✦ pairings ... 2.1k ﹒ dangerous michael ℘ f.reader.
✦ premise ... 𝐀 𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘 𝐍𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 ★ after returning home to neverland, michael is greeted with an unexpected surprise: food, a new family movie, and an evening with the only person who makes the mansion feel like home.
✦ contains ... ( fluff ) lovesick puppy!michael, cuddling, kisses, romance, slight yearning, no use of y/n
✦ adore’s note ... i wrote this drunk, still am drunk. i could only fufill this req when i wasn't in my head. not proof read bc mama's tired. so, goodnight and enjoy !
requested ﹒ anon ♡
The late afternoon sun filters through the grand, arched windows of the entry hall at Neverland, casting long, dancing shadows across the gleaming marble floors. Michael is sitting on a long, ornate bench, its dark, carved wood a stark contrast to the bright, airy space. He's wearing a simple, white button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and a pair of black, tailored trousers. His feet are bare, a small, uncharacteristic act of casual comfort that speaks to the quiet solitude of the moment.
He's fidgeting. His long, elegant fingers tap a restless, syncopated rhythm on the polished wood of the bench. He checks his watch, a sleek, gold Cartier, then immediately regrets it, a small, frustrated sigh escaping his lips. He runs a hand through his hair, a nervous, agitated gesture that is so unlike his usual, polished poise. He's waiting.
And then, he hears it. The crunch of gravel on the long, winding driveway. The low, familiar rumble of an engine. A slow, bright smile spreads across his face, a genuine, unguarded expression of pure, unadulterated joy. He's on his feet in a single, fluid movement, a graceful, almost dancer-like burst of energy that is full of a boyish, impatient anticipation.
The heavy, oak door swings open, and you step inside, blinking against the sudden shift from the bright California sun to the cool, dim light of the hall. The door swings shut behind you with a soft, solid thud, and before you can even take a proper breath, he's there.
He wraps you in a hug that is so tight, so fiercely possessive, it almost knocks the breath out of you. He buries his face in your hair, inhaling deeply, a contented, sighing sound of pure, unadulterated bliss.
"You're back," he murmurs, his voice a muffled, happy rumble against your neck. "You're back."
"M'back," you echo, your words a soft, breathy laugh as you wrap your arms around him, your hands splayed across the warm, solid expanse of his back. "Miss me?"
He pulls back, but only just enough to look at you. His face is a beautiful, brilliant smile, his dark eyes sparkling with a light so bright it could rival the California sun. And then, he starts kissing you.
It's not a passionate, demanding kiss. It's a barrage of soft, sweet, impossibly warm kisses, a joyful, chaotic celebration of your return. He kisses your forehead, your cheeks, the tip of your nose, your chin. He's a flurry of affection, a human hummingbird, a whirlwind of happy, welcoming kisses. You're laughing, a loud, unrestrained sound that is full of a deep, abiding happiness, trying to duck and dodge his playful assault.
"Michael!" you gasp, between fits of laughter. "Stop! I can't breathe!"
He finally relents, pulling back with a final, soft kiss on your forehead. He's still holding you, his hands gentle, firm on your waist, a happy, contented hum vibrating in his chest.
"Sorry," he says, but he's not sorry at all. His smile is a full, brilliant, megawatt thing that makes your heart do a funny little flip. "I jus' missed you."
"I missed you too," you say, your voice a soft, affectionate murmur. You reach up, gently brushing a stray strand of hair from his forehead. Your fingers linger on his skin, a soft, familiar caress.
"I have a surprise f'you," you say, a playful, mysterious glint in your eye.
His own eyes light up, a childlike, eager curiosity that is utterly endearing. "A surprise?" he repeats, his voice a low, intrigued whisper. "What is it?"
"You have to wait," you say, pulling away from him and taking a step back toward the door. "I have t'go back to the car t'get it. Don't peek."
You turn and disappear back through the heavy oak door, leaving him standing in the middle of the grand hall, a look of happy, confused anticipation on his face. He paces, a slow, restless circuit around the marble-topped table in the center of the room, his hands stuffed into his pockets. He's like a kid on Christmas morning, a bundle of excited, nervous energy.
The door opens again, and you reappear, your arms laden with goodies. You're holding a large, familiar red and white bucket, the glorious, greasy aroma of fried chicken filling the air, a stark, delicious contrast to the usually pristine, scent-free environment of the house. Tucked under your arm is a black plastic DVD case, the colorful, cartoonish image of a giant, floating baby on the cover.
His eyes widen, a look of pure, unadulterated delight on his face. "Is that…?" he asks, his voice a hushed, reverent whisper.
"Is it what?" you ask, a playful, innocent smile on your face. "This old thing?"
He closes the distance between you in three long, eager strides, his eyes fixed on the bucket. "KFC," he breathes, the word a happy, worshipful sigh. "I was just thinking about how good KFC would be."
"And that's not all," you say, presenting the DVD case to him with a flourish. "I present t'you, the cinematic masterpiece of our time: 'Honey, I Blew Up the Kid'."
He lets out a loud, delighted laugh, a beautiful, uninhibited sound that echoes in the vast, empty hall. He takes the bucket from you, his fingers brushing against yours, a warm, electric spark. He peeks inside the bucket, inhaling deeply.
"Oh, you're a saint," he says, his voice full of a grateful, almost tearful sincerity. "A true, honest-t'God saint."
"I try," you say, a self-satisfied smirk on your face. "Now, I'm going t'go change into something a little less… public. I'll meet you in th' theatre."
You give him a quick, mischievous wink, then turn and head for the grand staircase, your footsteps a light, happy sound on the marble.
You find him in the private theatre, a space that is less a room and more an experience. There's no stadium seating here, no sticky floors or overpriced popcorn. Instead, a single, plush, red velvet armchair sits in the center of the room, an oversized, decadent throne that is big enough for two. It's facing a massive, wall-sized screen, the soft glow of the menu screen for the DVD casting a warm, cinematic light across the space.
He's already in the chair, looking small and almost swallowed by its plush, velvet expanse. He's kicked off his shoes and has the bucket of chicken balanced precariously on the wide armrest. He's already wearing a pair of soft, grey sweatpants and a faded black Motown t-shirt, a comfortable, casual look that you rarely see him in outside the privacy of your shared spaces. He looks up as you enter, a soft, welcoming smile on his face.
You've changed too, swapping your jeans and t-shirt for a pair of your own soft, worn-in pajamas. You climb into the chair beside him, the velvet cushioning sighing under your weight. You snuggle up against him, your head resting on his shoulder, your legs tangled with his. He wraps an arm around you, pulling you close, a gesture that is as natural and as essential as breathing.
"Ready?" he asks, his voice a low, soft murmur against your hair.
"Ready," you say, your voice a happy, contented sigh.
He presses a button on a small, remote control, and the theatre lights dim, the room plunging into a soft, velvety darkness. The screen flickers to life, the familiar, boisterous theme music of a 90s family comedy filling the silence.
He reaches for the bucket, pulling out a piece of chicken. The crispy, golden skin glistens in the light from the screen. He breaks off a piece, holding it to your lips.
"Open up," he says, a playful, commanding tone in his voice.
You obey, your lips closing around the piece of chicken. It's glorious. Greasy, salty, a little bit spicy, a forbidden, delicious treat in this temple of health-consciousness. You moan, a low, guttural sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure.
"Good, right?" he asks, a proud, triumphant smirk on his face as he takes a bite for himself.
"Amazing," you say, your mouth still full.
You settle in, a comfortable, happy silence falling between you, broken only by the sounds of the movie and the occasional, happy sigh as you both devour the chicken. You pass the bucket back and forth, your fingers slick with grease, your hearts full of a simple, profound contentment. It's these moments you cherish the most. Not the grand, public spectacles, not the dazzling, sold-out concerts, but these quiet, private moments of pure, unadulterated normalcy.
The movie is exactly what you expected it to be: ridiculous, heartwarming, and utterly delightful. You find yourselves laughing at the same silly jokes, your bodies shaking with shared amusement. He's completely engrossed, his dark eyes fixed on the screen, a look of childlike wonder on his face. He's humming along to the soundtrack, a soft, tuneless murmur that is more endearing than any symphony.
About halfway through the movie, he shifts, reaching for the thick, fleece blanket that is draped over the back of the chair. He shakes it out, a billowing cloud of soft, warm fabric, then drapes it over the both of you. It's a cozy, intimate gesture, a small, simple act that makes your heart swell with a love so fierce it almost takes your breath away.
You snuggle deeper under the blanket, your body pressed against his. The warmth of him, the softness of the fleece, the delicious, greasy remnants of the chicken, the silly, comforting drone of the movie—it's a perfect, self-contained bubble of happiness.
You can feel yourself starting to drift, the events of the day, the contentment of the moment, a warm, heavy blanket pulling you down into a soft, welcoming sleep. Your head is still on his shoulder, your breathing starting to slow, to sync with the steady, rhythmic rise and fall of his chest.
You're vaguely aware of the giant baby on the screen causing some kind of chaos in a shopping mall, the familiar, boisterous sounds of a cinematic climax. But it all seems very far away, muffled and distant, like you're hearing it from underwater.
You feel him shift again, a slow, deliberate movement. His arm tightens around you, pulling you even closer. He presses a soft, lingering kiss to the top of your head, a gesture that is so full of love, so full of a deep, abiding tenderness, that it makes your heart ache.
"Love you," he murmurs, his voice a low, sleepy mumble against your hair.
You try to respond, to tell him that you love him too, but the words won't come. You're too far gone, already floating in that warm, hazy space between wakefulness and sleep. You manage a soft, contented sigh, a nonverbal response that you know he will understand.
He shifts again, his own body starting to relax, to soften. His head droops, resting against yours. You can feel the soft, tickling brush of his hair against your cheek, the warm, steady rhythm of his breath, a slow, calming cadence that lulls you deeper into sleep.
The movie plays on, its bright, flashing lights a silent, colorful spectacle in the darkened room. The bucket of chicken sits forgotten on the armrest, the last piece of chicken getting cold. Outside, the sun has set, the last of the day's light fading from the sky, plunging Neverland into a deep, peaceful darkness.
But in here, in this oversized, velvet throne, there is a different kind of light. There is the warmth of the blanket, the warmth of his body, the warmth of a love that is as simple and as profound as this. There is the quiet, rhythmic sound of two hearts beating in perfect sync, a steady, unwavering rhythm that is the only soundtrack that matters.
You fall asleep, a deep, dreamless, peaceful sleep, your body curled into his, your head on his shoulder. He follows you moments later, his own breathing deepening, his body going slack with sleep.
And there you stay, a tangled, sleeping heap in the middle of the private theatre, a silent, still portrait of a perfect, ordinary, extraordinary moment. A king in his castle, and you, his queen, asleep on a throne, wrapped in a blanket, with the faint, lingering scent of fried chicken in the air. A strange, beautiful, perfect fairy tale.
Can you write a fanfic where michael is happy to see reader and kisses all over her face but not in a smutty way more like welcoming and warm?? (If that makes any sense) 😭✋🏼
of course, my love !! i'm doing finishing touches !!
kill me, IMMEDIATELY. i woke up, excited to write some more. went to my doc, stared. I HAVE THESE IDEAS AND CANNOT PUT THEM TO PAPER. i called my writers block, probably jinxed it actually.
janet's daughter!reader canons for my upcoming third gen jackson fam reality tv series, the jacksons: goin' places (info wip) ⋆˚꩜。
janet's daughter!reader who was nicknamed lala (based on the song la la means i love you, the chorus of which was often sang to her) and munchkin from birth. rarely goes by her real name. so much so, even the media refers to her as lala jackson.
janet's daughter!reader who's a privileged, but humble nepo baby. makes music and performs in her spare time. same level of fame as her cousin, paris jackson. either you know her or you don't.
janet's daughter!reader who's the baby's (janet's) baby and treated as such. perfect picture of innocence, actual (mostly unintentional) menace, just like her mother. textbook youngest behavior, despite not being the actual youngest.
janet's daughter!reader whose semi-estranged father is jermaine dupri. 🫠
janet's daughter!reader who attends university in california to stay close to home.
janet's daughter!reader who once had a hamster and named it randy because it reminded her of her uncle.
janet's daughter!reader who calls her aunt latoya everyday to debrief and gossip.
mims yaps. hi, babes! wanted to get this out and see what y'all think. i'm open to feedback and suggestions! majority vote was michael as reader's parent but i vetoed y'all 🥴. sincerest apologies. hopefully it's made up to you by making it an au where dada lives! yay!
i was gonna make reader's father rené but with the age i have in mind (20/21) that wasn't gonna work unless i made jan cheat, and i js wasn't gonna do mother that way. so idk. he's js sperm donor ig.
this reader profile is def subject to change, esp as the series progresses! and yes, i'm still doing all the imagines i asked y'all to vote on. i'd love to say i'll have them done sooner rather than later, but let's be honest. it'll most likely be later lol. my main focus besides this reality tv series is to finish designing my blog and redoing my intro post, then everything else after.
anyway, that's it from me for now, but never for long! love y'all, mean it!
summary: you meet and fall in love with jaafar while you’re both in the same acting class, having no idea that he’s jaafar jackson, of the jackson family, and preparing to take on the role of portraying his very famous uncle michael jackson
themes: fluff, secret identity (kinda), secrets (but not malicious), slight angst (if you squint), no use of y/n
author's note: private request from a beloved of mine
2023
los angeles
if someone would've told you that during your acting class you would've fallen in love, you would've called them crazy. you hadn't walked into that classroom looking for anything other than becoming a better actor. romance wasn't part of the plan, and neither was finding someone who would slowly become your favorite part of every week. somehow, though, love had a way of slipping through the cracks when you weren't paying attention.
jaafar was different. he was kind, soft-spoken, endlessly patient, and so genuinely sweet that it caught you off guard. there was never any need for him to be the loudest person in the room or the center of attention. instead, he had this quiet warmth about him that naturally drew people in, and before long, you realized it had drawn you in too.
your teachers quickly noticed how well the two of you worked together and started pairing you for scene work whenever they could, always commenting on the "natural chemistry" between you. you didn't mind in the slightest. jaafar was an incredible actor, completely committed to every scene, and working opposite him always made you feel like a better performer yourself.
somewhere along the way, though, those scenes stopped feeling like just assignments.
every time the class was given a romantic monologue or an intimate scene, jaafar would look at you with such unwavering focus that the rest of the room seemed to disappear. he always held your gaze just a heartbeat longer than necessary, his eyes carrying a softness that wasn't written anywhere in the script. it was enough to make your pulse stumble, enough that more than once you nearly forgot your next line because all you could think about was how convincingly he looked at you.
the acting coaches praised the authenticity between you two, and neither of you had the heart to admit it was becoming less and less like acting.
then came the dates.
about a month into the class, jaafar had asked if you'd wanted to grab coffee before rehearsal one morning. the invitation had been casual enough that it didn't make your heart race until after you'd already said yes. the two of you exchanged numbers, met at a small coffee shop before class, and somehow spent nearly three hours talking.
he told you stories about his family. funny moments growing up, memories with his parents, stories about his siblings, aunts, and uncles that always made him smile while he told them. you noticed he never actually said anyone's name, but you hadn't thought much of it. everyone shared things differently, and if he wasn't ready to introduce names into those stories, you weren't going to pry.
instead, you found yourself wanting to know more about him.
he asked about your childhood, where you grew up, what first made you fall in love with acting, your favorite films, the places you wanted to travel, the dreams you hoped acting would someday make possible. every answer only led to another question, and before either of you realized it, you were laughing so much that you nearly forgot you had class to get to.
after that, the dates became a weekly tradition; sometimes it was coffee before class, other times it was dinner afterward. sometimes you'd wander around a bookstore for an hour, recommending your favorite novels to each other. other times you'd see a movie together, only to spend the drive home happily picking apart every performance like the acting students you were.
being together felt easy.
your first kiss happened after one of those dates, ironically, it was because of the michael movie. you had been scrolling through your phone when an article caught your attention, mentioning that the upcoming michael jackson biopic was still holding auditions as the filmmakers searched for the right actor to portray michael.
you turned your phone toward jaafar.
“you should audition for this,” you told him, having no idea that the very role you were showing him was the reason he was in your acting class to begin with.
jaafar looked down at the article before letting out a quiet chuckle to himself. there was something almost surreal about the moment. nobody in the class knew why he was really there. to everyone else, he was just another actor trying to sharpen his craft, another student chasing auditions and hoping for a big break.
if only you knew.
“i think you'd be really good for it. you're naturally soft-spoken like michael was, and really cute like michael,” you say without even thinking about it.
“oh, so you think i'm cute?” jaafar latched onto the one part of your sentence that made your composure immediately crumble.
you bit down on your lip as warmth rushed to your cheeks, silently cursing yourself for letting that one slip.
“yeah, yeah, you are... but seriously, i know taking on the king of pop would be a lot, but i think you can do it,” you said, trying to steer the conversation back to the movie.
jaafar's smile softened instantly. you had no idea how much those words meant to him. you didn't know he'd already been cast and the entire reason he'd spent the last several months in acting class was because he was preparing to become michael.
you didn't know the countless hours he'd spent questioning whether he was good enough, whether he could carry the weight of portraying not just a global icon, but his own uncle.
yet somehow, without knowing any of it, you looked at him and saw exactly what the filmmakers had seen. you believed he could do it before you even knew there was something to believe in.
he wished, more than anything, that he could've told you the truth right then and there.
“only if you audition for ola ray,” he said instead, teasing you about being his love interest in thriller. you giggled, your cheeks somehow growing even warmer as you rolled your eyes, unable to stop smiling.
“if they do a part two, i'll wait and audition for iman for remember the time, michael's first on screen kiss in all of his short films,” you said with a teasing smile.
jaafar raised an eyebrow. “oh, yeah? if you wanted to kiss me, you could just ask.” for a split second, your brain completely short-circuited. you stared at him, trying to decide if he'd actually just said that or if your imagination had gotten the better of you.
