he kisses you harder, his hand sliding up your inner thigh with a slow, hopeful pressure, testing the boundary without crossing it. he breathes against your lips, soft and needy, his voice low and warm as he tries to pull you even closer.
you catch his wrist gently, your fingers wrapping around it with a soft squeeze. he freezes instantly, his breath catching, his eyes opening to look at you with a mixture of surprise and longing. he doesn’t pull away. he doesn’t push. he just waits, his lips still close to yours, his breathing uneven. you smile, your voice warm and teasing as you whisper, "michael." he swallows, his eyes flicking to your lips before returning to your face. "what…? i wasn’t doin’ nothin’." you laugh softly, brushing your nose against his. "you were doing something." he sighs, dramatic and defeated, dropping his head to your shoulder for a moment before lifting it again, his curls falling into his eyes. "i can’t help it. you’re right here." you giggle, and he looks at you like that sound alone could undo him. he leans in again, kissing your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth, each kiss soft and warm and a little needy. "you sure you don’t wanna let me keep goin’?"
you push his face away gently, still smiling. "not tonight." he groans quietly, flopping back on the bed for a moment before sitting up again, his expression a mix of frustration and affection. "you’re really gonna do me like that." "yes." he stares at you for a long moment, then sighs like a man who has accepted his fate. he presses one last lingering kiss to your lips, slow and warm, before standing up and stretching his tired shoulders. he walks to the dresser, pulling out a soft cotton shirt and loose sweatpants, changing quietly. when he turns back to you, he looks softer, calmer, the tension in his body replaced with something warm and peaceful.
he climbs into bed beside you, slipping under the blankets and pulling you gently into his chest. the room feels smaller now, warmer, the kind of warmth that settles deep in your bones. he tucks you against him, his arm sliding around your waist, his hand resting on your stomach with a soft, protective touch. he presses a kiss to your temple, his voice low and warm as he murmurs, "you drive me crazy." you smile into his chest. "you love it."
he hums softly, tightening his arm around you as he settles into the pillow. the blankets shift slightly as he adjusts, and then, with the most casual, playful confidence, he taps your butt under the covers with his big hand. you gasp slightly, then burst into a quiet laugh, turning your head to look at him. he’s already grinning, eyes half‑closed, looking far too pleased with himself. "michael."
"what?" he says, pretending innocence, though the smile tugging at his mouth gives him away. you shake your head, still laughing softly. "you’re ridiculous." he pulls you closer, burying his face in your hair, his voice warm and muffled as he whispers, "yeah… but i’m your ridiculous." you feel him smile against your skin as his breathing slows, his body relaxing fully for the first time all night. he holds you tighter, his thumb brushing slow circles against your side, the playful energy fading into something soft and peaceful.
"night, baby…" and he falls asleep holding you, warm and close, still playful, still soft, still yours.
۶ৎ MDNI 18+. Michael loves eating his gf out after tour
masterslist
after a long week on the road busy with touring , michael was finally home. he was nestled between your thighs, tongue swirling over your swollen clit. yours fingers intertwined in his curls, some loose strands sticking to his damp forehead.
his hands gripped your trembling thighs, keeping them from closing. soft moans flowed from your lips as his thumb now worked on your clit, his hot tongue exploring your folds.
your back arched off the bed, your cunt clenching around nothing. his nose nudged your clit as his tongue prodded at your entrance.
"missed you s'much" he muttered against your pussy, his hot breath making you shiver. his chin wet from your slick, his soft lips now swollen.
"michael.." you whined, your face contorting into pleasure. you pulled at his hair, making him let out a low guttural groan against your pussy.
you grinded up against his tongue, riding his face as you felt your orgasm near.
wrote this half asleep im so sorry if this is a bad first post 🥹
“Put your hands against the wall” Cameron commanded you “don’t move that shit” he barked, delivering a harsh smack to your ass. “Doing all that playing, this what you wanted right?” He grabbed your braids as he rammed into you, pulling you so harshly you were reminiscent of a bow and arrow. “Ngh— Cam!” You moaned as tears brimmed at your waterline, he had been pushing your limits all night just because of some slick comment you made hours ago. Guess you know better now right? Your palms began to sweat as you struggled to keep your hands on the wall, the force of his dick brushing against your cervix was too much and you had to push him back.
Bad idea number 2.