“hmm, you're so confident you're gonna get the role?” you teased, finally finding your footing again.
he laughed, shaking his head. “no, so if i don't, i'll have to watch you kiss someone else.”
your smile only widened. “now who wants to kiss who so bad?” you teased, thoroughly enjoying the way his cheeks immediately turned a deep shade of red.
it was impossible not to smile triumphantly at finally making him just as flustered as he'd made you, but your teasing only lasted for a moment. almost without thinking, you found yourself leaning a little closer across the table and jaafar noticed.
his smile softened again, his expression losing every ounce of playful confidence as something quieter settled over him. he lifted one hand slowly, giving you every opportunity to pull away, before gently cupping your jaw. his thumb rested lightly against your cheek, his touch careful and warm, as if he was still making sure this was really happening.
you both leaned in at the same time, closing the last few inches between you until your lips met in the middle in a soft, lingering kiss, right there in the middle of the coffee shop. it was gentle and tentative in all the best ways, like two people who had spent months dancing around their feelings had finally allowed themselves to stop pretending they weren't there.
when you finally pulled back, neither of you could stop smiling.
acting class had changed after that.
not because you and jaafar started acting any differently, but because now that your feelings were out in the open, neither of you were particularly good at hiding them anymore. there was still a level of professionalism the two of you maintained during class, always committed to your scenes and giving each other honest notes afterward, but the little things had become impossible for everyone else to miss.
the way he'd instinctively save the seat beside him before every class started, how the two of you were always the last to leave because one conversation somehow turned into five, or the soft smiles that would spread across both of your faces whenever your teachers announced you were paired together again. it didn't take long before everyone in the class realized there was clearly something more going on between the two of you.
for months, your lives settled into a routine that felt so natural it was hard to remember what acting class had been like before jaafar walked into it. the two of you continued performing together and keeping things mostly professional while you were there, but the moment class was over, he was yours.
some nights he took you out to dinner, while other nights you cooked together in your apartment, laughing every time one of you inevitably made a mess in the kitchen. movie nights became a weekly tradition, usually ending with your dog atlas insisting on curling up across both of your legs at the foot of your bed, refusing to move no matter how many times either of you tried.
sleepovers became so common that waking up beside jaafar started feeling as ordinary as waking up alone once had, and somewhere over the course of those months, he realized he didn't want to keep calling you the girl he was dating. he wanted you to be his girlfriend.
then came the day.
the moment graham king walked into your acting class, every conversation in the room came to an abrupt stop. nobody expected one of hollywood's biggest producers to casually walk into an acting studio, and judging by the confused looks everyone exchanged, no one had the slightest idea why he was there.
after introducing himself, he began talking about the michael biopic, explaining that after an extensive search, they had finally found the actor who would portray michael jackson.
sitting beside jaafar, you leaned over with a grin and gently nudged his arm. “did you audition like i told you to?” you tease.
jaafar let out a small laugh, but it did little to settle the nerves that had been building in his stomach since the moment he'd walked into class that morning.
you had noticed something was off almost immediately. he had been quieter than usual, smiling whenever you looked at him but seeming distracted, as though something was constantly pulling at the back of his mind. you'd assumed he was nervous about an audition or maybe something going on with his family, never imagining that the reason for his anxiety was sitting only a few feet away from him.
because jaafar already knew exactly why graham was there.
he knew that within the next few minutes, everyone in the room would learn who he really was, and as excited as he was for the announcement itself, all he could think about was you.
for weeks he'd been carrying around a completely different plan for today. after class, he was going to take you to dinner at one of your favorite restaurants before finally asking you to be his girlfriend. he'd thought about what he wanted to say more times than he could count, wanting the moment to be perfect because that's what you deserved.
now, he wasn't sure if he'd even get the chance.
he'd never wanted to keep something this big from you. graham had made it clear from the beginning that nobody in the acting class was to know he was jermaine jackson's son or michael's nephew. the entire point of sending him there was so he'd be treated like every other aspiring actor, not like someone with one of the most recognizable last names in the world. he needed to learn, to struggle, and to grow without anyone treating him differently because of who his family was.
still, that didn't stop the guilt that had quietly settled in his chest over the months he'd spent getting closer to you.
he'd told you stories about growing up, about his parents, his siblings, his aunts and uncles, carefully dancing around names every single time. there had been so many moments he'd wanted to tell you the truth, especially as your relationship became more serious, but every time he thought about it, he remembered the promise he'd made and convinced himself he'd explain everything once he was finally allowed to.
he just hadn't wanted you to find out like this.
“and we're excited to announce the lead for the michael movie is... jaafar jackson,” graham said. your entire body seemed to freeze.
you watched as jaafar slowly stood from his seat, an almost shy smile spreading across his face before he walked over to graham and accepted a congratulatory hug. for a moment, you couldn't hear anything except the pounding of your own heartbeat, your brain struggling to catch up with what had just been said before the room suddenly erupted into applause, cheers, and countless voices talking over one another in complete disbelief.
“this is jaafar's first acting role, so we sent him here to get some acting lessons and told him not to tell anyone his surname or that he's michael's nephew or that this class was to help him prepare for the role, so jaafar didn't lie to you all, we did,” graham explained, almost as though he knew exactly what everyone in the room was thinking.
while your classmates crowded around jaafar with congratulations and endless questions, his attention never left you. through the sea of people between you, his eyes searched your face, desperately trying to read an expression he suddenly couldn't understand.
you looked completely stunned.
your eyes were wide as you sat quietly in your seat, your hands folded together in your lap while everything you'd learned about jaafar over the last year replayed in your mind. all those stories about his family where he had never once said a name. the countless conversations you'd had about auditions and acting. every date, every night he'd spent at your apartment, every moment you'd shared together. for months, you'd fallen in love with a man who had kept something so unimaginably huge from you.
but even through the shock, graham's words echoed in your mind. jaafar didn't lie to you all, we did. he hadn't been allowed to tell you.
that realization didn't erase your surprise, but it kept your heart from immediately assuming the worst because, knowing jaafar the way you did, you couldn't imagine him willingly keeping something like this from you unless he truly had no choice.
your acting teacher eventually dismissed class early, knowing nobody was going to be focusing on scene work after an announcement like that.
the second you stood from your chair, jaafar felt his stomach drop, you were the first person to walk out of the room.
his smile faded almost instantly as panic settled over him. after quickly excusing himself from graham and apologizing to the classmates still trying to congratulate him, he hurried after you, his only thought being that he couldn't let you leave believing he'd intentionally kept this from you.
“baby,” he gently grabbed your wrist once you were both outside and turned you around. you didn't pull back from him, but you also didn't know what to say. t
here were so many thoughts racing through your mind that you couldn't seem to grab onto just one long enough to put it into words, and judging by the nervousness written all over jaafar's face, he was terrified of what you were about to say.
“this whole time?” you finally asked, your voice quieter than you'd intended and jaafar's heart sank.
“i wasn't trying to be malicious, or trick you, or intentionally lie to you, i promise,” jaafar says, his voice soft and full of sincerity. you nodded.
“i know but i just... i mean i get it, but... we've been going on dates for nearly a year, i've told you things i've never told anyone... i invited you into my home, my bed... i let you meet my dog, i don't let anybody meet atlas, because he usually hates everyone,” you say, and hearing yourself say it out loud makes you realize how ridiculous that last part sounds. despite everything weighing on your heart, you couldn't help letting out a small laugh. “but he really loves you,” you say, and jaafar can't help laughing too.
“i really love atlas too. i wanted to tell you, so many times, i did,” he says and you frown, because that was the other thing that held jaafar back from asking you to be his girlfriend.
he didn't want to enter a serious relationship with you if you didn't know the truth. every time he'd thought about asking you, the excitement of finally making things official had been followed by the same nagging feeling in the back of his mind.
if you found out afterward, would you think he'd built your relationship on a lie? would you feel betrayed that something so significant had been kept from you for so long? he wanted the two of you to start that next chapter with complete honesty between you, but every time he'd come close to telling you himself, he remembered the promise he'd made to graham.
he'd convinced himself that once the announcement was public, he'd finally be able to explain everything to you, answer every question you had, and then ask you to be his girlfriend knowing there would be no more secrets between you.
“did you not trust me? i wouldn't have said anything to anyone,” you say and jaafar immediately shakes his head.
“i know, baby... i know you wouldn't. i should've told you, i should've never let it be an ambush like that in class,” he says, guilt evident in his voice. “i hated watching you find out like that.”
you slowly ran your fingers back through your hair, trying to make sense of the last several months before your eyes suddenly widened.
“so months ago during one of our early dates when i told you that you should audition for the movie because you'd probably be good for it...” you trail off and he nods.
“yeah...” he says. you let out a disbelieving laugh, still trying to wrap your head around it.
“and all the stories about when your uncle would take you, your siblings, and your cousins to the amusement park and to the zoo, you really meant—” he gently cuts you off.
“family days at neverland ranch,” he says as he bites down on his lip to suppress a smile.
the words hung in the air between you, and suddenly every conversation you'd ever had with him replayed differently in your mind. all those stories he'd told you over coffee, during late-night drives home, or while the two of you were curled up watching movies suddenly had names attached to them.
he hadn't been vague because he didn't want to share his life with you. he'd been vague because he was trying to share as much of it as he could without breaking the promise he'd made.
“wow... wow,” you say, because you're not sure what else to say. “so michael is really your uncle?” you ask and jaafar nods.
“yeah.”
“so who's your dad?” you ask.
“you can't tell?” he asks with a teasing smile.
you roll your eyes, but you find yourself studying his face again, this time with completely different eyes than before. you'd spent nearly a year memorizing every feature of his face without ever thinking about who he resembled, but now that you knew the family he came from, the resemblance became impossible to ignore.
recognition washed over you almost immediately, followed by a laugh as you realized you'd noticed it before and convinced yourself you were imagining things.
“i always thought you looked like jermaine, but thought i was crazy for thinking that,” you say, and jaafar laughs while shaking his head.
“well you'd be right, jermaine is my dad,” he says.
you nodded slowly, and the silence that settled between you felt different this time. the brief moment of teasing had faded as the reality of everything finally settled over you. for nearly a year, you'd been falling in love with someone from one of the most well-known families in music, and you'd had absolutely no idea.
somehow, despite everything that had just changed, when you looked at jaafar, you still saw the same man you'd shared countless dinners with, the same man atlas adored for reasons neither of you could explain, the same man who held your hand during movies and kissed you goodbye after every date. he didn't suddenly feel like someone else.
he still felt like jaafar.
“i should probably... go now,” you say, needing a little time to process everything you'd just learned. jaafar's heart immediately dropped.
“wait, before you do... can i tell you what i wanted to tell you today?” he asks, and you raise an eyebrow, surprised that after everything that had just happened, there could possibly be something else he wanted to say.
“you had something to follow up being told you're michael jackson's freaking nephew?” you ask, and a soft chuckle escapes him.
“i had a whole plan for today, for after class. i was going to ask you to get dinner with me again, and i had this whole speech prepared,” jaafar says.
you raise an eyebrow. “a speech?”
“a big one,” he says, the nervous smile on his face making it obvious he'd probably rehearsed it over and over in his head.
despite everything still swirling around in your mind, the image of jaafar standing in front of his bathroom mirror practicing a speech made the corners of your mouth lift into the first genuine smile you'd had since graham's announcement. seeing that smile appear on your face seemed to let him breathe for the first time all afternoon, and you realized he wasn't worried about whether you knew he was a jackson anymore.
he was worried about whether you still wanted whatever the two of you had been building toward for the last year. you walked over to the bench nearby before sitting down, then looked up at him and nodded toward the empty spot beside you.
“okay, i'll hear your speech,” you say.
jaafar lets out a quiet laugh, relief softening every bit of tension in his face as he realizes you're giving him exactly what he'd hoped for.
a chance.
“during this dinner, i wanted to tell you that i’ve never met anyone like you. i had come to this acting class to learn, before taking on the weight of a global icon, i expected to go through monologues, learn techniques, learn what it means to be an actor, but i hadn’t expected you,” jaafar says.
your smile immediately softens, warmth blooming in your chest despite everything that had happened over the last hour. he was standing there in front of you, clearly nervous, pouring his heart out exactly the way he'd planned to before his entire world had been turned upside down. as sweet as it was, though, you couldn't resist teasing him just a little.
“is the whole speech this corny?” you ask. jaafar lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he looks down at the ground for a second before looking back at you.
“that right there, is one of the things i love most about you, because i'm in love with you... and i was scared that if you knew who i really was that maybe you'd end up only seeing the jackson name. you made me feel normal, where i didn't have to be the man who came from a famous family, i could just be jaafar, a first time actor trying to learn what the hell to do,” he says.
you let out a soft laugh at the end of his sentence, but it was quickly overtaken by the sting behind your eyes.
he loved you. he hadn't stumbled over the words or said them by accident. he'd said them with complete certainty, like he'd been carrying them around for months, just waiting for the right moment to finally let you hear them.
suddenly, the shock of everything you'd learned that afternoon became so much smaller than the man standing in front of you. the famous last name, the movie, the pressure that was about to consume his life, none of it seemed nearly as important as the vulnerability in his eyes as he waited for you to hear him out.
“jaafar…” you say.
he gently shakes his head with a small smile, he's not done.
“i love our movie nights. i love when atlas lays on our legs and i can't move because it means i get to have you closer. i love when you dance while cooking when you think no one's watching you. i love how you yell at characters in movies for making dumb choices. i love you, baby, and i'm sorry i didn't tell you who i was sooner and you had to find out with everyone else, but i would love for you to be my girlfriend, if you'll still have me,” jaafar says.
your eyes widened as the last of his words settled over you, and before you could stop them, tears spilled down your cheeks. every little thing he'd listed wasn't some grand romantic gesture, they were the ordinary moments, the quiet moments, the ones that happened when nobody else was around.
he hadn't fallen in love with some perfect version of you, it made your heart ache in the most beautiful way.
jaafar finally let out the breath he'd been holding before walking over and sitting down beside you on the bench. the adrenaline that had been carrying him through his confession suddenly disappeared, leaving him feeling almost lightheaded as he took a slow, steadying breath. he'd finally said everything he'd spent weeks rehearsing.
now all that was left was your answer.
“i love you too, jaafar... it hit me so hard it scared me, but seeing you curled up asleep in my bed, i just thought to myself... i always want to wake up like this, next to him. i don't care what your last name is. i don't care if you came from the richest family or the poorest. i love you, and i would love to be your girlfriend,” you say.
the moment the words left your mouth, the nervousness he'd been carrying all day completely melted away. without wasting another second, jaafar reached up and gently cupped your face before pulling you toward him, kissing you with everything he'd been holding back for the last hour.
you melted into him just like you always did whenever he kissed you, your arms naturally wrapping around his neck as your fingers found the curls resting against the nape of his neck, gently playing with them the way you knew he loved. the kiss was slow and unhurried, filled with every emotion the two of you had struggled to put into words that afternoon.
when you finally pulled apart, neither of you moved very far away. your foreheads nearly touched, your noses brushing as you both smiled through damp eyes, completely content just to exist in the quiet moment the two of you had fought so hard to get back.
“the next few years... however long it takes to make this movie... it's going to be a lot,” he whispers to you.
you nodded before answering just as quietly. “i know.” there wasn't any fear in your voice, only understanding.
you'd watched how dedicated he'd been to acting over the last year, and if portraying michael required even more of him than acting class had, then you already knew the road ahead wasn't going to be easy. you weren't walking into this relationship expecting all of his time or attention. you knew this role meant something bigger than either of you.
“between rehearsals and filming, i don't know what my schedule will always look like, but i promise... i will always prioritize our weekly dates,” jaafar says.
you smiled and nodded.
you'd already anticipated that the movie was going to consume most of his life for a while. it was the opportunity of a lifetime, one he'd worked unbelievably hard for, and you would never ask him to choose between you and the dream he'd sacrificed so much to achieve.
instead, you reached over and intertwined your fingers with his.
“i'll be here every step of the way,” you promise.
the conviction in your voice made something soften behind his eyes. through everything that had happened that day, through the fear that you'd walk away after learning who he really was, the only thing he'd wanted was for you to still choose him, and you had.
“i love you,” he says.
the words still felt new.
hearing them sent warmth flooding through your chest all over again, and you couldn't stop the smile that spread across your face. you weren't used to hearing someone say them to you like that, with such certainty and tenderness, but you already knew you could spend the rest of your life listening to him.
“i love you too,” you whisper back.
his smile only grew before he leaned in and kissed you again.
✦ pairings ... 2.3k ﹒ bad michael ℘ pregnant!reader
✦ premise ... 𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐌𝐄 ★ with your due date only days away, you've officially reached the point where seeing your own feet is a challenge—let alone shaving. determined not to flash a full bush at the delivery room staff, you reluctantly ask michael for a favor
✦ contains ... ( fluff with humor ) husband!michael, jokes, pregnancy, romance, pet names, suggestive banter, kissing ( isn't that how you got here in the first place ), teasing, emotional intimacy, nesting, no use of y/n, wife!reader
✦ adore’s note ... inspired by scott disick and kourtney in kuwtk. laughed the entire time i wrote this. check out the poll and comment if you want me to tag you for those fic drops!
requested ﹒ the poll ! ♡
You’re perched on the edge of the bathtub, a position that requires a level of flexibility you simply do not possess. You're twisted into a shape that would make a pretzel weep, one leg propped precariously on the side of the tub, the other planted firmly on the bathmat. Your belly, a magnificent, taut sphere, blocks all view of your lower half, a furry, uncharted territory you can only navigate by touch. The razor in your hand feels like a foreign object, a clumsy, dangerous tool in this blind, awkward mission.
You take a deep, steadying breath, trying to contort yourself further, your fingers straining as you attempt to find a decent angle. It's no use. You can't see a damn thing. For all you know, you're about to give yourself a reverse Mohawk. You sigh, a loud, frustrated sound that echoes in the tiled bathroom, and drop the razor into the tub with a clatter.
This is it. This is the final indignity of pregnancy. The swollen ankles, the heartburn, the weird, fuzzy upper lip you've started sprouting, all of it you've handled with a certain level of grace. But this? This is the line. You cannot, will not, go into labor looking like you're hiding a small, woodland creature in your underwear.
You heave yourself into a standing position, a maneuver that requires a series of grunts and strategic leverage points. You waddle out of the bathroom, your movements slow and ponderous, like a battleship navigating a narrow canal.
You find him in the nursery, on his hands and knees on the fluffy white carpet. He's meticulously tightening the screws on the rocking horse's legs, his brow furrowed in concentration. He's wearing a pair of faded denim overalls over a simple black t-shirt, your matching initial necklace glinting in the soft light from the lamp. "Michael," you say, your voice a low, hesitant murmur.
He looks up, a warm, brilliant smile spreading across his face. He pushes himself up, brushing off the knees of his overalls. "Hey, Mama," he says, his voice a soft, gentle rumble. "How's my best girl?"
"I need a favor," you say, shifting your weight from one foot to the other, suddenly unable to meet his gaze.
"Anything," he says, his smile widening. "What do you need? Another foot rub? Pickles n’ peanut butter? You name it, I'll get it."
You take a deep breath, bracing yourself. "I need you to… I need you t’shave me."
His smile falters, a flicker of confusion in his dark eyes. "Shave you?" he repeats, his brow furrowed. "Shave y’where?"
You gesture vaguely towards your nether regions, a gesture that is both mortifying and utterly ineffectual. "Down there," you mumble, your cheeks burning with a heat that has nothing to do with the baby.
A slow, dawning understanding spreads across his face. His eyes widen, a mixture of surprise and something else, something that looks suspiciously like amusement, in their dark depths. He tries to hide it, you can see the effort it takes, but a small, almost imperceptible smirk plays at the corners of his lips.
"Oh," he says, his voice a choked, strangled sound. "Oh. Okay."
"I can't see!" you blurt out, your words a frantic, defensive rush. "I can't see anythin’! And I can't not shave, Michael. I can't. The last thing I need is a whole team of doctors and nurses getting an eyeful of th’ seventies revival that's happenin’ in my pants. I can't do it. I just can't."
He's trying so hard not to laugh. You can see the way his shoulders are shaking, the way he's pressing his lips together, a desperate, failing attempt to maintain a straight face.
"It's not funny!" you cry, your voice rising in pitch. "This is an emergency! A real emergency!"
He finally lets out a soft, choked chuckle, a beautiful, melodic sound that is both infuriating and utterly endearing. "M’sorry," he gasps, holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "M’sorry, baby. M’not laughing at you. I swear. M’jus’… surprised."
"You're surprised?" you retort, your hands flying to your hips, a gesture that is slightly less intimidating when you're shaped like a prize-winning watermelon. "I'm th’ one who's surprised! I'm th’ one who can't see her own… her own…"
You trail off, unable to finish the sentence, the embarrassment a hot, suffocating blanket.
He closes the distance between you, his hands gently cupping your face. His thumbs stroke your cheeks, a soft, soothing gesture that calms you instantly.
"Hey," he says, his voice a low, gentle murmur. "Look at me."
You lift your gaze, your eyes meeting his. They are so full of love, so full of a tenderness that makes your heart ache.
"There is nothing about you," he says, his voice a low, firm, unwavering declaration. "Absolutely nothing about you that I could ever find embarrassing. Nothing."
He leans in, pressing a soft, sweet kiss to your forehead. "Besides," he adds, a playful, teasing glint in his eyes. "I happen t’be very fond of th’ seventies revival."
You can't help the small, watery laugh that escapes your lips. "Oh, really?" you say, your tone lightening. "Well, you loved more than my bush, n’ that's how we got here."
He grins, a full, brilliant, megawatt smile that could power a small city. "Well, when y’put it that way," he says, his voice a low, playful rumble. "I consider it an honor. A privilege, even."
He takes your hand, his fingers lacing through yours. "Lead th’ way, my love," he says, with a comical, formal bow. "Let's go tackle this… this topiary." You lead him back to the bathroom, your earlier mortification replaced by a warm, giddy sense of amusement. You perch back on the edge of the tub, this time with a sense of anticipation instead of frustration.
He kneels in front of you, his movements slow and deliberate. He looks at your belly, a look of pure, unadulterated awe on his face. He leans in, pressing a soft, reverent kiss to the taut, stretched skin. "Hello, in there," he murmurs, his voice a soft, gentle whisper. "Daddy's about t’perform some very delicate maintenance. Don't be scared."
The baby, as if on cue, delivers a sharp, decisive kick, right against Michael's cheek. He laughs, a delighted, surprised sound. "Wow," he says, rubbing his cheek. "Okay. I guess we have an live audience."
He turns his attention back to the task at hand. He grabs a can of shaving cream and a new, pink razor, a look of intense, surgical concentration on his face. He squirts a dollop of the white, foamy cream into his palm, the scent of lavender and aloe filling the air.
"Okay," he says, more to himself than to you. "Okay. We can do this. Precision. We need precision." He gently, tentatively, applies the shaving cream, his fingers moving with a caution that is both hilarious and incredibly sweet. He's treating you like you're a priceless, fragile artifact, a delicate piece of spun glass.
"Okay," he says again, his brow furrowed in concentration. "Okay. Razor. Now." He picks up the razor, his hand trembling slightly. He takes a deep, steadying breath, then brings the razor closer. He's so close, you can feel the warmth of his breath on your skin.
He makes the first pass, a slow, careful, deliberate stroke. You can feel the razor gliding smoothly, a gentle, scraping sensation. He looks up at you, his eyes wide, a look of triumphant pride on his face. "See?" he says, his voice a proud, beaming whisper. "Perfect. I'm a natural."
You can't help the loud, unrestrained laugh that bubbles up from your chest. He's so serious, so utterly focused on this mundane, intimate task, and it's the most wonderful, ridiculous thing you've ever seen. "You're doin’ great, honey," you say, your voice shaking with laughter. "You're a regular Michelangelo." He beams, a proud, preening look on his face. "I know, right?" he says, going in for another pass. "I should add 'Beautician' to my resume. Right before 'Singer'."
He works in silence for a few minutes, the only sound the soft scrape of the razor and the distant hum of the air conditioner. He's so focused, so absorbed in his work, that you can't help but watch him. You watch the way the light catches in his hair, the way his brow furrows in concentration, the way his lips are pursed in a tight, determined line. He's so beautiful, so wonderfully, bizarrely yours.
"You know," he says, his voice a low, thoughtful murmur, not looking up from his work. "I never thought I'd be doing this." "Shavin’ my vagina?" you ask, a playful, teasing glint in your eye. "Yeah, me neither." He looks up, a small, thoughtful frown on his face. "No," he says, shaking his head. "Not that. I mean, I guess I didn't expect to be doing this, but… I don't know. This feels right. This feels… us."
He sets the razor down, rinsing it in the warm bathwater. He looks up at you, his dark eyes serious, a universe of emotion swimming in their depths. "I jus’ never thought I'd be here," he continues, his voice a low, soft murmur. "In this house. With you. With a baby on th’ way. For a long time, I didn't think I'd get any of this. This… normal. This beautiful, borin’, wonderful normal."
Your heart aches, a sudden, sharp pang of love and sorrow for the man you love. For the lonely, beautiful boy who grew up in the spotlight, who never knew a quiet, private moment. Who never knew the simple, profound joy of kneeling on a bathmat, shaving his wife's vagina.
You reach down, your fingers gently stroking his cheek. "Well, you're here now," you say, your voice a soft, reassuring whisper. "And you're stuck with me. And my… thing."
He leans into your touch, pressing a soft kiss into your palm. "I wouldn't have it any other way," he says, his voice a low, firm, unwavering declaration. "I wouldn't trade this fer anythin’."
He picks up the razor again, a renewed sense of purpose in his movements. "Okay," he says, his tone shifting back to its earlier, playful lilt. "Where were we? Ah, yes. The great deforestation of '89." He goes back to work, a new, light-hearted energy in his movements. He's humming now, a soft, remixed version of "The Girl Is Mine," a song that, under the circumstances, is hilariously inappropriate.
He finishes, rinsing you with a soft, warm washcloth. He's so gentle, so careful, and the gesture is so intimate, so tender, that it makes your heart ache. He dries you with a soft, fluffy towel, patting you dry with a light, delicate touch. He sits back on his heels, a look of proud, triumphant satisfaction on his face. He looks at his handiwork like an artist admiring a finished masterpiece.
"There," he says, a beaming, proud smile on his face. "Perfect. Not a single nick. I'm a goddamn prodigy." He sets the towel aside, a thoughtful, mischievous glint in his eye. "You know," he says, tapping a finger against his chin. "A work of art this fine… it needs a signature. A mark of th’ artist."
You let out a loud, unrestrained laugh, the sound echoing off the tiled walls. "Oh, really?" you say, your voice shaking with amusement. "And where, pray tell, do you intend t’sign your masterpiece, Picasso?" He leans in, a playful, predatory glint in his eye. "I was thinkin’," he says, his voice a low, teasing purr. "Maybe a lil’ 'M.J.' right here…" He trails off, his finger hovering in the air, a comical, suggestive gesture that makes you laugh even harder.
Before he can complete his thought, you gently take his hand in yours. You guide it away from its mischievous trajectory and place it, flat and firm, against the magnificent, taut sphere of your belly. "You already have," you say, your voice a soft, a gentle murmur. He looks down at his hand, a look of sudden, profound understanding on his face. He looks from his hand to your face, his dark eyes wide with a dawning, breathtaking realization.
He leans in, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that is slow, deep, and impossibly tender. It's not a kiss of passion, but of reverence, of a love so profound it leaves you breathless. It's a kiss that says, I see you. I cherish you. I am so incredibly grateful for you.
His lips are soft, warm, a gentle, insistent pressure that melts away the last of your laughter, leaving a deep, abiding contentment in its wake. His hand is still on your belly, a warm, heavy weight that is both comforting and protective. You can feel the baby move, a slow, lazy roll, as if in response to his father's touch.
The kiss deepens, shifting from tender to something more. There's a new, hungry urgency to it, a raw, unspoken desire that makes your toes curl. His other hand comes up to cup the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair, a gentle, possessive grip. He leans into you, his body a warm, solid weight against yours, and you can feel the familiar, insistent pressure of his arousal against your thigh.
You laugh into his mouth, a soft, breathy sound of pure, unadulterated amusement. He pulls back, a confused, questioning look on his face, his dark eyes hazy with desire. "What?" he asks, his voice a low, husky rumble. "What's s’funny?"
"Wait till the baby is out," you say, your voice a soft, teasing whisper. "Before you try t’give them another sibling." He looks down at your belly, then back at you, a slow, beautiful, sheepish grin spreading across his face. He lets out a soft, chuckling laugh, a beautiful, melodic sound that is full of love and a grudging, good-natured acceptance. "Okay," he says, his voice a soft, gentle murmur. "Okay. I can wait." He leans in, pressing a soft, sweet kiss to the tip of your nose. "But just so y’know, I'm holding you t’that."
✦ premise ... 𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐘 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐒 ★ a quiet night of tea, television, and doing absolutely nothing takes an unexpected turn after you notice one tiny habit of michael's—and decide to see just how easy it is to make your husband lose his train of thought.
✦ contains ... ( smut w some plot ) sub!mj, established relationship, oral ( m!receiving ), licking, over stim, no use of y/n, whimpering & begging, spit play ( if you squint ), pet names, dom!reader, food play, mommy mention ( once )
✦ adore’s note ... for the jan to my toya . love ya sis !! i just know i will have the craziest writers block known to man soon, i’ve been too motivated.
requested ﹒ @hawtstreet ♡
He is a creature of habit, your Michael. The world outside may be a chaotic, swirling vortex of speculation, paparazzi, and perpetual production, but here, in the quiet sanctuary of this rented New York apartment, he has carved out a small, sacred pocket of routine. And every night, like a prayer, ends with tea.
The television flickers, its bright, garish colors painting the room in strokes of neon and pastel. The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air is on, Will Smith’s face filling the screen, a whirlwind of 90s fashion and rapid-fire punchlines. You can hear the canned laughter, the familiar rhythm of the theme song a distant echo. But your attention isn't on the TV. It's on him.
He's curled up beside you on the plush, cream-colored sofa, a soft, afghan blanket thrown over his lap. His feet are tucked up underneath him, a posture that's both boyish and endearingly vulnerable. He's wearing one of his own oversized t-shirts, the one with the glittery HIStory logo, and a pair of loose, silk pajama pants. He's sipping his chamomile tea, his long, elegant fingers wrapped around a simple, white ceramic mug. His eyes are half-closed, a look of sleepy, contented bliss on his face.
You finish your own tea, the warm, liquid gold a soothing balm after a long day. You place your mug on the glass coffee table, the soft clink of ceramic on glass a quiet, final sound. Your eyes land on the small, glass jar of honey sitting on your nightstand, a gift from a local farmer's market. You pick it up, the cool, smooth glass a welcome weight in your palm. You don't really want more honey; you're just fidgeting, your hands needing something to do. You read the label, your eyes tracing the elegant, looping script. "Wildflower Honey. Raw and Unfiltered." The words are a quiet, simple poem.
You glance back at him. A single, perfect droplet of tea has escaped, rolling down the side of his mug and pooling on the polished wood of the end table. He doesn't seem to notice. He sets the mug down, but before he can grab a napkin, he does something that makes your breath catch.
He lifts his hand, his index finger extending, and slowly, deliberately, wipes the droplet of tea from the edge of the cup. Then, without a second thought, he brings the glistening finger to his lips, his pink tongue darting out to lick away the sweet, amber liquid.
It's an unconscious, almost childish gesture, but it's also incredibly intimate, incredibly erotic. The simple, uninhibited act of tasting a stray drop of tea sends a jolt of pure, unadulterated desire through you. The air in the room suddenly feels thick, heavy, charged with an unspoken electricity.
"Michael," you say, your voice a low, husky whisper that cuts through the canned laughter of the TV. He looks at you, his dark eyes wide and innocent, a flicker of confusion on his face. "Yeah, baby?" he asks, his voice a soft, gentle murmur. "Put th’ tea down," you command, your tone leaving no room for argument. He looks from you to the mug, then back again, a flicker of understanding, of dawning awareness, in his eyes. He slowly, deliberately, places the mug back on the table, the soft clink a deafening sound in the sudden, tense silence.
"Now," you continue, your voice a low, hypnotic purr. "Give me y’hand." He hesitates for a fraction of a second, his brow furrowed in a mixture of confusion and intrigue. He doesn't understand, but he trusts you. He always trusts you. He extends his hand, palm up, a gesture of quiet, willing submission.
You take it, your fingers closing around his wrist. His skin is warm, soft, almost fragile. You can feel the faint, frantic pulse beating against your thumb. You bring his hand closer, your eyes fixed on his. You can see the questions swimming in their dark depths, the nervous anticipation. You can see the way his breath hitches in his throat, the way his Adam's apple bobs as he swallows. You unscrew the cap of the honey jar, the soft pop a sharp, decisive sound. You tilt the jar, a slow, steady stream of the thick, golden liquid pouring from the spout. You watch, mesmerized, as the honey pools on the knuckles of his index and middle fingers, a glistening, amber jewel against his pale skin.
He lets out a soft, sharp gasp, his eyes widening as the cool, sticky fluid makes contact with his skin. He tries to pull his hand away, a reflexive gesture of surprise, but your grip on his wrist is firm, unyielding. "Shh," you soothe, your voice a soft, hypnotic whisper. "Jus’ trust me." You lift his hand to your lips, your eyes never leaving his. You can see the raw, undisguised desire in his gaze, the way his pupils dilate, the way his lips part slightly. You can see the flicker of fear, of vulnerability, of a man willingly surrendering himself to your whim.
You slowly, deliberately, take his honey-coated fingers into your mouth. The taste is a sweet, floral explosion on your tongue, a heady, intoxicating mix of wildflower and Michael. You swirl your tongue around his knuckles, a slow, languid rhythm that is both teasing and possessive. You can feel the texture of his skin, the hard, smooth plane of his knuckles, the delicate ridges of his fingerprints.
A choked, strangled sound escapes his lips, a raw, primal cry that he immediately tries to stifle. He throws his head back, his free hand flying to his mouth, his fingers pressing against his lips in a desperate attempt to muffle the moan that is threatening to tear from his throat. His whole body tenses, a beautiful, agonizing arch of pure, unadulterated pleasure.
"Baby…" he gasps, the word a muffled, breathy thing against his palm. You pull back, releasing his fingers with a soft, wet pop. A thin, glistening strand of honey and saliva connects your lips to his skin, a delicate, shimmering thread in the dim light. You break it with a flick of your tongue, a slow, deliberate gesture that makes him shudder.
You look at him, really look at him. His face is flushed, a beautiful, rosy blush spreading across his high cheekbones. His eyes are squeezed shut, his long, dark lashes fanned out against his skin. His chest is heaving, each ragged breath a desperate, silent prayer. You lean in, pressing a soft, sticky kiss to the pulse point on his wrist. You can feel the frantic, fluttering beat of his heart against your lips, a frantic, hummingbird rhythm that speaks volumes. He's so responsive, so beautifully, exquisitely sensitive.
He opens his eyes, a slow, languid movement. He looks at you, his gaze hazy, unfocused, drunk with pleasure. He reaches for you, his hand trembling, his fingers sticky with honey and your saliva.
"Please," he whispers, his voice a raw, broken thing. "Please." You smile, a slow, predatory curve of your lips. You have no intention of stopping. You reach for the hem of his t-shirt, your fingers hooking into the soft, worn fabric. He lifts his arms, a silent, willing offering, allowing you to pull the shirt over his head. You toss it aside, your eyes roving over the expanse of his bare chest.
He's so beautiful, a study in pale, perfect skin and lean, wiry muscle. His chest is almost completely hairless, a smooth, flawless canvas that is just begging to be marked. You can see the faint, blue veins that trace a path beneath his skin, a delicate, intricate map that you long to explore.
You take the honey jar again, tilting it. This time, you aim for his neck. A thin, golden line of honey trickles down the column of his throat, a glistening, amber river that disappears into the hollow of his collarbone. He gasps, his body arching, a silent, involuntary reaction to the cool, sticky sensation. You lean in, your tongue darting out to follow the path of the honey. You start at the base of his throat, a slow, deliberate lick that makes him whimper. You can feel the vibration of his vocal cords, the frantic, stuttering beat of his pulse. You can taste the sweet, floral flavor of the honey mixed with the clean, salty taste of his skin.
You trace a path up his neck, your tongue a slow, lazy spiral. You can feel him trembling, his body a taut, quivering bowstring of tension. His hands fly to your shoulders, his fingers digging into your skin, a desperate, anchoring grip. "Oh, God," he moans, his head falling back, exposing the long, vulnerable line of his throat. "Oh, God, baby, that feels… that feels s’good."
You reach the base of his jaw, a final, lingering lick that cleans the last of the honey from his skin. You pull back, admiring your handiwork. A glistening, sticky patch remains, a beautiful, shimmering mark of your possession.
You move lower, your eyes fixing on one of his nipples. It's a small, tight, dusky bud, a perfect, rosy peak against the pale expanse of his chest. You pour a small, perfect dollop of honey onto the sensitive nub, a glistening, amber bead that makes him cry out. You lean in, your lips closing around the honey-coated nipple. You suck gently, your tongue swirling in a slow, maddening rhythm. The taste is intoxicating, a heady, sweet, and salty mix that makes your head spin.
He cries out, a raw, ragged sound that is half pleasure, half pain. His back arches, a beautiful, agonizing curve, pushing himself deeper into your mouth. His hands are in your hair now, his fingers tangled in the strands, a desperate, pleading grip.
"Baby," he whimpers, his voice a broken, breathy thing. "Please, s’good. Please, you’re s’good." You release him with another soft, wet pop, a thin, glistening strand of honey and saliva connecting your lips to his chest. You look up at him, your eyes dark with desire. He's a mess, a beautiful, sticky, writhing mess, and he's all yours. "Open your mouth," you command, your voice a low, husky purr.
He obeys, his lips parting in a silent, willing offering. You lean in, not to kiss him, but to share the sweetness. You let a drop of honey fall from your tongue onto his, a glistening, amber bead that he catches instinctively. He moans, a low, throaty sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure.
You lean in further, your tongue finding his. It's a slow, deep, sensual kiss, a sharing of taste, of breath, of essence. You can taste the honey on his tongue, a sweet, floral flavor that is mingled with the unique, musky taste of him. You can feel the soft, wet texture of his tongue against yours, the gentle, insistent pressure.
The kiss deepens, becoming more frantic, more demanding. It's no longer just about the honey; it's about a raw, primal need. Your tongues dance a slow, sensual tango, a wet, messy, beautiful symphony of spit and desire. You can feel the vibrations of his moans in your mouth, a low, rumbling sound that makes your toes curl.
You pull back, a thin, glistening strand of saliva connecting your lips. You both gasp for air, your chests heaving, your bodies slick with sweat and honey and something more.
You look down, your eyes fixing on the growing bulge in his silk pajama pants. His hard, insistent length strains against the loose fabric. You can see the dark, wet spot of pre-cum that has soaked through the material, a telling evidence of his arousal. You reach for the waistband of his pants, your fingers hooking into the elastic. He lifts his hips, a silent, desperate plea. You pull the pants down, freeing him.
His cock springs forth, a hard, beautiful, glistening shaft of pale, perfect flesh. The head is a deep, angry pink, a glistening, bead of pre-cum already welling at the tip. He's long and slender, a perfect, elegant work of art that makes your mouth water. You take the honey jar again, this time pouring a generous amount over the tip of him. The thick, golden liquid coats him, a slow, deliberate trickle that runs down the length of his shaft.
He cries out, a sharp, strangled gasp, his hips bucking involuntarily. "Ngh, God," he moans, his head falling back against the couch cushions. "Can you, baby, please… please…"
You lean in, your tongue darting out to catch the drop of honey that's about to fall from the crown. You swirl your tongue around the head, a slow, lazy spiral that makes him whimper. He tastes divine. The floral sweetness of the honey is an immediate, bright shock on your tongue, but it's the salty, musky taste of him that lingers, a deeper, more primal flavor that makes your core clench with a sudden, fierce ache. You take your time, tracing the delicate, flared ridge of his crown with the very tip of your tongue, feeling the subtle change in texture, the way the skin is softer here, more sensitive.