“What I say about them fucking hands?” He barked, grabbing both of your arms and forcing them behind your back, your head forced into the pillow. Your cries, moans, and screams barely audible anymore. “That’s a good girl, you know you can take it” he cooed stroking the side of your face with his free hand “you look oh so pretty taking daddy dick”
you could already hear the whimpers your boyfriend started pathetically moaning out the second he found out you weren’t stopping even after he came.
Jaafar was laid down on his back, looking at you, fisting the sheets with both hands, due to you telling him not to touch you.
Everytime he tried to slow you down you would slap him, explained the red mark slowly forming on the right side of his face.
"I already came, please." He cried, real tears spilling out of his eyes. You rolled yours and kept going, if anything, tightening your grip around his nine inches.
You stared at his face, obsessed with how it was changing every few seconds, glancing down at his stomach just to see it caving in.
“Why you doing me li— like this? Huh? Please mommy."
His pleads went in one ear and out the other, and honestly it was because he knew the exact reason. The last time you guys had sex was on Valentine’s Day, he fucked you for hours, different positions, even had it on camera. You just had to get your lick back.
It started off with a simple jerk off, teasing him, you were gonna stop the first time he came but something about his face when he nutted all on your hand like a good boy, something switched in her head, picking up the pace you could watch his relaxed state change into a worried one.
"Please." He cried out, letting go of the sheets to grab your hand, slowing you down. You knew he didn’t want you to stop, there would be times hes literally shaking, still begging you to keep touching him.
Your eyes flickered up, eyebrows furrowed at the audacity of him to attempting to slow you down. You fixed your postion a bit, watching as your boyfriend’s eyes widened.
"Wait im so sorry pl-" His eyes followed you as you slightly hovered over him. You cut him off with the slap of your hand over his mouth, now thrusting your hand over his cock harder and faster.
His eyes got teary instantly, his legs moving all over the bed.
“don’t cry, baby. listen to me.” You said, just above a whisper. Jaafar looked at you, nodding over and over again.
"Your gonna take my hand, cause im almost done okay?" You smiled, talking in such a coy tone.
🜼 summary: when being in a situationship with Cameron Cade, things turn out in a way that was completely unexpected.
🜼 content: situationships, jealously, reader is lowk a hypocrite, public s3x, mirror s3x, choking, fingering, finger sucking, oral f receiving, unprotected p in v
🜼 word count: 3.4k
🜼 A/N: more Cam Cade fics for you guys!!!!! I appreciate you guys for all the love and support you have shown me in my last few posts. thank you for giving me the courage to continue to bring my blog to life. i hope you enjoy this, my cherries, muah <3
A knock on your front door jolted you awake from a very peaceful slumber. A groan escaped your body as you reached for your phone on the nightstand. 11:42 pm— the time read. Before you could even process what was happening, your phone started ringing. "Hello?" your voice was still laced with sleep.
"Wake yo ass up and come open the door," the deep voice on the other line made a shiver run down your back. You missed that voice. You climbed out and began your walk to the front door, stretching and rubbing your eyes to try to wake yourself up some more.
You didn't even bother checking the peephole before you opened the door. Cameron Cade stood there in all his glory with a bookbag slung over his shoulder. The moment your eyes met, a small smile began to spread on your lips. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you, mama." He kissed your lips and walked around you, and headed further inside your apartment. "I should've left your ass out there." Cameron laughed but ignored you and continued walking to your room.
You and Cameron didn't exactly have a label. You had been seeing each other for about two months now; at the beginning of this… arrangement, you both had agreed that you did not want a relationship, just a friend with benefits. As time passed, you started spending more time with each other. He would come to your apartment, and you would go to his. He would buy you things and expect nothing in return, but there was still no official label on the relationship. Since you didn't want to assume things, you were still moving like you were single and he was single.
"You still came and opened the door, right? Ight." He walked into your bathroom and shut the door. Sassy ass nigga— you thought. You climbed right back into bed and grabbed your Kindle to continue the book you started earlier in the day. When he emerged, he was wearing a pair of sweatpants and a white t-shirt.
As soon as he got into bed, he took your Kindle from your hands. You smack your teeth and try to snatch it back from his hands, but he just tosses it onto the oversize beanbag chair in the corner of your room. He spreads your legs, then lies between them. "Why are you here, Cameron?" You ask when you feel him begin to press kisses on your neck. He stops kissing you and looks at you with confusion written on his lightly freckled face. "Cause I can be?"
"It's more normal to call ahead of time and ask if it's okay first. It shows respect, nigga." He jerked his head in a way to wave you off. Cameorn rests his head on your stomach, and your hands move to caress his head softly. The two of you stay like that for a few minutes, basking in the silence and softly rubbing on each other. "Who you bringing to the foundation gala?" Cameron asks.
"I have a date, actually." You say softly. He moves his head from your stomach and looks up at you. "Oh, forreal?" his tone was a bit shocked, but you ignored it. Cameron licked his lips and mumbled the word 'cool' while nodding his head before resting it back on your stomach. The two of you fall back into silence, and every now and then, Cameron would press a kiss or two to your stomach. Since he threw your Kindle across your room, you were now using your phone to read your book.
Cameron moved back up your body and pressed a kiss to your lips. A kiss that turned into a full-out makeout session, which later progressed into his mouth on your jaw, trailing down to your neck. "Cam," you sigh in pleasure. He gripped your chin softly, lifting it to make you look at him.
"I'm finna eat this pretty ass pussy, then we going to bed. That cool with you?"
"Yesss," you whine.
"Bet," Cameron presses another nasty kiss on your lips before hastily removing your sleep shorts and descending your body.
»» ──────ஓ๑♥๑ஓ ────── ««
The morning of the foundation gala, you woke up earlier than usual to get your day started. This was your way of mentally preparing yourself for the day ahead. You had your comfort robe draped around your body, and the matching bonnet to go with it. Your curtains were drawn, letting the natural sunlight enter your apartment. You were putting your all into making sure the day went smoothly.
You were currently sitting on the couch, watching TV and eating breakfast, when a knock sounded at your front door. Your brows furrow— you weren't expecting any visitors. You pick up your phone to check the camera at the door, and you see a woman holding a huge bouquet of flowers.
"Hi! Is this the home of Y/N?" the woman asks with a warm smile on her face. "Hi, yes, it is." After confirming, the woman hands you the bouquet and the card along with it. She tells you to have a good day, and she goes on her way. You stood there for a few minutes, shocked as fuck because this was the least of what you were expecting.
Heading back inside, you set the flowers on your kitchen island and opened the nice-looking card that came with them. Because You Deserve It All. See you tonight, mama.— C.Cade. The card read.
Utter shock spread across your face. In the time you had known Cameron, of course, he had spent money on you, but he had never had flowers delivered to your apartment. You walked over to the coffee table and grabbed your phone to send him a thank-you message. His actions threw you completely off your axis. You had totally forgotten about the date you were bringing with you to the gala.
It wasn't anything serious, just a dude on the basketball team you had been texting for a few weeks. When he asked if you wanted to go with him, you thought why the hell not? It wasn't like you and Cameron were in a relationship; you were single, and he was too. So you weren't doing anything wrong.
A few hours later, when you were all dressed and ready for the gala. You were wearing a red satin dress with gorgeous black heels. It was pretty simple, but the way the color made your brown skin pop, on top of the body glaze you were wearing, you looked good as fuck.
Your date had texted to let you know he was about to be outside, so you headed downstairs to the lobby area until you saw his truck pull up. When you did, he parked by the doors, got out, and started walking towards you. He was an extremely attractive man. Tall, mocha skin, locs that were pulled into a ponytail. He was wearing an all-black suit that fit his body perfectly. "You look beautiful, Y/N." He grabbed your hand and brought it up to his lips and kissed it. "Thank you. You look handsome yourself." You didn't lie, he did look good, but a part of you couldn't help but wonder what Cameron was up to. You hadn't spoken to him since this morning when the flowers were dropped off, and even that conversation was very brief. You couldn't wait to see him.
The vibes in the car on the way to the gala were good. You and your date engaged in nice conversation all the way there. The foundation gala taking place tonight was put together by the athletic department to raise money for charities. You were nervous to see who Cameron had brought. He had never mentioned to you that he was bringing a date. Not that he had to, but based on your relationship dynamic, you would think he'd say something
After taking many pictures and mingling with others, you were finally settled at your seat. Upon arrival, you spotted Cameron immediately…and the woman on his arm. When he saw you, something in his gaze changed. You could see his jaw clench in irritation every time he would glance your way. You barely had any time to appreciate how handsome he looked because he was giving you death glares from the moment you walked in.