You can feel every minute shudder that racks his body. His thigh muscle jumps beneath your free hand, a frantic, involuntary spasm. His breath hitches in a series of short, sharp pants, each one a desperate, ragged sound. He’s trying so hard to be still, to let you control the pace, but his body is betraying him, writhing with a need that is almost painful to witness.
You flatten your tongue, a broad, slow lick from the base of his shaft all the way to the tip, gathering the honey on your tongue. The motion is deliberate, a claiming. You're savoring him, memorizing the taste and the texture. He makes a sound deep in his chest, a choked, broken noise that's half a sob, half a moan. His hands fly from your hair to the sofa cushions, his fingers digging into the plush fabric, a desperate attempt to ground himself.
"Baby," he whimpers, the word a ragged, breathy plea. "Oh, please, mommy… don't… don't tease me…"
You pull back just enough to look at him. His eyes are squeezed shut, his face a beautiful, agonized mask of pleasure. His lips are parted, slick and swollen, and a single, perfect tear traces a path through the sticky honey on his temple. He's a mess, a beautiful, broken, sticky mess, and the sight of him, so completely undone by your touch, is the most powerful aphrodisiac you've ever known.
You decide to show him mercy. Or maybe it's cruelty. You're not sure anymore.
You lower your head again, but this time, you don't use your tongue. You part your lips, letting the hot, wet cavern of your mouth engulf the very tip of him. The heat is a shock, a sudden, intense sensation that makes him cry out, a raw, primal shout that echoes in the quiet room.
You take him deeper, inch by slow, deliberate inch, letting your lips glide down the honey-slicked length of him. The combination of the sticky honey and the warm, wet heat of your mouth is a sensory overload, a friction so intense it must be agony. He's babbling now, a stream of incoherent praise and desperate pleas, a litany of "Oh, God," and "Please," and "S’good, so, s’good."
You begin to move, a slow, steady rhythm. Your head bobs, your lips and tongue working in a tandem, a wet, messy, beautiful symphony of suction and pressure. You can feel the way he throbs against your tongue, the frantic, fluttering pulse of the vein that runs along the underside of his shaft. He's close. You can feel it in the tension that coils in his thighs, in the way his breathing becomes more erratic, in the desperate, pleading way he murmurs your name.
You move one of your hands to his hip, your fingers digging into the soft, warm skin, holding him down, anchoring him to the sofa. You're in control here. You are the one who decides when this ends.
You pick up the pace, your movements becoming faster, more demanding. Your tongue swirls around the head on every upstroke, a maddening, flicking motion that makes him whimper. You can feel the honey on your lips, on your chin, a sticky, sweet mess that you're making of him, of yourself, of this moment.
And then, he breaks. "Baby," he gasps, his voice a high, thin whimper. "Baby, stop… stop…" Your movements still, your head lifting slightly. You look up at him, a question in your eyes. He's panting, his chest heaving, his body a taut, quivering bowstring of tension. "What is it, Michael?" you ask, your voice a low, soft purr. "What's wrong?"
"I'm… I'm all sticky," he whimpers, his words a jumbled, breathy mess. "You're… you're making me all sticky, baby. It's… it's everywhere… on m’legs, m’stomach… on th’ couch…"
He sounds so genuinely distressed, like a child who's spilled juice on the carpet. It's so absurdly, endearingly Michael that you almost laugh. You can feel the tension coiling in your belly, a mix of amusement and a fierce, overwhelming love.
You pull back, releasing him from your mouth with a soft, wet pop. A glistening, sticky strand of honey and saliva connects your lips to the head of his cock, a delicate, shimmering thread that you break with a flick of your tongue.
"Okay," you say, your voice a soft, gentle murmur. "I'll stop." You start to sit up, a gesture of acquiescence. You're going to get a warm, wet cloth, to clean him up, to take care of him. "No!" The word is a desperate, ragged cry, torn from his throat. He shoots up, his hands flying to your shoulders, his grip surprisingly strong. He pulls you back down, his body a frantic, pleading weight against yours.
"No," he repeats, his voice a broken, breathy whisper. "Don't… don't stop. Please, God, don't stop. I was wrong. M’not… m’not sticky. M’not. Please, baby, please…" He's babbling, his words a frantic, jumbled mess. He's kissing you, a desperate, messy, honey-sweet kiss all over your face, your neck, your shoulders. He's clinging to you, a drowning man clinging to a life raft.
You can't help the soft, triumphant chuckle that escapes your lips. He's so wonderfully, beautifully transparent. His need for you, for this, overrides everything else—logic, comfort, even the very real stickiness that's now gluing his ass to the sofa cushions.
"Shh, shh," you soothe, your hands running down his back, feeling the frantic tremors that still rack his slender frame. "M’ here. M’ not going anywhere."
He collapses against you, his face buried in the crook of your neck. His body is still humming with tension, a live wire of unspent energy. You can feel the sticky warmth of him against your skin, the mingled scent of honey, sweat, and Michael's own unique, clean musk filling your senses. You gently cup his face in your hands, tilting it up so you can look at him. His eyes are dark, wide pools of desperation, his lashes clumped together with honey and unshed tears. A small, perfect droplet of the golden liquid has escaped, clinging to the side of his cheek, right next to his full, parted lips. A stray glisten.
You bring one of his hands up to your face, your fingers closing around his wrist. You guide his hand to his own cheek, positioning it so that his thumb hovers just over the errant drop of honey. "Look at me," you whisper, your voice a low, hypnotic command. His gaze is hazy, unfocused, but he obeys, his dark eyes locking onto yours. You guide his thumb, using it to gently wipe the honey from his skin. The gesture is slow, deliberate, incredibly intimate. He watches you, his breath catching in his throat, a silent, captive audience to your every move.
Then, you bring his thumb, the one now glistening with the sweet, amber liquid, to your own lips. You hold his gaze, your eyes dark with a predatory softness, as you take his thumb into your mouth.
You close your lips around the digit, your tongue swirling in a slow, deliberate circle, lapping away the last of the honey. You can feel the slight tremor that runs through his hand, the way his fingers twitch against your palm. You can see the raw, undisguised need that flares in his eyes, the way his lips part on a silent gasp.
You release his thumb with a soft, wet pop, a flicker of a smirk on your lips.
"More," he whimpers, the word a ragged, breathy plea that is barely audible. "Please, baby… more." You lean in, your lips hovering just a breath away from his, close enough that you can feel the heat of his skin, close enough that you can see the frantic flutter of his pulse in the hollow of his throat. "Only because y’asked nicely" you murmur, your voice a low, teasing purr.
it was almost crazy how quickly things between you and michael had changed.
it had only been a couple of weeks since 'the twister incident'.
since then, your friendship dynamic you'd spent your whole lives building, had taken a whole new meaning. you went from just two best friends... to two best friends who couldn't keep their hands off each other.
yet, even with this shift in your relationship, you didn't lose the easy friendship you'd always shared. you still hung out just like you used to, but now there was a sweet buzz humming underneath everything. michael was always flirting with you, finding ways to make your face burn, and though you'd never admit it to him, you absolutely loved it.
in turn, you never passed up an opportunity to tease him back, watching with satisfaction as he blushed and shied away from your touch. those playful days turned into quiet nights, with michael dragging you out on late-night walks around the neighbourhood. you'd walk hand-in-hand, your shoulders brushing, talking about everything and nothing until your eyes grew heavy.
it made you feel closer to him than you'd ever been before.
the change happened so easily it almost surprised you, but if you were being honest, neither of you wanted to slow it down.
and it wasn't that you guys wanted to keep secrets or didn't want anyone to find out about you two. you just really wanted to keep this to yourselves for a while. you wanted the space to figure things out and enjoy the bubble of being together without any outside noise.
these days, the two of you had gotten pretty good at sneaking around. hayvenhurst was always buzzing with his family, which only made it more exciting.
michael would catch your eye from across the room, giving you a knowing look before slipping away. a few minutes later, you’d follow, only to be gently yanked into a dark linen closet or the narrow space beneath the back stairs.
his hands would immediately find your waist, dragging you flush against him before his mouth hungrily found yours. he’d hold you there, smiling against your lips as someone's footsteps passed just outside the door.
but it wasn't just the stolen kisses.
the two of you had recently started exploring whatever this was becoming. you still hadn't gone all the way yet — there was an unspoken understanding that neither of you wanted to rush it — but michael was eager, and somewhere along the way, he’d discovered just how much he loved making you feel good.
turns out, michael was a giver.
more than that, he was devoted to figuring out every single inch of you. he loved to kiss you — it was his favourite thing in the world, the way he'd lose himself in your mouth for hours — but he was just as obsessed with taking his time between your legs.
you couldn't even count how many times he’d ended up on his knees at the edge of his bed, his large hands pinning your thighs wide open while he buried his face in you.
he was an eater, plain and simple.
he’d spend hours down there, his tongue tracing your folds and sucking on your clit until your hips were bucking against the mattress and your throat was raw from trying to muffle your screams. he loved the taste of you, loved the drag of his tongue over your pussy. he’d stay down there until you were nothing but a trembling mess beneath him.
it had changed the way you looked at him. whenever you saw him working, all you could think about was the way he looked with his chin wet and his hair messy, looking up at you from between your thighs with those wide doe eyes, asking if he could do it again.
today was a day like no other. the heat at the hayvenhurst pool was buzzing with noise, music drifted across the patio, while his siblings were splashing and shouting over a game of... you actually weren't even sure what they were playing because your focus was on michael, and his was on you.
you’d been sitting on the edge, kicking your legs in the water. every time you looked up, you caught him watching you from his chair. he wasn't even trying to hide it.
his eyes would trail down the line of your swimsuit. whenever your eyes locked, he'd offer you a sly smile that made your stomach flip.
when you finally stood up and complained about the sun getting too hot, wanting to go inside to cool down. michael immediately stood up, saying he’ll accompany you.
you walked back toward the house together, your feet padding on the warm concrete patio before stepping onto the cool tile at the back entrance. the sudden blast of the air conditioning hit your damp skin, making you goosebump instantly. michael guided you up the stairs, the muffled shouts of his brothers fading more and more with every step you took toward his bedroom.
once you reached his door, he pushed it open and let you slip inside first, letting it click shut behind him.
you tossed your damp towel onto the chair by his desk, looking around with a grin. "thought you said you cleaned in here, mike. what's this?" you pointed to a messy pile of vinyl records and a couple of stray button-down shirts draped over his dresser.
michael scoffed, walking over with his hands stuffed in his pockets. "i did clean. that's... an organized system. i know exactly where everything is."
"sure you do," you teased, picking up a stray pillow from his armchair and tossing it lightly at his chest. "your socks are trying to escape from that bottom drawer, by the way."
he caught the pillow easily, a wide, boyish grin spreading across his face. "hey, don't start. you're a guest in my room, you’re supposed t'be on your best behaviour."
"and if i'm not?" you challenged, crossing your arms.
michael tossed the pillow onto the bed and took a slow step toward you, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "then i might have t’kick you out. send y'right back outside. throw y'in the pool, maybe?"
"you wouldn't," you laughed, keeping your eyes on his as you made a move to dodge around him toward the door.
but michael was too quick. with a quiet laugh, he stepped right into your path, his large hands catching your waist and steering you backward until your spine met the solid wood of his bedroom door.
he caged you in, his palms flat against the door on either side of your head. for a moment, you just stared at each other, both of you smiling, your breaths mingling in the quiet space. his eyes were bright and crinkling at the corners, before his gaze drifted down to your mouth.
the smile faded from his lips as he leaned in, pressing his mouth to yours. it was slow and sensual, his lips soft. it made your knees go weak. he tasted faintly of the soda he’d been drinking by the pool.
when he broke the kiss, he didn't pull back far. his forehead rested against yours, his breath warm against your cheek.
"that swimsuit you're wearin'... 's unfair," he murmured, his voice low and raspy.
you bit your cheek with a tilt to your head, your hands finding his chest. "you don't like it?"
he shook his head.
"the opposite," he whispered, a small smile tugging at his lips before his eyes trailed down your body. "you... y'look so beautiful. the colour looks so good against your skin, an' the way it fits you..."
“yeah?” you said so softly, with such a need in your voice that it almost came off as a moan to the boy in front of you. his cock throbbed — hard already, leaking and needy.
the slightest traces of a moan in your throat is what told him that this teasing was no longer innocent.
he nodded. his fingers gently hooked into the side strap at your hip, tracing the soft curve. his skin was still warm from the sun, making you shiver against the cool air of the bedroom.
his fingers tugged the elastic of your suit just a little bit, exposing a paler line of skin that hadn't been touched by the sun. he stared down at it, his lower lip disappearing between his teeth.
you swallowed, your fingers tightening in the skin of his bare shoulders to keep your balance. "michael..."
"mhm?" he murmured, his gaze slowly climbing back up your body, lingering on your chest before finally meeting your eyes. his other hand reached up, his thumb slowly tracing your lower lip, parting it just enough to feel the warmth of your breath. "what is it, baby?"
god. you could never get used to him calling you that.
"should we head back?" you whispered, mentally kicking yourself the second the words left your mouth.
michael let out a quiet chuckle, his thigh parting your legs and resting between them. "what are we in a rush for? we got time."
he leaned down, burying his face in the crook of your neck. his lips were soft against your skin, pressing a line of kisses from your jaw down to your collarbone. you let your head fall back against the door, a soft sigh escaping your lips. your hands slid down his smooth back, feeling the muscles of his shoulders tense under your touch as he let out a low groan against your neck.
"y’taste like the sun," he mumbled, his teeth gently grazing the soft skin right where your neck met your shoulder, making a shiver run down your spine. "so sweet.”
he pulled back just enough to look at you again, his eyes heavy as his hand slid up from your hip, his palm flat against your ribs, feeling the quick beating of your heart.
“so pretty," he whispered, his voice raspy with that tone you'd grown so addicted to over the last few weeks.
he closed the tiny distance between you.
the kiss was so soft and so tender. his lips pressed against yours with a sweetness that felt like a confession, filled with all the heavy words he hadn't actually said out loud yet. there was no rush, no urgency — just the gentle drag of his mouth on yours, tasting you so slowly it made your chest ache. it was the kind of kiss that made you feel cherished, like you were the only thing in his entire world.
your heart swelled, a soft sigh slipping into his mouth as your fingers curled into his shoulders, completely melting into him.
his gaze flickered downward again, and you felt the burning heat of his stare focus on your chest. with the cool air conditioning blowing directly on you, your nipples were hard, poking visibly through the fabric.
michael swallowed, his breathing going shallow. you could see the desire in his eyes — he looked spellbound, like he was looking at something precious.
you felt a rush of confidence, a quiet thrill at seeing him so affected. you looked down at your chest, then back up to meet his gaze.
"you wanna see them?" you whispered.
the question seemed to catch in his throat. michael's breath hitched before a low sound escaped him. he nodded, his hand on your waist tightening.
"please," he breathed. "yes, please."
your hands left his shoulders, reaching behind your neck to undo the thin strings of your top. with a slow tug, the knot slipped free, and you let the fabric fall away to the floor, baring your breasts to him for the very first time.
michael bit his lip, his head tilting back slightly as if he couldn't even believe what he was looking at.
he didn't immediately touch you. he just stared, his eyes dark and blown out. the adoration on his face made your heart do backflips.
"gosh," he whispered, his voice trembling. "you're... you're a dream."
his hand, still wrapped around your waist, slid higher. his touch was tentative as his thumb lightly grazed the very bottom curve of your breast.
you reached down to cover his hand with your own. you guided his palm higher, lifting it until his hand was fully cupping your breast.
michael let out a shaky breath, his fingers curling to map the shape of you. his thumb brushed over your nipple, and a gasp left your lips at the direct contact. the heat of his skin against yours was electric.
your hands gripped his shoulders as his thumbs gently rolled and pinched your nipples, sending sharp jolts straight down to your core. you arched your back, pressing yourself deeper into his hands, unable to hold back the soft whimpers slipping past your lips.
michael groaned at the sound.
"can i...?" he whispered, and you nodded immediately, not even letting him finish his sentence.
his head dipped down, pressing kisses along your collarbone before his mouth finally found one of your aching breasts. he swiped his wet tongue over the nipple first, making you shiver, before he fully took you into his mouth.
he dragged his tongue over the peak, swirling it lazily before pulling your nipple between his teeth, grazing it just enough to make your hips twitch against his thigh. his hand stayed busy on your other breast, squeezing and teasing the nipple between his fingers in sync with his mouth.
your hands push his damp hair out of his face, looking at where your flesh was sucked into his mouth. your jaw slacked.
his pretty face was flushed, and his eyes had fluttered closed as he got lost in the feeling of your tits in his face and in his hands. his tongue worked eagerly, flicking over your nipple while his free hand tweaked at the other.
your skin was slicked and wet with saliva, raised into goosebumps from the cold air he would blow onto it after a lick. it was an intoxicating sight, one that you would keep in your conscious forever to use whenever you needed him most.
your fingers tangled in his curls, pulling him closer as your head rested back against the door. "michael... oh fuck, michael... please"
he pulled his mouth away, the suction releasing from your wet nipple with a soft pop. "what do y'need?"
you choked on your words, having to swallow as you tried to find what to say, “just… more.”
his lips tilted into a smile as he stood back up, looming over you. he looked down at you with his eyes full of desire, lips glossed with saliva, and his hair messed from your hands.
it was bound to drag a reaction out of you.
and a reaction it did.
your hips were now in line with his and you were met with the hard of his cock pressing right into where you need it the most.
through his swim trunks, and your bikini bottoms, you felt the twitch of him against your cunt. you gasped in response.
“tell me,” he said, looking into your eyes.
but he seemed to already know what you want. he ground himself into the soft of your cunt, pressing the length of his cock right against your clit.
“oh shit, michael,” your eyes rolled back and you felt yourself melt against the door, hips coming back down shakily as the pleasure overwhelmed your body, unable to hold yourself up any longer.
he was so hard. he was so fucking hard that you could feel every throb of him against you.
you tried to tell him, tried to make yourself clear, but it came out sounding pathetic; broken apart with gasps and moans, “‘want— oh fuck— i want you… want you inside me.”
michael brought his head low, leaning down until his lips were teasing yours, "that what you want?"
truthfully, michael didn't even know where this confidence of his was coming from. his chest was tight and his heart was hammering so hard he was sure you could hear it.
you whined, your hips twitching underneath him. "god, yeah— yes, please," you squirmed, your hands grabbing aimlessly at his back.
your body was tingling, wired from his touch. michael’s hands slid down to grab the undersides of your thighs, lifting you up against the door.
you didn't even have to think; you instantly wrapped your legs around his waist. his swim trunks were rough against your bare thighs. michael held you tight, his fingers gripping your ass to support your weight as he carried you a few paces over to his bed.
he let you down onto the mattress, his touch gentle as your back met the cool sheets. he was already crawling over you as soon as he placed you down, his bare chest hovering inches from yours as he settled himself between your thighs.
his chest hovered inches over yours, and as he looked down at you, the intensity in his eyes softened.
michael bit his lower lip nervously, his thumb brushing a stray lock of hair away from your forehead. his hand was slightly trembling against your skin.
"are you sure?" he whispered, his voice soft. "i want this to be perfect f'you."
"yeah," you breathed, your voice steady despite the frantic pounding of your heart. you reached up, placing your hand over his cheek. "never been more sure. do... do you want to?"
michael let out a shaky breath, a small smile breaking through his anxious expression. he nodded, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple. "more than anything. 'm just… a little nervous 'm gonna do somethin' wrong."
his tone made your chest ache with affection. you tried to bite back your smile, a bubbly laugh building up in your chest.