You and your date were sitting at your table, waiting until the speeches were given. Against your will, your eyes moved to where Cameron and his date were sitting. She was laughing at something he said, and touching on his arms as she was doing it. That nigga couldn't have said something that funny. You rolled your eyes at his audacity. How does one go from sending you flowers this morning with a cute ass note, to not saying a word to you when they finally see you? Fuck that. You were starting to get irritated. "Excuse me, I will get right back. I need to go freshen up." Your date looked at you with concern in his eyes, but after reassuring him that you were fine, he finally nodded and told you he would order for you if you weren't out in time.
You picked a bathroom as far away from the event as you could. You needed time to breathe and be irritated in peace without even hearing the voices of other people. A few minutes passed by, and you heard the door to the bathroom open. "Hey, someone's in here," you called out. You smacked your teeth when you heard footsteps continue to walk further in. You were getting ready to go off when Cameron appeared. "What are you doing?!" you whisper-shouted. "You can't be in here, Cameron."
He just looked at you with a blank expression on his face. "You really brought another nigga as your date?" you scoffed. "Are you dead ass right now? You don't get to question me when you brought someone too." You were looking at him like he had completely lost his mind.
"You seeing him?"
"It doesn't matter if I am or not. You're lame as fuck, sending flowers to my house this morning, but got another woman laughing hard as fuck in your face, touching on you and shit. Why even go out of your way?"
"'Cause I'm yo man. The fuck? You had already planned to be here with that nigga." With every word, he was stepping closer to you, irritation written all over his face. "We're not together, Cameron." He was in your face now, forcing you to look up at him. Even in your heated gaze, you couldn't help but notice how handsome he looked tonight, and judging by the way his eyes glance down your body, you know he notices it too. "I have to go." You try to move around Cameron, but he just follows your movements.
"You ain't going back out there to that nigga."
"Cameron," you sigh. This was getting nowhere. "Maybe this was a mistake. We shouldn't do this." You place your hands on his chest in an attempt to push him away, but he just completely ignores you. "You look beautiful tonight. I almost lost my shit seeing you walk in here with him." Cameron places one of his hands under your chin, lifting it so you're looking at him. His voice had gotten softer, his eyes more pleading.
"She's not my date. She's the event coordinator. I didn't know we were going to be seated together, nor do I give a fuck about any of that shit." He rubs your chin softly. You understood where he was coming from, but something in you just wanted to continue to make things difficult.
"I have to go," You say again.
"Stop playing with me, Y/N," then he pushes his lips onto yours. You were taken aback by the abruptness of the moment, but when you found your footing, you returned the kiss all the same. You groaned into each other's mouths, moving between a fast and slow pace, trying to do everything you can to savor the moment. Cameron sucks your bottom lip into his mouth. When he breaks away, he looks at you with a half-lidded, heated gaze. He licks his lips and turns you around so you're facing the mirror.
He bends and presses kisses on the backs of your ears, trailing down to the sides of your neck. You hear him unclasp his pants and push them down, along with his underwear. Cameron pushes up the back of your dress. In the mirror, you see him looking down at you, licking his lips like he is admiring you like a work of art, and of course, you weren't wearing any panties, so he was getting a full view of your ass.
He moves back to your ear and says ever so softly. "Put me in," You reached back and grabbed his dick in your hands, stroking him to spread the precum over his dick. Then, you placed his dick at the entrance of your pussy and gasped when you felt him start to sink in.
He pushes in ever so slowly, then pulls out and moves back in just as slowly. "Cammmm, fuck." You grip the edges of the sink to keep your balance.
"Look at yourself," he says in that deep, raspy, sexy voice. "You look like mine… don't you?"
Your eyes meet his hazel gaze in the mirror. He began to pick up the pace, knocking exactly at your G-spot with every thrust. "Don't you, Y/N?" he asks again. "Yessssss," you were trying not to be so loud because you were literally still at a networking event with hundreds of people in the same building.
"I'm fucking obsessed with you, mama." He wraps his hand around your throat. "You taking this dick so well, too." Your eyes rolled to the back of your head at the pleasure he was putting on your body.
"It feels so good, Cam, shittt," The sounds of his dick moving in and out of you and you getting wetter by the minute. Cam pulls out, picks you up, and sets you on the sick, and is back inside you all within five seconds. You didn't even have time to recover before he was back inside you, moving at a relentless pace.
"I'm gonna cum, baby." He looked down at you with a sexy smirk on his face. Sweat started to show at the base of his hairline. He reached down and pressed another nasty kiss to your lips, and neither of you cared. You were just consumed in the moment, you were stuck in a trance at the feel of his dick moving in and out of you. When Cam reached down and began thumbing your clit, your mouth opened on a silent moan as you came— hard.