"'s okay," you teased, your voice shaking a little as you tried to hold in your giggle. "we're just practicing."
it really was just a lame joke, a reference to your stupid excuse, but michael laughed anyway, rolling his eyes. "oh, shush," he murmured, leaning down to press a quick peck to your lips.
he stayed there for a beat, staring into your eyes, both of you biting back giddy smiles as the weight of the nerves started to melt into something comfortable.
"one second," he murmured suddenly.
before you could even ask, he scrambled off the bed, his feet padding quickly across the floor as he slipped out the bedroom door, leaving it open just a crack.
the sudden absence of his heat left you feeling incredibly exposed. you sat up slightly, looking down at your bare breasts and your bikini bottoms, your heart felt like it was beating out of your chest. the anticipation made your stomach do nervous flips until you finally heard the frantic thud of his feet running back across the floor, getting louder as he got closer.
michael burst back into the room, slightly out of breath, a small square foil packet clutched in his palm.
a hot flush instantly crept up your neck and into your cheeks at the sight. "where'd you get that?" you laughed.
michael climbed back onto the mattress, a sheepish, boyish grin spreading across his face as he ducked his head. "jackie's room," he confessed, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "i knew he kept a stash in there somewhere."
"ew, michael!" you let out a groan, hiding your face in your hands.
he laughed at your reaction as he crawled right back over you. your hands came down from your face as you lay back against the pillows, matching his smile.
he gave you another small peck to the lips before kissing down your neck, nipping occasionally to feel your body twitch against his, licking through the valley of your breasts, biting at the soft skin of your stomach, teasing the line of your bikini bottoms with his tongue, and eventually pulling the waistband down your thighs and sliding them off your legs.
his hand wrapped around your ankles and dragged you slightly along the soft sheets until your legs dangled off the side. you gasped softly when you felt his breath wisp along the inside of it, watching him carefully as he brought his lips to the flat bone of the interior and kissed the skin softly.
your stomach turned.
the sensation felt foreign but kinda good. each press of his lips and bite of his teeth as he made his way up to your leg had your heart racing.
"you're so pretty," he said quietly, his eyes still locked on the pretty mound between your legs.
"keep your legs spread f'me, okay?"
and despite your embarrassment, you nodded.
with his hand resting against the back of your thigh, pushing your legs up, his thumb found its way to your clit and pressed softly. your body twitched, jerking against his hand while your legs trembled.
your hand clasped over your mouth. he teased softly, rubbing gentle circles against you, watching the way your pussy gave under the pressure of his thumb.
your hand was still over your mouth as you looked down to look at him. and fuck. he knelt before you so prettily, with his hair framing his face as his arms toyed with your body, and his hips slightly grinding against the side of the bed.
his other hand released your leg, and you obediently kept yourself open for him.
he adjusted his hand, his palm splaying over your navel to give his fingers room to drag across your slit.
and then he brought his face down and dragged his tongue through you.
you inhaled sharply at the sensation. his tongue was so hot and so wet as it dragged over your body and dipped inside you and licked over your cunt.
you let out the shakiest and most pathetic moan you believe has ever come out of your mouth as you felt him fuck his tongue inside you, and he groaned against your body as he felt your pussy squeeze around his tongue and leak onto his taste buds.
he’ll never get over the taste of you.
his hair tickled at your skin as he drank you down. his hand gripped your thigh with such frenzy that it gave under the pressure of his fingers.
his mouth closed over you and worked to devour you, sucking and licking at the fat of your pussy and the nub of your clit.
it was all tongue and lips, all sloppy and wet as he enthusiastically made out with the most intimate parts of you.
he had you crying out his name, choking out choppy moans, gripping the sheets until your knuckles ached. your hips fucked upwards, trying to take his tongue deeper. your thighs pushed down into the muscle of his shoulders as your legs twitched with every lick.
"so wet" he murmured against your skin before taking another taste of you.
he pushed against the back of your knees, lifting your backside off the mattress and folding you under yourself to give him room to shove his tongue inside you as deep as he could.
"o-oh, god, michael—fuck—how are you so good at that?" you whined shakily.
you felt him groan, rather than hearing him, the vibrations humming through to your clit, tearing another moan from your throat.
michael almost came at the sound of your voice cutting off as you felt one of his long, nimble fingers sliding inside you.
he clenched his jaw to stifle a groan for every time your tight little cunt squeezed around the length of his finger. every ridge and divot inside you had his head swimming with the fantasy of how they’ll feel around the thick of his dick, and he almost blacked out when he realized that he was no longer fingering you solely for your pleasure, but also doing so to stretch you out and make room for him as well.
you sat back on your elbows, and a whimper slipped out of you when you were met with the sight of him between your legs, hypnotized by the sight of of your pussy being stretched open by his fingers, his fingers covered in a sheen of your arousal every time he pulled them out and shoved them back in.
the desperate whines and whimpers that were leaving your lips slowly turned into sobs that were broken off with gasps.
"fuck, michael— i-'m gonna— oh fuck." your eyes squeezed shut, nails digging into the sheets while the other flew to his hair. your body tensed, the coil in your stomach growing tighter, begging to be released.
"c'mon, sweet girl. lemme feel it," he begged, lifting his head from your pussy to watch your face twist as you fell apart inside out.
your fingers pushed against his head, pushing his head back down to your cunt. and michael took it, letting out a deep groan.
"o-oh, god, don't stop, please don't stop," you pleaded.
micheal felt your pussy flutter around his fingers "are you cummi— oh god, you're cumming," and then he brought his mouth back down, drinking in what you were giving him.
sobs were forced out of your throat as your fingers curled back into the sheets, sending powerful waves of pleasure up through your veins until it exploded in your head and fireworks burst behind your squeezed eyes.
michael watched you carefully, tongue still tasting you, admiring your face as you broke for him. your beautiful face, contorted with the pleasure that he gave you, and your beautiful body, visible proof of just how ruined you are.
you sat up weakly as you came down from your orgasm. he had a sheepish smile on his face as he looked at you, his mouth and chin glossed with your arousal.
you reached for his swim trunks, fingers hooking onto the waistband as you pulled him closer to you. you slid back on his bed to his pillows as he hovered back over you.
"this okay?" you asked softly.
"y-yeah," he whispered. your hands tugged at the drawstring of his trunks, loosening them.
his thick cock sprang free, throbbing and fully upright, the head already glistening with a bead of pre-cum. you swallowed hard at the sight of him, your stomach doing a nervous little flip.
he reached over to the nightstand, his trembling fingers tearing open the foil packet he’d snatched from jackie’s room. he struggled with it for a second, his nerves making him clumsy, which made you let out a soft giggle.
"don't laugh," he mumbled, "'m already nervous enough." he finally rolled it over his length. but he was smiling too, his eyes soft as he looked back down at you.
with slightly shaky hands, he wrapped his fingers around his length, sighing as he pumped his dick a few times, getting used to the snug fit of the rubber.
he settled his weight between your legs, his knees forcing your thighs wide as he leaned down. "tell me to stop if it hurts, okay? please," he whispered, his eyes so serious as he waited, refusing to make another move until you gave him a small, reassuring nod.
"okay," you breathed.
he let out a shaky exhale.
slowly, he nudged his tip against your wetness, slowly gliding his dick up and down your slit. he stroked his length against your opening, coating the condom in your slick over and over until you were gasping from the stimulation of it.
he bit his lip in concentration as he lined the head of his cock directly up with your entrance and finally gave a push.
the moment he began to enter, your eyes squeezed shut and a sharp gasp caught in your throat. a deep, burning ache bloomed inside you from the intense stretch.
"you okay?" he murmured, his voice strained as he watched your expression closely, searching every twitch of your face.
you opened your eyes to look at him as you nodded, your chest heaving. he had his jaw clenched tight. your pussy was hugging him so tight that he had to concentrate literally anywhere else, trying desperately not to cum right then and there.
"you're... you're so tight," he choked out, his voice cracking as he felt your cunt clench around him at his words.
even though it was only the head of his dick pushing past your opening, it felt like you were being split in half.
trying to ease the ache for you, his thumb reached down to find your swollen clit, rubbing circles against the sensitive nub to distract you from the fullness. you let out a broken whine, your hips twitching under his hand as the pressure started to melt the sharp burn into pleasure.
sensing your body yield, he slid another inch deeper. your walls stretched to accommodate him, squeezing him so tightly it made him let out a low groan. he pulled back just a fraction, drawing out before pushing in another inch, slowly paving his way inside you and fuck, it felt so good.
you only come to realize that his hips were flush with yours when you were pulled out of your haze by a whimper that reached your ears as michael's head dropped into the crook of your neck.
"“you’re… you’re inside me…” you breathe, your voice saturated with awe.
"y-yeah— i am— oh god. i'm inside you." he sat back on his calves just enough to see where you two connected.
he acted involuntarily, slowly tilting his hips back and forth, watching his cock slip in and out of you.
"michael," you whined, face burning from him staring so shamelessly. "it feels... feel so full. oh—" you gasped, your eyes squeezing shut as your hand reached shakily to feel where his dick split you open.
"s-shit, feel like you're in my lungs," you said, and he let out a huff of a laugh.
"does it still feel okay?" he asked gently.
"yeah, feels different... but feels good." you ground your hips against him, trying to get used to the feeling.
"s-should i move?" he tried so hard to come off casual, like he wasn't dying to just fuck up into you, but he wanted you to be comfortable.
michael let out a shaky breath when you nodded, and slowly, he began to move.
he started with shallow, tentative thrusts, his hips rolling as he worked himself against your gummy walls.
it felt incredibly sweet, almost like he was trying to memorize the feel of you as he took his time, sinking all the way in before slowly drawing back out to the very tip. he leaned down to press soft, lingering kisses to your jaw and the corner of your mouth, his hands tangling in yours on the mattress.
"wanna kiss you," you spoke quietly, reaching up to take hold of his face.
michael’s chest swelled as he gave in easily, leaning over your body, dropping to his forearms to softly take your lips in his in a tender kiss.
with every slow slide out and push back in, a messy, squelching sound echoed between your thighs. you let out a broken whimper, your hands clutching at his damp shoulders as your hips rose to meet him.
"m-michael," you gasped, your head rolling back against the pillows.
he really did try to go slow, but his breath went ragged at your voice, jerking once into you, his pace quickening. he began to push deeper, and with one particularly deep drive, his cock slammed right against that sensitive spongy spot inside of you.
your entire body stiffened. a sharp jolt of pleasure shot straight to your core, and a loud cry was ripped from your throat. you arched off the mattress, your thighs clamping tight around his hips.
"oh god—right there—michael, please," you sobbed, your fingers digging bruisingly into his back.
michael let out a pathetic whimper at the sound of your voice. he didn't try to hold back anymore. he began to slam into you with a frantic rhythm, his hips grinding against yours messily.
he felt everything as the walls of your cunt throbbed around him, sucking him in and squeezing him base to tip like you were trying to milk him.
"god, you're— you're squeezin’ me so hard," he choked out, his voice cracking. his face was flushed a deep red, his hair sticking to his face where it framed it. "'m gonna— oh— 'm gonna cum, baby, i can't—"
"cum for me, please, baby," you breathed, your own climax coil tightening so fast you could barely breathe.
he hit that spongy spot again and again, his deep thrusts sending you over the edge. your walls clamped down on him in squeezing ripples.
"i-i love you," he gasped out, voice broken. "god, i love y'so much. 'm gonna marry you."
you fell apart at the desperate promise of his words, sobbing his name into the quiet room as the white-hot waves of your orgasm washed over you.
the crushing grip of your climax was the final straw for michael. he let out a loud, shattered groan, his eyes rolling back as his hips locked hard against yours. he buried his head in your neck, his body shaking as he spent himself inside the condom, his cock twitching and throbbing deeply inside you as he poured everything into you.
he remained buried deep inside you, his chest rising and falling against your breasts as his breathing slowly began to level out. the quiet of the bedroom returned, save for the hum of the air conditioner.
suddenly, the weight of what he'd said in the heat of the moment seemed to crash down on him.
michael buried his face even deeper into the crook of your neck, his shoulders tensing up.
he hid his face from you, hiding his flushed cheeks and panicked eyes against your skin. he was quiet, so quiet that you could feel the anxious, rapid thudding of his heart right against your ribs. he was terrified that he'd said too much, too fast, and desperately hoping that the loud haze of your orgasm had somehow drowned out him pouring his soul to you.
"michael?" you whispered, your voice still incredibly soft and raspy as you came down from the high.
he didn't look up, just let out a small, muffled sound against your shoulder.
you reached up, your hands gentle as your fingers slid into his damp curls, cradling his head. you slowly guided his face up, forcing him to look at you. when his eyes finally met yours, his pretty face was burning a deep red, and his lower lip was tucked between his teeth.
"'m... god, 'm so sorry," he stammered. "i shouldn't have... i didn't mean to just blurt out things like that, i know 's fast, i just—"
"michael," you interrupted softly, a tender smile pulling at your lips. you stroked your thumbs over his high cheekbones. "i love you too."
his entire body went slack, the panic in his shoulders melting away in an instant. he stared down at you, his eyes wide and shiny, searchingly looking over every inch of your face to see if you really meant it.
"you do?" he breathed, his voice barely a whisper, as if he couldn't quite believe the words had actually come out of your mouth.
you nodded, your smile widening as you watched the relief wash over his face. a massive, giddy smile broke across his lips — one he tried so hard to bite back but failed miserably, his cheeks turning an even deeper shade of pink.
he leaned down, pressing his lips to yours in a soft, sweet kiss that tasted like pure happiness. when he pulled back just an inch, his eyes were beaming.
"i know we basically did this all backwards," he murmured, his thumb gently tracing your jaw, his voice incredibly tender. "but... will y'let me be your boyfriend? please?"
you couldn't help but laugh softly at how sweet he was, your heart melting. "of course, michael. you can be my boyfriend."
"so we're boyfriend an' girlfriend now?" he asked, his voice full of wonder, like he'd just won the lottery.
you nodded enthusiastically, making him let out another of those beautiful, breathless giggles. he buried his face in your shoulder for a second, just shaking with pure joy, completely on cloud nine as he held you tight against him.
he let out a long, contented sigh. he carefully rolled off you, tying up and discarding the condom, then immediately coming back and pulling you right against his side so your head rested on his chest.
his fingers began to mindlessly stroke up and down your bare arm, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. he'd occasionally lean down to press soft pecks to the top of your head, your forehead, and your nose, completely doting on you like he couldn't get enough of you.
after a few minutes of just holding each other, the quiet hum of the bedroom was suddenly broken by a repeating clacking sound.
michael blinked, looking toward the window. it sounded like something was hitting the side of the house. he frowned, carefully rolling off the mattress and walking toward the glass to see what it was.
the bedroom window was slightly open, just enough to let the summer air drift inside.
michael pushed the window open a bit more, leaning out slightly as he looked down. standing right by the edge of the grass was jermaine, holding a handful of tiny rocks. he leaned back, raising an eyebrow with a knowing smirk the second he saw michael's head pop out.
"you two lovebirds done?" jermaine called up, his voice loud and clear.
michael froze, the color instantly draining from his face. "w-what?" he stammered.
marlon walked into view next to jermaine, snickering loudly as he pointed a thumb right up at the window. "mike, next time, maybe close your window."
a deep flush instantly painted itself across your and michael's face, his eyes going wide as saucers as he turned to you, exchanging a panicked look.
you two had some explaining to do.
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ngl any time i type bikini bottoms im just thinking of spongebob
anyways i think im wrapping the series here, however, im kinda (heavy on kinda) open to having lil drabbles in the future abt these two bc i have attachment issues and prob will not be able to let them go</3
bad ! era synopsis — the rivalry between you and michael runs deep until one hotel mishap brings you two closer than ever.
content — porn with plot, forced proximity, mean dom! michael and mean switch! reader, cursing, smut, p in v, aphrodisiac, hate sex, dry humping, unprotected, spanking, backshots, choking, riding, lowk brat tamer mike
As the industry’s queen, you didn't just top charts, you made them.
If you wore a certain outfit, it was gospel. If you gave an artist the cold shoulder, their career was essentially on life support. You were charming, yes, but it was a calculated, lethal kind of charm—the kind that you’d lose your mind trying to detect.
And then there was Michael.
For years, the two of you had been locked in a cold war that played out in the headlines. It was a cycle of petty war.
During a Rolling Stone interview, when asked about his latest hit, you hadn't even looked up from your manicure. "Oh, Michael's great," you’d said with a bored, sharp smile. "He’s doing a really impressive job of mimicking the production style I debuted two years ago. It’s sweet, like a little tribute act."
At the Grammys, you’d walked right past his table, deliberately spilling your champagne so that his handlers had to scramble to clean it up, offering nothing but a dead eyed, "Oops, my bad."
Michael didn't play nice, either. In a broadcasted acceptance speech, he’d thanked his team for keeping his music about "real soul" and not just "a pretty voice and PR stunts," a jab so blatant it made the morning headlines the next day.
The night of the International Music Awards, the tension was suffocating. You were draped in a beautifully tight dress, Michael across the aisle in a tailored suit that cost more than a house. You spent the entire ceremony trading glares; every time he caught you looking, he’d just raise a brow, or roll his eyes, completely unimpressed, which only made you want to scream.
By 2:00 AM, you were on your way to the hotel. Your team was exhausted, and you dismissed them with a flick of your wrist. "Go away. I need to sleep for a week."
You swiped your keycard, the light chirped green, and you kicked the door shut behind you, ready to peel off your makeup and collapse. But you stopped dead.
Michael was sitting on the edge of the bed, his jacket discarded on the floor, rubbing his temples as if he had the world's worst headache. He looked up, startled, his eyes wide.
"What the hell?" you breathed, staring at him like he was a roach in your kitchen.
Michael stood up, looking just as confused as you were. "What’re you doing here?" he asked, his voice rough. "This is my room."
"In your dreams, maybe," you snapped, waving your keycard at him. "This is my suite. I booked the penthouse. Get your shit and get out before I lose my mind."
"I booked the penthouse too, lady," he said, gesturing to his own room key on the nightstand. "I’ve been here for an hour."
You stormed toward him, your heels stabbing into the carpet. "Oh my God, I have absolutely zero desire to be breathing the same air as you right now. Get out you disgusting creep."
"Creep? Are you kidding me?" Michael walked over to the desk, his voice rising in genuine annoyance, dropping all that 'mean' act for a second. "I got here before you, Y/N. I didn't steal your fucking room."
"I’m not spending ten seconds in this room with you."
"You think I want to be stuck with you? You’re the last person I want to see after that shitshow of a ceremony."
You both stared at each other, the annoyance quickly curdling into genuine frustration. "This is a joke, right? Some kind of sick, twisted prank by the hotel?" You marched over to the bedside phone and slammed the receiver off the hook, dialing the front desk with aggressive, angry jabs.
"Yeah, hello?" you barked into the phone, not even waiting for a greeting. "There's a man in my room. A very annoying, very uninvited man. Fix this. Now."
You listened for a moment, your expression twisting into a mask of pure fury. You slammed the phone back down. "They’re 'lookin into it,'" you hissed at him. "Which means they have no clue what’s going on."
"Great," Michael sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Just great."
"We’re going to the front desk before I burn this entire Goddamn building down."you hissed, grabbing him by the arm and dragging him toward the door.
Downstairs, the front desk clerk looked like he wanted to jump out of a window. He frantically tapped at his computer while you paced in front of the desk, heels clicking hard against the marble floor.
"I’m so, SO sorry," the clerk stammered, his voice shaking. "There was a mishap in the reservation book. The entire hotel is booked for the award show. I have absolutely nothing left."