"Cam, Cam, Cammm," you repeated over and over from the intensity of your orgasm. And he just fucked you through it, not stopping even once, making you cum again. His moves started to become more frantic, letting you know he was close as well. He stiffened inside you with a grunt. "Fuckkk, mama."
He collapsed on top of you, both of you heavily panting. Trying to find your breath again. After a few minutes, he pulled his clothes back on and got himself together. He helped you off the sink, fixing and smoothing out your dress as you revamped your look in the mirror, making yourself look presentable again.
After both of you were both ready to go back out, Cameron turned you around and grabbed your throat. "When you go back out there, ion wanna see that nigga touching you. Matter fact, you not even leaving this bitch with him. I'll take you home, ight?" You nodded, and Cameron gave your ass a light smack before allowing you to go out first.
Thankfully, there were enough people here not to notice your absence. After you had gotten to your seat, your date looked up at you with concern etched all over his face. "You good?" he asks, reaching out to touch your arm to help you sit. You quickly moved away from his touch as soon as you were seated. "Yes, I just felt a bit sick for a minute." You gave him a small smile in reassurance. "Okay, the food should be out shortly. I went ahead and ordered for you." You gave him your thanks.
A few minutes later, you saw Cameron walk back into the venue, to his seat. Still looking as put together as ever, as if he didn't just fuck you silly a few minutes ago.
The rest of the night went smoothly. You ate dinner and sat and talked with the people around you for the rest of the night. Every now and then, you would catch Cameron making glances at you. Based on the look in his eyes, you knew the night was far from over.
»» ──────ஓ๑♥๑ஓ ────── ««
"Fuckkk, Cameron!" you moan loudly as you came on his fingers for the second time. After the event, you ended up at his apartment. What was supposed to be a chill night ended with you straddling him, your tongue in his mouth, and you riding his fingers.
He pulled his fingers out and brought them to your mouth. You greedily sucked them into your mouth, licking your release from his fingers as if it were his dick. After you sucked his two fingers clean, he grabbed the back of your neck and pulled you down to meet his lips. He slips his tongue into your mouth, trying to get the taste of you and your release.
You collapsed on his chest, trying to catch your breath after you were basically trying to swallow each other's faces. In one swift movement, your back was hitting his pillows, and he was moving down your body and sucking your pussy into his mouth. He spat on your pussy and watched it drip down before slurping it back up. "Shit tastes good as fuck." You were in too much of a blissful state to even reply to him; you just looked down at him as he feasted on your pussy with skill. The man looked like he was in his element just from eating your pussy. "Cam, please."
It didn't take long before you were cumming in his mouth, and of course, everything you produced, he licked it up.
"Fuck me, please." You pulled at his arms until he was hovering above you. He let you control the pace. He stared at you, letting out soft, heavy breaths, as he waited for you to put him inside of you. he wasted no time in pounding your pussy relentlessly. "Yesss," You whimpered. You couldn't get enough of him, of his heated body pressed against yours, of his dick stretching you out and pounding into you.
"I'm yo man, right?" he asks breathlessly. You were at a loss for words, so you nodded profusely. "Nah, say that shit."
"I'm yours, Cam, fuckkk!" Your breast bounced with each thrust, and his eyes followed their movement every time.
"I'm gonna cum again, babyy," you moaned in pure ecstasy. "Then cum on this dick." The pressure building up inside of you exploded. You came so hard you saw stars. At the same time, Cameron stiffened as he came along with you, moaning and groaning in your ear.
He collapsed beside you, both of you still panting like crazy. This time, it took a bit longer to find your footing. You had basically been going at it like rabbits ever since you got back to his apartment. As you were still heavily breathing, Cameron got out of bed and left the room, returning with a rag and a water bottle in his hand. He took the rag and placed it on your pussy, leaving it there for a second. You moaned softly at the warmth emitting from the rag. After a few seconds, he proceeded to clean you up.
Afterwards, he climbed back into bed and pulled you into his arms, rubbing on your body to release any tension you may have.
Cameron definitely showed his jealous side tonight… and you weren't even mad at it.
we're back babyyyyyyyyyy , i hope you guys enjoyed this! my requests are open, so dont hesitate to let me know what you would like to see (from any fandom). see yall in the next one my cherries, muah <3