"I don’t give a shit if you have nothing left," you snarled, your patience completely shredded. "Find me a room, or I’ll have this hotel torn down by morning."
"The only other option is the Riverside Inn," the clerk whispered. "It’s... it’s a two-star motel on the edge of town."
Michael let out a dry, humorless laugh. "A two-star? You’re joking."
"I’m not staying in a dump like that," you snapped, turning to Michael. "Fix it. You’re the 'Global Icon,' right pretty boy? Use your influence…or dance or something. Whatever it is you do to get us a real room."
"Oh, sure, let me just snap my fingers and make a room appear," Michael shot back, his voice starting to lose its patience. "Don't act like this is my fault. I’m just as annoyed as you are, brat."
"Don't call me a brat, asshole," you hissed.
You both stood there, glaring at each other, the lobby staff watching in terrified silence. It was clear: you were too vain to leave, he was too exhausted, and both of you were too stubborn to admit that the only option left was to tolerate each other’s presence for the night.
You looked at Michael, then back at the terrified clerk, your jaw locked. "I hate you," you growled. "I hope you know I’m going to make this the most miserable night of your pathetic life."
Michael just sighed, turning toward the elevator. "Yeah, yeah. Save that bullshit for the cameras, princess."
The ride back to the penthouse was a study in controlled rage. You stood in the far corner, arms crossed tightly over your chest, vibrating with the kind of cold, sharp anger that usually sent assistants into early retirement. Michael stood by the doors, hands shoved deep into his pockets, staring at his own reflection with a jaw so tight it looked like it might shatter.
When the doors slid open, you didn't even wait for him.
"I take the bed," you said, not looking at him. "You take anything else. If I even hear you breathing, I’m calling the front desk and telling them you’re harassing me."
Michael walked past you, throwing his own jacket over the back of a velvet armchair. "That’s fine by me, Y/N. Just keep your stuff on your side of the room. I don't want your designer nonsense touching my things."
"My 'nonsense' is worth more than your lousy ass career, so keep your crusty hands off my stuff," you snapped, tossing your heels aside and watching as they narrowly missed his feet.
You were mid argument, deep in a heated debate over who got access to the walk in closet—"I need it to curate my looks," you argued, to which he replied, "I need it to actually unpack, not play dress up"—when a sharp knock echoed at the door.
It was a waiter, looking terrified as he wheeled in a silver cart laden with an extravagant spread of pastries, chocolate truffles, and exotic fruits drenched in thick honey. He stammered a frantic apology from the manager, desperate to appease both of you. You scoffed, eyeing the spread. "Tell them to keep the bum ass bribe."
Michael, however, stepped forward, offering the waiter a warm, polite smile that made you want to gag. "Thank you. This is very kind of them," he said smoothly, before the guy practically sprinted out of the room.
He picked up a small, honey glazed pastry, turning it over in his fingers. It smelled intoxicating—deep, floral, and strangely heavy. He took a bite, his expression shifting from polite to genuinely impressed. "You should try this, actually. It's not bad."
"I’m not gonna eat from a hotel that can't even book a room correctly," you said, but the smell was starting to worm its way into your senses, making your mouth water against your will.
"Suit yourself," he murmured, his voice sounding weirdly satisfied as he reached for another, smacking his lips as he chewed.
"Can you stop?" you groaned, leaning against the marble counter. "The smacking. It’s like listening to a wet sponge. It’s fucking repulsive."
"Shut up and try one," he countered, holding the plate out.
You grabbed a honey covered strawberry, mostly just to get him to shut up, and took a reluctant bite. The flavor hit you like a physical force. Sweet, intense, and wildly addictive. You hated it. You hated that it was the one of the best things you’d ever tasted, and you hated even more that he was watching you, waiting for your reaction.
"Good?" he asked, his voice low and smug.
"Fuck off," you muttered, though you were already reaching for another one.
An hour later, the room had gone quiet. The suite felt different—warmer, the air thicker. Michael had disappeared into the bathroom, the sound of the shower running providing a steady, rhythmic background to your boredom. You were sitting on the bed, robe pulled tight, watching a documentary on the television, but your focus was shattered.
A strange, prickling heat began to crawl up your spine. It was a slow, creeping tingle that made the fabric of your robe feel like sandpaper against your skin. Your heart rate spiked, a frantic, thumping rhythm that wouldn't slow down, and your hands felt unsteady as you reached for another fruit from the nightstand.
When the bathroom door finally opened, the tension in the room snapped into focus. Michael walked out, dressed in plain cotton pajamas that did nothing to hide the fact that he was looking just as frayed as you felt. He walked over and sat on the very edge of the bed, his back to you, his shoulders visibly tense.
He let out a long, ragged sigh, his head dropping back.
The sound irritated you to your core. "What’s your problem now?" you snapped, sitting up and pulling the robe tighter around your burning skin.
He didn't turn around. He just stared at the wall, his breathing noticeably heavy, his voice a low, strangled rasp. "Nothin’."
A heavy, suffocating silence filled the room. You watched him, your own breath hitching as a wave of heat flooded to your stomach, your thighs clenching together, desperate for relief. He shifted, his posture suddenly rigid, and you caught the flash of a distinct, thickening bulge in his pajamas that he was clearly struggling to hide.
He turned his head slightly, his eyes locking onto yours with a hazy, dark intensity. "Are you... are you feeling kinda hot?"
You tightened your grip on the blanket, your heart hammering so hard you were sure he could hear it. "A little," you lied, your voice breathless. The silence in the room was heavy. You went to the bathroom, your hands pressed against the cool tile, trying to wash the heat from your face. It was no use. Every shallow breath you took felt like you were inhaling honey—thick and intoxicating.
You walked back into the bedroom, your robe feeling like a weighted shackle. Michael was sitting on the edge of the bed. He didn’t look up, but the way his hands gripped the edge of the mattress told you everything.
"I can’t take this," you breathed, your voice trembling. The air felt thin. "I’m so hot."
"Me too," he rasped, his voice dropping an octave, raw and jagged. "We need to fix this."
He slowly looked up. His hair was a damp, messy wreck, and his eyes were dilated, black holes swallowing the dim light. He looked at you, really looked at you, and the way his gaze dragged over the slip of your robe made your stomach flip. You felt a deep, aching throb pulling at your core everything to do with the man sitting three feet away.
You didn't answer with words. You crossed the room in two strides, your movements fluid, and loomed over him. You reached out and shoved his chest, not hard, but enough to make him stumble back onto the mattress. "Move," you ordered.
He didn't fight you. He fell back, propping himself up on his elbows, watching you with a dangerous, hungry expectation. You climbed over him, the scent of the honeyed aphrodisiac radiating from his skin acting like a magnet. You straddled his hips, feeling the thick straining of his dick through his pajamas, and began to press down. You started moving against him, a slow, torturous grind that made his breath hitch.
“I can’t believe im doing this,” You gasp out, feeling his hands come up, gripping your waist with bruising force, his thumb digging into your hip as he moves you against him faster. “This is so gross.”
He let out a frustrated grunt as his hips stuttered forward, a clumsy, needy twitch, pressing his firmly against the center of your panties. He looked up at you, his eyes glassy and needy, his face a messy, dark crimson where a deep blush had spread over his cheeks, all the way to the tips of his ears. He looked completely undone by the simple feeling of you against him. "Shut the fuck up," he grits, though he didn't stop, his hips rolling forward seeking the heat and friction you offered. You let out a small, breathy sound he leaned into it, another buck of his hips sending a jolt through both of you.
His hand slipped between you, fingers finding the edge of your panties. You held your breath as he traced along the seam, teasing without entering. Teasing you before his fingers slid beneath the lace, finding you slick and ready. A low groan escaped his throat. "God, you’re s'wet for me."
"Don’t flatter yourself." But the heat on your cheeks betrayed you. His touch was skilled, knowing exactly where to press, how to curl. Your hips began moving against his hand, chasing the friction with uncontrollable hunger.
But it wasn’t enough to calm the heat. You grab his wrist, stilling his movements. His eyes widened in surprise. His pants came off in a tangle of fabric and impatience. He lay beneath you, fully exposed, letting you drink in the sight. Lean hips. Defined stomach. The way his chest rose and fell with shallow breaths as he watched you with anticipation.
You positioned yourself above him, feeling the tip press against your entrance. "Last..chance to back out," You pant.
He just smirked, hands resting on your hips as you slowly sinking down, every inch making your head fuzzy as you struggle to fully take him. The feeling was so overwhelming. His hands move to your thighs as you began to move, finding a rhythm that drove him deeper with each roll of your hips.
He threw his head back, a string of curses falling from his lips. He looked up at you with wide eyes, big hands moving to grip at every inch of your waist and hips.
You bit your lip, fighting back a smile as you look down at him, hands on his chest as you lazily roll your hips on his cock, his thick tip leaking deep inside your pussy.
"God... feels s'good," He babbles, voice shaky and lashes fluttering with every movement. His words encourage you to roll your hips faster, grinding his fat dick right against your cervix, wet squelching sounds harmonizing with his now louder whimpers.
His arms pull you down onto his chest, wrapping around you as he stuffs his face into your sweaty shoulder. His hips buck upward, creamy slick coating his length with every rut. The mixture creates an obscene glide between your bodies.
“Look at you—haah—moaning like a little bitch in heat.” You mock in between moans, letting out a small laugh as you grind against him, watching as his face scrunches up in pleasure, biting his lip to hold back from moaning. “Oh, you think that shit funny?” He grunts, letting out a frustrated, guttural sound and in one fluid motion, he flipped you, pinning you on your stomach beneath him. He was actually strong—terrifyingly so. He didn't waste time. He shoved his knee between your thighs, forcing them wider, his eyes burning with that familiar, hateful intensity.
"Awww, look at you. Such a mess f’me."
Michael’s hips rock forward, driving his dick as deep as it would go into your tight walls, you claw at the blanket every time he even pushes an inch further into your cunt, fucking you into the mattress with slow and purposeful strokes until you swore you felt him in your throat.
This man is must be trying to kill me, you think to yourself as you clutch the pillow beneath you, it slowly becoming stained with sweat, tears, smeared with your mascara and lip gloss, you're becoming a complete mess yet he shows no sign of letting up soon. He was having sweet revenge. Your arms started to waiver, no longer able to support your weight as Michael continued to pound into you from behind, one hand molding the flesh of your ass while the other hand rests at your waist, tugging you back against his hips, slender fingers splayed across your curves, keeping you right where he wanted you.
Another high pitched whine leaves your lips as the tip of his cock nudges right against your sweet spot, dropping your head against the pillow as pleasure ignites every nerve in your body till you felt as if you were burning. A low chuckle rumbles in his chest and you swear you could just feel his stupid fucking grin tugging at his lips as he watches you slowly but surely lose every coherent and bitchy thought in your mind.
"Fuck," he curses lowly, his hand gripping your ass a little tighter, his eyes glued to the way your cunt clenched around him, sucking him right back in whenever his hips drew backwards. "Ain’t got nothing to say now do you? Creamin' round me like a good girl. My dick that good, huh?" His hand moves to your throat, gripping it tightly, watching you gasp for air.
There's a sharp reply sitting in the back of your throat—God knows you wanted to get him off his high horse so badly — but even if you could talk, there's no point in arguing. No one has ever fucked you like this and he knows this. He had you hooked. There was no escaping for you now.
You honestly should’ve felt embarrassed by the sounds you were making, clenching around him like you don't want him to leave, to stop just yet, and Michael only feeds into it, leaning his body over yours, giving your ass a good couple of hard smacks before planting both of his arms at the sides of yours til you could feel the sweaty heat of him on your back.
A whimper bubbles up on your barely glossed lips, the rest of it smeared across your face from where you've been writhing against pillows and blankets. Michael grins against your skin— the feeling of his lips on you causes goosebumps to rise across your neck and shoulders before he plants wet kisses along them until he reaches your lips.
Michael pulls his chest away from your sticky back, his hand pushing down on the small of it while his other finds your puffy clit between your dripping folds. A scream tears in the column of your throat as he simultaneously pumps his throbbing cock into you and draws his name across your clit in tight movements. The combination has your mind in a frenzy, clouding with visions of lust as your thighs tremble and struggle to keep you up.
Juices roll down you thighs in thick waves, gathering around Michael’s cock in a frothy white mix the more he fucks into you — the wet pap, pap, pap of his balls against your cunt echoing throughout your bedroom. You glaze him in your arousal, smearing it up his pelvis and the fronts of his toned thighs. you make him a complete mess. "ffuck s’too much," you babble out, eyes rolling to the back out your head as you reach your hand behind you, finger tips pushing against his pelvis in a desperate effort to slow him down.
"You’re doing so well, though. Keep singing for me, mama, lemme hear you." He praises over your loud tune of kitten mewls, breathless pants and soft hiccups, feeling him reach for your arm and tossing it off him. You can feel yourself getting closer and he's not even fully inside of you. He can feel it too. But Michael doesn't falter, placing his foot on the bed as leverage to move his hips faster, harder— groaning deep between bared and gritted fangs while he watches your ass jiggle against his pelvis, shining with your slick. "You gonna cum, baby?"
“D-don’t fucking call me that,” you grit out, though he doesn’t really care for what you’re saying for the musician is already playing with your sensitive clit once again, drawing electrifying shapes against it and rubbing your juices back into your sex while you clench around his sloppy cock. The hotel mix up had to be one of the best accidents you've ever experienced, you think as you fall apart— eyes rolling far back into your skull while you clench and cream on him.
"Atta girl," Michael coos as you come down from your earth shattering high, a mess of weak bones and jelly legs in his arms. "You're so fucking disgusting," You pant, though your body says otherwise, clenching his dick with a vice like grip. "Get off me."
"Cant when you're dripping down my… and..., fuck," His words struggle to come out of his mouth as he cums hard, his entire body shuddering, pumping his thick load into you while you groan— partially at his audacity, but mostly at how full you feel.
The aftermath was a slow descent. You lay there, tangled in the disheveled sheets, your limbs feeling like weights. The room was deathly quiet, save for the ragged, synchronized gasping that filled the space between you. You were a mess—sore, flushed, and utterly breathless—yet your body was still humming with the lingering effects of the aphrodisiac.
He slowly pulls out, flipping you on your back so he could see your precious face, but his eyes drift back to your leaking pussy, watching a mix of your releases seep out of you and onto the starch sheets. You scrunch your face up at the feeling, your chest heaving, trying to gather the shredded remnants of your pride. "That," you rasped, your voice cracking as you struggled to sound dismissive, "was a disgusting mistake. I don't know what came over me, but it won't happen again."
Michael let out a low chuckle. He propped himself up on one elbow, his hair wild and his gaze dark with a triumphant, knowing amusement. He didn't say a word; he just leaned down, captured your chin in his hand, and tilted your head back. He kissed you—slow, deep, and impossibly possessive—until your stubborn resolve crumbled into nothingness, your fingers curling into his damp hair to pull him closer.
Just as you were spiraling back into his orbit, a sharp, polite knock rapped against the suite door.
"Ma’am?" a muffled voice called out. "I just wanted to inform you that we’ve managed to open up another premium suite if you’d like to relocate?"
You pulled back, chest heaving, and looked at Michael. You both went silent, staring at the door. You looked at each other—at the wreck of the room, the clothes strewn everywhere, and the heat still radiating off your skin.
"We're... we're fine," you called out, your voice sounding breathless and shy, a far cry from your usual cold, untouchable persona. "We'll stay here."
"Very well," the worker replied, their voice tight with suppressed excitement.
As the worker’s footsteps receded, they tiptoed down the hall to where a group of hotel staff had been huddled, holding their breath in the corridor. As soon as the worker rounded the corner, they let out a jubilant, hushed cheer.
"They totally fucked," the worker whispered, grinning at the manager, who was practically vibrating with relief. "The honey worked."
The manager leaned against the wall, fanning their face with a clipboard, a smug, brilliant smile spreading across their lips. In a desperate, high stakes gamble to save their jobs from your wrath, they had concocted the perfect dish—a blend of rare, potent ingredients they hoped would finally break the tension between the two most difficult stars on the planet. It hadn't just saved their jobs, it had changed the entire industry's dynamic overnight.
Back in the suite, you had no idea about the little plan. You just glared at Michael, who was currently pulling you closer to him as he laid back on the pillows, his smirk wider than ever.
"I still hate you," you mumbled into his chest.
"I know, baby," he murmured, his hands wandering back down to your waist, his eyes darkening as he was about to remind you once more why you weren't leaving that room. "I know."
✦ pairings ... 1.9k ﹒ otw michael ℘ girlfriend!reader
✦ premise ... 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐖𝐀𝐘 𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄 ★ exhausted after a day where every errand seems to go wrong, you stumble home to find michael waiting just for you. as you talk your way through your nighttime routine, he reminds you that some days only need one thing to be made better.
✦ contains ... ( tooth-rotting fluff ) established relationship, boyfriend!michael, emotional comfort, venting, domestic intimacy, kisses, cuddling in bed, soft!michael, no use of y/n
✦ adore’s note ... anything but taking my ass to bed, y’know.
requested ﹒ @prettyangeliczz (not req! but ib)
You don't realize how exhausted you are until you hear the click of the front door latch behind you. The sound echoes in the quiet entryway, a final, definitive punctuation mark on a day that has felt like an endless, run-on sentence. The drive home had been a blur of taillights and radio static, your mind a jumble of to-do lists and half-finished thoughts. But now, standing in the familiar sanctuary of your own home, the weight of the day crashes down on you all at once. Your shoulders sag, your purse feeling like a leaden anchor in your hand, your feet aching a dull, rhythmic protest against the unforgiving hardness of the hardwood floors.
The world outside the windows of your Encino home has faded to a deep, bruised purple, the last vestiges of sunlight clinging to the horizon. Inside, the house is a warm, welcoming embrace, the air scented with the faint, clean smell of lemon polish and the lingering aroma of the coffee Michael had made that morning. It's quiet, save for the gentle hum of the refrigerator and the distant, rhythmic chirping of crickets. It's the kind of quiet that feels like a balm, a soothing salve on your frayed nerves.
You kick off your shoes, not even bothering to untie the laces, your toes curling into the plush, thick wool of the entryway rug. You leave your purse on the floor, a messy heap of leather and receipts, a testament to the chaos you've just escaped. All you want is a hot shower, the steam clouding the bathroom mirror and seeping into your tired bones. You want clean pajamas, the soft, worn fabric a comforting second skin. You want to crawl into bed, pull the covers over your head, and let the darkness swallow you whole before your thoughts have a chance to catch up, to dissect every awkward interaction, every perceived failure, every little thing that went wrong.
You trudge towards the master bedroom, your steps slow and heavy. The hallway is a familiar journey, a path you've walked a thousand times, but tonight it feels like a marathon. Each step is a monumental effort, your body protesting with every movement.
And then you see him.
He's sitting on the edge of your shared bed, a silhouette against the soft, warm glow of the bedside lamp. He's still dressed down from the day, a simple, white t-shirt and a pair of faded, worn-in jeans. His feet are bare, his long, elegant toes curled into the plush carpet. He's leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees, a posture of quiet, patient waiting. He's been waiting for you.
As you get closer, you see the smile that tugs at the corners of his lips, a slow, easy curve that somehow makes everything feel lighter, brighter. It's not the bright, megawatt smile he gives the world, the one that's all teeth and perfect, practiced angles. This one is smaller, more intimate, a private little secret that he saves just for you. It's a smile that says, I'm here. I've been waiting. I'm so glad you're home.
"Hey, you," he says, his voice a low, soft murmur that's like a warm hug. "Hey," you breathe, your own voice a tired, weary thing. You barely have the energy to greet him, to return the warmth of his smile, before the dam breaks. The words come pouring out of you in a frantic, jumbled rush, a verbal avalanche of pent-up frustration and exhaustion.
"You wouldn’t believe the day I've had," you say, dropping your keys and a handful of loose change onto the dresser with a loud, clattering rattle. "First, the bank was a nightmare. I swear, I was in line for an hour, and then they tell me I need some form I don't even have. And then I went to the grocery store, and they were out of everythin’ I needed. I swear, it's like they knew I was comin’."
You don't even wait for a response, turning your back to him as you continue your rant, your movements sharp and jerky with frustration. You start to remove your jewelry, your fingers fumbling with the small, delicate clasp of your necklace. "‘N then the post office was a zoo. I had to send off that package for Mama Kathy, and the line was out the door. And this woman, she was trying t’mail a live chicken, I swear t’God. A live chicken, Mickey! And she couldn't understand why they wouldn't let her."
You finally manage to unclasp the necklace, letting it fall into the small, ceramic dish on the dresser with a soft, metallic clink. You move on to your earrings, your movements still stiff and agitated.
"And then I had to go t’that fabric store, the one you liked, and they didn't have the right shade of blue for th’ curtains. Not even close. And the woman who worked there, she was s’unhelpful. She just looked at me like I was speaking a different language."
You turn and walk into the adjoining bathroom, leaving the door open. You can hear him following you, his footsteps soft and silent on the carpet. You lean over the sink, splashing cool water on your face, the shock of it a welcome, grounding sensation.
"And then, on the way home, I got stuck behind th’ slowest driver in th’ history of th’ world. I swear, they were goin’, like, ten miles an hour. And they kept brakin’ for no reason. No reason! I almost lost my mind."
You grab a cotton pad and a bottle of makeup remover, your movements rough and aggressive as you wipe away the foundation and mascara that you'd put on that morning with such hopeful optimism. You're scrubbing at your face, trying to wash away the day, but it feels like the stress is seeped too deep, a permanent stain on your soul.
You can feel his eyes on you, a steady, calming presence. He hasn't said a word. He's just standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame, his arms crossed over his chest. He's watching you, his expression a mixture of amusement and deep, unwavering affection.
You finish removing your makeup, your face feeling raw and clean. You pick up your toothbrush, squeezing a blob of minty toothpaste onto the bristles.
"And then I get home, and I realize I forgot t’buy milk. Milk! And now I can't even have a cup of tea because there's no milk. And I really, really wanted a cup of tea." You start to brush your teeth, the rhythmic, brushing motion a small, mindless comfort. You're still ranting, your words a muffled, garbled mess around the toothbrush. "I'm just so… so… over it. I'm over everything. I'm over banks and grocery stores and post offices and slow drivers and fabric stores that don't have the right shade of blue. I'm over it all."
You spit, a loud, forceful sound, and rinse your mouth with a swig of water. You look up, catching your reflection in the mirror. Your face is pale, your eyes wide and tired. You look like you've been through a war. He's still there, watching you with that same, steady gaze. He's a silent, reassuring presence, a rock in the storm of your own making.
You walk back into the bedroom, pulling one of his oversized t-shirts over your head. The fabric is soft and worn, smelling faintly of him—a clean, familiar scent that is more comforting than any hug. It's a white v-neck, the one he'd worn to the studio yesterday, and it hangs on you like a short, loose dress. The sleeves are too long, the hem falling to mid-thigh.
You finally finish your story, the last of your frustrated energy spent. The room goes quiet, the only sound the soft, distant hum of the air conditioner. You're standing in the middle of the room, feeling small and lost and utterly drained.
And then he moves.
He reaches out, his hands finding your waist, and he pulls you towards him. He guides you between his knees, settling you on the edge of the bed, a soft, warm weight that grounds you. He looks up at you, his dark eyes soft and full of a tenderness that makes your heart ache. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to. He leans in, capturing your lips in a slow, lingering kiss. It's not a kiss of passion or desire, but of comfort, of reassurance. It's a kiss that says, I'm here. I hear you. I've got you.
His lips are soft and warm, a gentle, soothing pressure that melts away the last of your tension. You can feel the stress, the frustration, the anger, all of it, dissolving under the gentle, insistent pressure of his mouth. You sigh, a soft, contented sound, your body relaxing against his, your arms wrapping around his neck. He pulls back, just enough to look at you, a small, sad smile on his face. He reaches up, his thumb gently stroking your cheek, a soft, comforting gesture.
"I'm sorry you had such a bad day, angel," he says, his voice a low, gentle murmur. "I wish I could’ve been there to fix it all fer you."
"You're here now," you whisper, your forehead resting against his. "That's all that matters."
He leans in again, kissing you once more, a soft, sweet press of lips that's full of unspoken promises. He kisses your forehead, your nose, the corner of your mouth, a series of soft, gentle touches that are a balm to your soul.
"Come on," he says, his voice a soft, gentle command. "Let's get you t’bed."
He stands up, pulling you with him. He lifts the covers, the crisp, cool sheets a welcome invitation. You slide into bed, the soft, plush mattress a welcome embrace. He climbs in beside you, the bed dipping under his weight. You immediately curl against his chest, your head finding its home in the crook of his shoulder. His arm wraps around you, a warm, heavy weight that is both comforting and protective. His other hand comes up to rest on your hip, a slow, steady rhythm that is more calming than any lullaby.
You can feel the steady beat of his heart against your ear, a slow, reassuring rhythm that lulls you into a state of sleepy contentment. You can smell the faint, clean scent of his skin, a familiar, comforting aroma that is more intoxicating than any perfume. This is it. This is the thing that makes it all worth it. The long days, the frustrating errands, the endless, demanding world. It all fades away in the face of this simple, profound truth: you are home. You are safe. You are loved.
Some days don't need grand gestures. Sometimes, coming home to the person who loves you is enough to make even the longest day feel worth it. "Better?" he asks, his voice a low, soft whisper against your hair. "Mmm," you hum, a contented, sleepy sound. "Much better."
"Good," he says, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head. "Get some sleep, baby. I'll be here when you wake up." You close your eyes, a feeling of deep, abiding peace washing over you. The events of the day, the frustrations, the annoyances, they all seem distant, unimportant. All that matters is this. The warmth of his body, the steady beat of his heart, the quiet, profound comfort of being held by the man you love.
The world outside can wait. In the quiet sanctuary of your bedroom, wrapped in the arms of the man you love, everything is finally, perfectly, right.
✦ pairings ... 5.5k ﹒ bad michael ℘ f.reader. pt. 1 —
✦ premise ... 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐈𝐍 𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐄 ★ a few months after your sleepover, michael invites you to join him in rome while he's overseas for a performance. once the show is over and the crowds disappear, the two of you spend the night wandering the city's quiet streets, discovering that some places are best experienced with your favorite person.
✦ contains ... ( fluff with yearning ) best friends, mutual pining, friends to lovers, romance, pet names, flirty friendships, kissing ( finally ), playful teasing, interruption, confessions, emotional intimacy, slow burn, unresolved feelings, no use of y/n
✦ adore’s note ... finally, the second part is here!! might make this a miniseries, but again it depends on what ya’ll want!! got carried away when writing!! enjoy. thank you for all the love on part one. ♡
p.s. ignore that i was too lazy to eye dialect.
requested ﹒ too many 2 count!! (check taglist)!!♡
The roar of the Roman crowd is a physical thing. It’s a living, breathing entity that presses against you from all sides, a hot, vibrating force that hums deep in your bones. You’re tucked away in the shadows of the wings, a world away from the spectacle but completely immersed in it. From here, you can see the magic and the machinery. The frantic scurrying of stagehands, the precise, almost balletic movements of the dancers, the stark, utilitarian scaffolding that holds up a fantasy.
But your eyes are only for him.
Under the glare of a thousand lights, Michael is a force of nature. He’s a comet, a whirlwind of pure, unadulterated energy. Every hip thrust, every kick, every spin is executed with a breathtaking precision that borders on the divine. He owns this stage, this stadium, this city. He owns the hundred thousand people who are screaming his name. You’ve seen him perform before, on grainy VHS tapes and on the small screen of your television, but it’s nothing—nothing—compared to this. Seeing him like this, up close, is like witnessing the birth of a star.
He’s in the middle of “Smooth Criminal,” the iconic white suit a stark slash against the dark stage. He leans forward, defying gravity, and the crowd erupts. A grin splits your face, a fierce, proud, proprietary thing. That’s your best friend up there. The boy who used to build forts with you in your living room, the boy who cried when you gave him a black eye with a wayward baseball swing, the boy who called you from a payphone just to hear your voice before a big show. He’s all of that, and he’s also this. A global phenomenon. A legend.
The song ends, and he strikes a final, dramatic pose, chest heaving, head bowed. The lights go down, plunging the stadium into a sudden, expectant darkness. For a beat, there’s only the sound of a hundred thousand people catching their breath. Then, a single spotlight finds him, sitting on a stool at the center of the stage, a fedora pulled low over his eyes.
He’s going to sing “Rock With You.” Your heart does a familiar little flutter. He always says he dedicates this one to you, even if he never says your name out loud. He starts to sing, and the raw, emotional rasp in his voice sends shivers down your spine. It’s a different kind of performance now. Stripped of the pyrotechnics and the dizzying dance moves, it’s just him, and the microphone, and the sheer power of his voice. He’s pouring everything into it, every ounce of love and longing and gratitude he feels. And you know, with a certainty that settles deep in your soul, that he’s singing to you.
When the final note fades, he’s off the stool and running, sprinting towards the wings. He’s a blur of white and sweat, a kinetic missile aimed directly at you. You barely have time to register his movement before he’s there, in front of you, pulling you into a bone-crushing hug.
He’s soaking wet, his t-shirt clinging to his chest like a second skin. He smells of sweat, and that expensive, clean cologne he loves, and something else… something uniquely him. It’s the scent of adrenaline, of pure, unadulterated joy.
“You were incredible,” you breathe into his hair, your arms wrapped tight around his neck. “Absolutely incredible.”
He pulls back, just enough to look at you, his face split into a wide, brilliant grin. His eyes are shining, impossibly bright, a frantic, beautiful energy thrumming just beneath the surface of his skin. He’s still high off the rush, a live wire buzzing with an electric current.
“You think so?” he asks, his voice a low, happy rumble.
“I know so,” you say, standing on your tiptoes to press a quick, firm kiss to his sweaty cheek. You taste salt and the faint, ghost of a stage makeup. “They loved you, Mikey. They really, really loved you.”
“They loved it,” he corrects, a playful glint in his eye. “But I love you more.” Your heart does a little flip-flop, a familiar, dizzying sensation that you’ve learned to live with over the years. You’re about to say something, to tease him, to deflect, but he’s already pulling away. “Gotta go,” he says, dabbing at his face with a towel a stagehand shoves into his hands. “Makeup’s a mess. They’ll have my head for lettin’ myself get so sweaty.” He winks, a quick, mischievous gesture that’s just for you. “Don’t go anywhere.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you call after him as he disappears deeper backstage, a whirlwind of white energy and purpose.
You lean against a stack of road cases, letting the post-show chaos wash over you. The roar of the crowd has subsided into a dull, expectant hum, a thousand conversations happening at once. The stage is a flurry of activity, a well-oiled machine resetting for the next leg of the tour. You’re an island of calm in the middle of it all, a quiet observer in a world that’s not your own. But it doesn’t feel alien. Not with him here. With him, this strange, chaotic world feels like home.
The rest of the show passes in a blur of light and sound. You watch from the wings, your eyes never leaving him. He’s a dynamo, a force of nature, a whirlwind of pure, unadulterated energy. He’s in his element, a king on his throne, and you’re the queen of his shadow kingdom, a silent, supportive presence in the wings.
When the final curtain falls, and the last of the pyrotechnics fades into the night, the stadium is plunged into a sudden, jarring silence. The energy of the crowd dissipates, replaced by a collective, exhausted sigh. The stage lights come up, revealing the messy, chaotic reality behind the fantasy.
You wait for him, a patient sentinel in the dimly lit wings. You can hear him before you see him, a familiar, happy hum that cuts through the noise of the crew. He appears a few moments later, a towel draped around his neck, his hair still damp from the post-show shower. He’s changed into a pair of black jeans and a simple black t-shirt, but he’s still buzzing, a live wire humming with a residual energy. “Hey,” he says, a slow, easy smile spreading across his face. “Ready to go?”
“Go where?” you ask, raising an eyebrow. “It’s after midnight. I was thinking we could order some room service and watch bad Italian TV until we pass out.” He chuckles, a low, throaty sound. “That sounds nice,” he says, taking your hand. “But I have a better idea.” He leads you through the maze of backstage corridors, past a sea of exhausted-looking crew members and half-dismantled equipment. He nods at a few people, a quick, easy gesture of acknowledgement, but he doesn’t stop. He’s a man on a mission, and you’re happy to follow him, a willing accomplice in whatever adventure he’s planned.
You emerge into the cool night air, the smell of exhaust fumes and distant garbage a stark contrast to the sterile, air-conditioned world of the stadium. A black car, sleek and unassuming, is waiting for you, its engine a low, purring rumble. He opens the door for you, a gentlemanly gesture that never fails to make your heart flutter. “Where are we goin’?” you ask, sliding into the plush leather seat. “It’s a surprise,” he says, sliding in beside you. He closes the door, and the city disappears behind the tinted windows. The car pulls away from the curb, merging seamlessly into the flow of late-night traffic.
Rome at night is a different creature. It’s a city of ghosts, of echoes, of memories. The ancient ruins are bathed in a soft, golden light, their shadows stretching long and thin across the cobblestone streets. The usual throngs of tourists have vanished, replaced by a handful of late-night revelers and the occasional stray cat. The car winds its way through the narrow, winding streets, the city a blur of color and light. You lean your head against the cool glass, watching the world go by. Michael is quiet, but it’s a comfortable silence, a shared understanding that needs no words. He’s just happy to be here, with you, in this beautiful, ancient city.
The car finally pulls to a stop in a small, secluded piazza. A single fountain, its water glinting in the moonlight, stands in the center, its gentle splash a soothing, rhythmic sound. The surrounding buildings are old, their stucco walls a patchwork of faded colors, their windows dark and shuttered. “C’mon,” he says, opening the door. “There’s someone I want you t’meet.” He leads you towards a small, unassuming door tucked away in a corner of the piazza. A single, flickering lantern hangs above it, casting a warm, inviting glow. He knocks, a soft, rhythmic beat. A moment later, the door creaks open, revealing a tiny, ancient-looking man with a shock of white hair and a kind, crinkly face.
“Michael!” he exclaims, his face breaking into a wide, toothy grin. He pulls Michael into a tight, affectionate hug, patting him heartily on the back. “S’good to see you, my boy. It has been too long.” “It’s good to see you, too, Enzo,” Michael says, his face split into a wide, brilliant grin. “I brought someone with me. Someone special.” Enzo turns his attention to you, his eyes twinkling with curiosity. He takes your hand, bringing it to his lips for a soft, courtly kiss. “A pleasure,” he says, his voice a thick, melodic Italian accent. “Any friend of Michael’s is a friend of mine.”
“Enzo owns this shop,” Michael explains, gesturing towards the door. “He’s the best shoemaker in all of Rome. Maybe the world.” Enzo chuckles, a modest, dismissive wave of his hand. “I am a simple craftsman,” he says. “But Michael, he has an eye for beauty. He knows a good shoe when he sees one.”
“He’s bein’ modest,” Michael whispers to you, a mischievous glint in his eye. “He’s made shoes for popes and kings. But he makes the best loafers for dancing.” He turns back to Enzo. “We’re here for a little midnight shopping, if you’re not too busy.” “For you, my boy, I am never too busy,” Enzo says, stepping aside to let you in. “Come in, come in. The night is young, and the leather s’fresh.”
The shop is a magical, olfactory wonderland. The air is thick with the rich, earthy scent of leather, of polish, of old wood and history. The walls are lined with shelves, each one overflowing with shoes of every shape and size, from delicate, bejeweled heels to sturdy, well-worn boots. The workbench in the center of the room is a chaotic masterpiece of tools and half-finished projects, a testament to a life dedicated to the art of shoemaking. “You see?” Michael says, his voice a low, happy murmur. “It’s like a museum.” “It’s more than a museum,” Enzo says, a proud, happy smile on his face. “It’s a sanctuary. A place where beauty is born.”
Michael starts to browse, his fingers tracing the delicate stitching of a pair of velvet loafers, the smooth, worn leather of a pair of well-loved boots. He’s in his element, a connoisseur appreciating fine art. You watch him, a soft, contented smile on your face. You love seeing him like this, so passionate, so alive. It’s a side of him that the world never gets to see, a quiet, intimate glimpse into the soul of the man behind the legend. “What do you think?” he asks, holding up a pair of black patent leather loafers, the leather so shiny it reflects the single, flickering lantern. “I think you have enough shoes,” you tease, a playful glint in your eye. “You could open your own museum.”
“A man can never have enough shoes,” he retorts, a smug little smile on his face. “Especially when they’re this beautiful.” Enzo chuckles, a low, throaty sound. “He is right,” he says, a knowing twinkle in his eye. “A good shoe is like a good woman. Hard to find, but once you do, you never let her go.”
Your heart does a little flip-flop, a familiar, dizzying sensation that you’ve learned to live with over the years. You can feel Michael’s eyes on you, a heavy, lingering gaze that makes your skin tingle. You clear your throat, turning your attention to a nearby shelf, your fingers tracing the delicate, beaded embroidery on a pair of satin slippers. “These are beautiful,” you say, your voice a little too bright. “Who are they for?”
“They were for a princess,” Enzo says, a wistful look on his face. “A long, long time ago. She never came to pick them up.” “Her loss,” Michael says, coming up behind you. He’s so close, you can feel the warmth of his body, the faint, clean scent of his cologne. He picks up one of the slippers, holding it in his palm like a fragile, precious thing. “They’d look good on you.” You laugh, a light, airy sound that does little to dispel the tension in the room. “I don’t think I’m quite princess material.” “Sure you are,” he says, his voice a low, intimate whisper. “My princess.”
The words hang in the air between you, a quiet, unspoken truth that’s as beautiful as it is terrifying. You want to lean into him, to close the distance between you, to let the current that’s been humming between you for years finally pull you under. But you’re scared. Scared of ruining the perfect, fragile thing you have. “You’re ridiculous,” you say, your voice a strained mix of affection and deflection. You gently take the slipper from him, placing it back on the shelf. “Now, are you going to buy somethin’, or are we jus’ here to admire the craftsmanship?”
“Alright, alright,” he says, raising his hands in surrender, a playful glint in his eye. “You win.” He turns back to Enzo, a serious, business-like expression on his face. “I’ll take th’ patent leather ones. And the ones with th’ silver buckles. And…” He pauses, a mischievous glint in his eye. “And the slippers. For th’ princess.” Enzo beams, a happy, proud smile on his face. “Excellent choices, my boy. Excellent choices.” He disappears into the back of the shop, returning a moment later with several boxes, each one a work of art in its own right. He carefully wraps the shoes, his movements precise, practiced. It’s a ritual, a sacred ceremony, and you feel like you’re witnessing something special, something that few people ever get to see.
Michael pays him, a quick, discreet transaction that’s handled with a quiet, mutual respect. As he’s signing the receipt, you find yourself drawn to the workbench, to the chaotic, beautiful mess of tools and half-finished projects. You pick up a small, intricately carved wooden last, the surface smooth and worn from years of use. “My father made that,” Enzo says, appearing at your side. “He was a shoemaker, too. And his father before him. It is in our blood, you see? To make things that are beautiful, that last.”
“It’s a dyin’ art,” you say, your voice soft.
“Not as long as there are people like Michael,” Enzo says, a fond, paternal look on his face. “He understands. He knows that beauty is not a luxury. It is a necessity. It is what makes us human.” You look over at Michael, who’s now laughing with Enzo, his face lit up with a joy so pure it’s almost painful to witness. And you know, with a certainty that settles deep in your soul, that Enzo is right. Michael is a collector of beauty, of moments, of memories. And tonight, in this tiny, magical shop in the heart of Rome, he’s collecting another one. “You’re a lucky man, Enzo,” you say, your voice a quiet murmur. “To have a friend like him.”
“I am a lucky man,” Enzo agrees, a knowing twinkle in his eye. “But I think he is the lucky one. To have a friend like you.”
The words land with the weight of a confession, a quiet, intimate truth that hangs in the air between you. You feel a warmth spread through your chest that has nothing to do with the stuffy, leather-scented shop. You’re about to say something, to thank him, but Michael’s already at your side, a small, wrapped box in his hands. “Ready to go, princess?” he asks, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Don’t call me that,” you say, but there’s no heat in your words. “Why not?” he asks, a playful whine in his voice. “It suits you.”
“It does not,” you retort, swatting him lightly on the arm. “Does too,” he says, a smug little smile on his face. He turns to Enzo, pulling him into another one of his bone-crushing hugs. “Thank you, my friend. For everything.” “Always, my boy,” Enzo says, patting him heartily on the back. “Now go. Go enjoy the city. Go live a little.”
“We will,” Michael says, taking your hand. “We will.” The cool night air is a welcome relief after the stuffy, leather-scented shop. The car is still waiting for you, a silent, black shadow in the moonlit piazza. Michael opens the door for you, a gentlemanly gesture that never fails to make your heart flutter.
“So,” he says, sliding in beside you. “What’s next on the midnight adventure tour?” “You’re the tour guide,” you say, leaning your head against the cool leather of the seat. “I’m just along for the ride.”
“Good,” he says, a slow, easy smile spreading across his face. “Then I’m taking you to get the best gelato in Rome.” The car winds its way through the narrow, winding streets, the city a blur of color and light. You’re quiet, but it’s a comfortable silence, a shared understanding that needs no words. You’re both just happy to be here, in this beautiful, ancient city, together.
The gelateria is a tiny, unassuming shop tucked away on a quiet side street. A single, flickering neon sign illuminates the window, casting a soft, colorful glow on the cobblestones. There are no tourists here, no lines of people waiting to be served. Just a sleepy-looking teenager behind the counter, and a handful of locals, their faces illuminated by the soft light of the fluorescents.
Michael orders for you, a rapid-fire string of Italian that’s surprisingly fluent. The teenager nods, a sleepy, unimpressed expression on his face. He scoops a generous portion of pistachio gelato into a cone, the color a vibrant, unnatural green. He follows it up with a scoop of chocolate, so dark it’s almost black. He hands the cone to Michael, who pays him with a handful of colorful euros.
“Here,” he says, holding out the cone. “Try this. It’s life-changing.” You take the cone, your fingers brushing against his. The gelato is cold, a welcome relief in the warm, humid night. You take a tentative lick, the flavor a burst of intense, nutty sweetness. It’s unlike any pistachio you’ve ever tasted, rich and creamy and impossibly flavorful. “Oh, wow,” you say, your eyes widening in surprise. “That’s… that’s really good.”
“Told you,” he says, a smug little smile on his face. He leans in, taking a quick, playful lick of your cone. “Hey, not bad,” he says, a thoughtful expression on his face. “I should’ve gotten that.”
“Hey, get your own,” you say, swatting him lightly on the arm. But you’re laughing, a light, airy sound that does little to dispel the easy, comfortable warmth that’s settled over you. You walk together, the gelato a sweet, sticky mess in your hands. The city is quiet now, the usual throngs of tourists replaced by a handful of late-night revelers and the occasional stray cat. The ancient ruins are bathed in a soft, golden light, their shadows stretching long and thin across the cobblestone streets. “It’s beautiful here,” you say, your voice a soft murmur. “It’s like… like a movie set.”
“It’s real,” he says, his voice a low, intimate whisper. “All of it. That’s the crazy part. People built this, thousands of years ago. They lived here, they loved here, they died here. And we’re just… walkin’ through their ghosts.” He leads you towards a small, secluded park, the trees a dark, shadowy canopy against the moonlit sky. He finds a bench, a simple, wrought-iron thing that’s been worn smooth by years of use. He sits down, patting the space beside him.
You settle in beside him, the silence stretching between you, a comfortable, familiar blanket. You finish your gelato, the last of it a sweet, sticky memory on your tongue. You can hear the distant sound of a siren, the soft, rhythmic chirping of crickets, the gentle splash of a nearby fountain. It’s a symphony of the city, a lullaby for the sleepless. “I’m glad you’re here,” he says, his voice a quiet, fragile thing. “I don’t think I say that enough.” “I’m glad I’m here, too,” you say, your voice a soft echo of his.
He turns to you, his eyes searching yours. In the dim, moonlit light, they’re dark, impossibly deep, a universe of unspoken feelings and shared memories. He’s so close, you can feel the warmth of his body, the faint, clean scent of his cologne. You can see the faint scar above his left eyebrow, the tiny, almost invisible laugh lines around his eyes.
You’re leaning in before you even realize you’re doing it. It’s an instinct, a reflex, a magnetic pull that’s been humming between you for years. Your heart is a frantic, hummingbird beat against your ribs, a frantic, desperate rhythm that drowns out all other sounds. His gaze drops to your lips, a slow, deliberate gesture that sends a jolt of electricity through you. He leans in, too, closing the small distance between you. The air is thick with anticipation, with the unspoken promise of a thousand missed opportunities, a thousand almosts. This is it. This is the moment.
“Michael!”
The voice is a sharp, intrusive crack that shatters the delicate, fragile bubble you’ve both been living in. You both jump, pulling apart as if you’ve been burned. A figure is striding towards you across the grass, a silhouette against the moonlit sky. It’s Bill, his face a mask of stoic professionalism, but you can see the faint, almost imperceptible line of worry etched between his brows.
“Sorry to interrupt,” he says, his voice a low, neutral rumble. “But it’s late. And we have an early flight tomorrow. It’s time to get back to the hotel.” Michael lets out a frustrated sigh, a sharp, angry puff of air. He runs a hand through his hair, a gesture of pure, unadulterated annoyance. “Yeah, okay, Bill,” he says, his voice tight, strained. “We’re comin’.”
“Good,” Bill says, a curt, professional nod. He turns and walks away, disappearing back into the shadows, a ghost in the night. “Well,” you say, your voice a little too bright, a little too brittle. “That was… fun.” “Yeah,” Michael says, a grim, tight-lipped smile on his face. “A blast.”
He stands up, holding out a hand to help you to your feet. You take it, his fingers closing around yours, a warm, firm grip. You’re both awkward, stiff, the easy, comfortable intimacy you shared just moments ago replaced by a tense, self-conscious silence. The unspoken words hang in the air between you, a heavy, suffocating weight. The ride back to the hotel is a study in quiet tension. The car is a silent, plush bubble, the city lights a blurry, colorful smear outside the tinted windows. You sit close, but not too close, a careful, deliberate distance between you. Your knees are almost touching, a whisper of space that feels like a vast, uncrossable chasm.
You can feel the heat radiating from him, the familiar, comforting warmth of his body. You can smell the faint, clean scent of his cologne, a ghost of a memory that makes your heart ache. You want to reach out, to close the distance, to bridge the gap, but you’re frozen, a prisoner of your own fear. He’s just as tense. He’s staring out the window, his jaw set, a muscle working in his cheek. His hands are clenched into fists in his lap, a white-knuckled grip that betrays the calm, indifferent facade he’s trying so hard to maintain.
You arrive at the hotel a few minutes later, a grand, imposing building that’s all gleaming marble and hushed, reverent silence. A team of discreet, efficient-looking bellhops descends upon the car, their movements a well-choreographed ballet of silent service. They open the doors, they take your bags, they lead you towards the private elevators, their faces a mask of polite, professional anonymity. You ride the elevator in silence, the soft, instrumental music a grating, intrusive soundtrack to your shared discomfort. The numbers on the display climb higher and higher, a slow, agonizing ascent to your own private purgatory. The elevator doors slide open with a soft, whooshing sound, revealing the penthouse suite. It’s a palace of opulent excess, a sprawling space of gleaming marble floors, floor-to-ceiling windows, and plush, oversized furniture. The city lights twinkle below you, a breathtaking, glittering panorama that should feel magical, but just feels empty.
“I’m gonna… I’m gonna take a shower,” you say, your voice a strained, awkward thing. “I’m all sticky from the gelato.”
“Yeah,” he says, his voice a quiet, hoarse echo. “Me, too.”
You retreat to your bedroom, a beautiful, spacious room with a king-sized bed and a bathroom that’s bigger than your entire apartment back home. You close the door behind you, a thin, flimsy barrier that does little to muffle the sound of your own frantic, hummingbird heart.
You strip off your clothes, leaving them in a heap on the floor. You turn on the shower, the water a hot, pounding spray that you hope will wash away the tension, the awkwardness, the unspoken words that are clinging to you like a second skin. You step under the spray, the water a scalding, cleansing force that soothes your aching muscles and calms your frayed nerves. You stand there for a long time, letting the water cascade over you, your eyes closed, your mind a blank. You can hear the distant sound of Michael moving around in the other room, the soft, muffled thud of a door closing, the faint, almost imperceptible sound of the shower in his own bathroom starting up.
The thought of him, just a few feet away, naked and wet, sends a jolt of something hot and sharp through you. You push it down, a desperate, futile attempt to maintain a semblance of control. You’re not ready. You’re not ready for this, for the inevitable, terrifying collision of your two worlds. You finally turn off the water, grabbing a thick, fluffy towel from the heated rack. You dry yourself off, the rough terrycloth a welcome, grounding sensation against your skin. You pull on a soft, silk robe, the fabric cool and smooth against your still-damp skin. You take a deep breath, a fortifying, desperate attempt to brace yourself for what comes next.
You open the door, stepping out into the quiet, dimly lit suite. The only light comes from the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city a glittering, silent spectator to your private drama. He’s there, standing in the middle of the living room, a silhouette against the glittering backdrop of the city. He’s changed into a pair of black silk pajama pants, his chest bare, his skin still damp from the shower. He looks… vulnerable. Stripped of all the artifice, all the performance, he’s just Michael. Your Michael.
And he’s looking at you with an expression that makes your heart ache. It’s a look of raw, unadulterated longing, a look of a man who’s been waiting for this moment for a lifetime.
“You’re still here,” he says, his voice a low, hoarse whisper. “Where else would I be?” you ask, your voice a quiet, fragile echo. He takes a step towards you, then another, until he’s standing in front of you, so close you can feel the warmth radiating from his skin. He doesn’t touch you, not yet, but you can feel the current humming between you, a live wire of unspoken feelings and shared memories.
“I was so scared in that park,” he says, his voice a low, intimate confession. “Not of Bill, or of the fans, or of the world. I was scared of this. Of us. Of what would happen if I finally told you the truth.”
“What truth?” you ask, your voice a strained, breathy thing.
“The truth that I’m in love with you,” he says, the words a quiet, devastating blow. “That I’ve been in love with you since I was fifteen years old, and you helped me pick out the right tie for my first award show. That I’ve been in love with you through every bad date, every broken heart, every failed relationship. That I’ve been in love with you every single day for the last fifteen years.” The words hang in the air between you, a beautiful, terrifying confession that changes everything. You can feel the tears welling up in your eyes, hot, stinging tracks that trace a path down your cheeks. You’re not sad. You’re… overwhelmed. Overwhelmed by the sheer, unadulterated weight of his love, by the sheer, unadulterated weight of your own. “I’m in love with you, too,” you whisper, the words a quiet, desperate prayer. “I’m so in love with you it hurts.”
He lets out a shuddering breath, a sound of pure, unadulterated relief. He reaches up, his thumb gently stroking your cheek, wiping away your tears. His touch is electric, a spark that ignites a fire deep in your soul. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited to hear you say that,” he says, his voice a low, happy rumble.
And then he’s kissing you. It’s not a frantic, desperate kiss. It’s a slow, deliberate, soul-shattering kiss. It’s a kiss that says, “I’m home.” It’s a kiss that says, “I’ve been waiting for you.” It’s a kiss that’s fifteen years in the making. His lips are soft, warm, tasting faintly of mint and the lingering sweetness of gelato. He’s gentle, at first, exploring, learning. But then the kiss deepens, a slow, deliberate burn that consumes you both. His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you closer, until there’s no space left between you. You can feel the steady beat of his heart against your chest, a slow, reassuring rhythm that matches your own.
You lose all track of time, all sense of self. There’s only the feel of his lips on yours, the taste of his mouth, the warmth of his body. The world outside ceases to exist, the glittering city lights a distant, irrelevant memory. There’s only this. Only him. Only us. When you finally pull apart, you’re both breathless, your foreheads resting against each other. The air is thick with the aftermath of the kiss, a heavy, heady thing that’s as intoxicating as it is terrifying.
“Wow,” you whisper, your voice a shaky, breathy thing. “Yeah,” he says, a slow, easy smile spreading across his face. “Wow.” He takes your hand, his fingers lacing through yours, a perfect, familiar fit. He leads you towards the bedrooms, a silent, unspoken agreement passing between you. He stops at your door, a hesitant, questioning look on his face. “Stay with me,” you say, your voice a quiet, confident plea. “Please.”
He doesn’t need to be asked twice. He follows you into your room, closing the door behind him. He pulls you into another kiss, a quick, sweet thing that’s full of promise and possibility.
He pulls back, his dark eyes searching yours in the dim light of the city that spills through the floor-to-ceiling windows. A slow, contented smile touches his lips, a genuine, unguarded thing that you’ve rarely seen, and only ever when he thought no one was looking. Now, it’s just for you. “Let’s go to bed,” he whispers, the words a soft, simple promise.
There is no more hesitation, no more awkward dance of proximity. He leads you to the bed, not with passion, but with a quiet, settled rightness. You slide under the cool, crisp sheets, and he follows, settling beside you. He doesn’t pull you into an embrace or demand more. Instead, he simply takes your hand in his, your fingers intertwining on the pillow between you. It’s a small, simple gesture, but it feels more intimate, more profound, than anything that has come before.
✦ premise ... 𝐒𝐇𝐄’𝐒 𝐒𝐎 𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐓 ★ michael's had enough of everyone else for one day. by the time he gets home, all he wants is you.
✦ contains ... ( smut w little plot ) softdom!mj, established relationship, oral ( f!receiving ), fingering, over stim, no use of y/n, praising, spit play ( if you squint ), pet names
✦ adore’s note ... read that michael’s fingers were 5 inches…got excited. rush writing, sorry if you can tell and there’s repetition.
requested ﹒ @3leni (not req, but inspired by) ♡
The world outside the windows of your apartment had faded to a dull, distant hum. Inside, the only sounds were the frantic, synthesized score from the television and the wet, soft sounds of your mouths meeting, parting, and meeting again. The Texas Chainsaw Massacre played on, forgotten, its screams and buzzing chainsaws a bizarre, irrelevant soundtrack to the kiss that was slowly consuming you.
Michael’s hand was warm on the back of your neck, his thumb stroking a slow, hypnotic rhythm against your skin. He tasted of peppermint tea and the faint, lingering sweetness of the chocolate he’d been nibbling on earlier. His other arm was wrapped tight around your waist, pulling you closer until you were half in his lap, a tangled mess of limbs and shared body heat on the plush, cream-colored couch.
“You’re not watching the movie, angel,” he murmured against your lips, a low, happy rumble that vibrated through your entire body.
“I’m watching something much more interesting,” you breathed, your fingers tangling in the soft hair at the nape of his neck.
He chuckled, a low, throaty sound that made your toes curl. “Is that so?” He pulled back just enough to look at you, his dark eyes soft in the flickering light of the television. They were filled with a warmth, a gentle affection that made your heart ache. He was so beautiful like this—unburdened, relaxed, with the faint shadow of a day’s exhaustion beginning to soften the sharp angles of his face. The hard, public mask of Michael, the superstar, had melted away, leaving only Mikey. Your Mikey.
“Mmhmm,” you hummed, leaning in to press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Much, much more interesting.” He smiled, a genuine, easy curve of his lips that was reserved only for you. He shifted, his movements fluid and deliberate, disentangling himself just enough to turn off the television with a click of the remote. The room plunged into a sudden, intimate silence, broken only by the soft patter of rain against the windows. “Good,” he whispered, his gaze heavy on yours. “I’ve had enough of everyone else for one day.”
And then he was kissing you again, and this kiss was different. It was deeper, slower, a deliberate exploration. He wasn’t just kissing you; he was claiming you, branding you, staking a possession that was as comforting as it was thrilling. His tongue swept against yours, a soft, insistent pressure that made a soft moan escape your lips. He swallowed the sound, a low growl of approval rumbling in his chest.
His hands began to wander, tracing the curve of your spine, the dip of your waist, the swell of your hip. His touch was a slow, deliberate fire, searing through the thin cotton of your t-shirt and leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. “You feel so good, my love,” he murmured, his lips trailing a path of hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck. He nipped at the sensitive skin just above your collarbone, a sharp, pleasurable sting that made you gasp. “S’perfect.”
Your head fell back, giving him better access, your fingers tightening in his hair. “Mikey…” you breathed, his name a prayer on your lips. “Shh, sweetheart,” he soothed, his voice a low, hypnotic whisper. “Just let me take care of you.”
He shifted again, his movements strong and sure, lifting you effortlessly as if you weighed nothing. He settled you back against the couch cushions, positioning himself over you, his knees bracketing your hips. He caged you in, a comforting weight that anchored you to the world. He looked down at you, his expression a mixture of raw desire and tender reverence. “You’re s’beautiful,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “All mine.”
And then he was pulling your t-shirt over your head, the cool air of the room a shock against your heated skin. His eyes roamed over you, a slow, appreciative gaze that made you feel more beautiful, more desired, than you had ever felt in your entire life.
He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to the hollow of your throat, then another to the swell of your breast. His hands were on you again, tracing the lacy edge of your bra, his thumbs brushing against the sensitive skin beneath. He was teasing you, drawing out the anticipation, building a slow, burning fire deep in your core. “Please, Mikey,” you whimpered, arching your back, a silent plea for more.
“What do you want, angel?” he asked, his voice a low, smug purr. “Tell me.”
“You,” you gasped. “I want t’feel you.” He chuckled, a low, triumphant sound. “You already can, my love. All of me.” And with that, he unhooked your bra, his fingers deft and sure. He tossed it aside, his eyes darkening as they took in the sight of you, naked from the waist up. He lowered his head, his tongue darting out to flick against one pebbled nipple. A jolt of pure, unadulterated pleasure shot through you, and you cried out, your hips bucking involuntarily.
He did it again, this time taking the sensitive bud into his mouth, sucking gently, his tongue swirling in a slow, maddening rhythm. His other hand came up to cup your other breast, his thumb and forefinger rolling the nipple between them, mirroring the rhythm of his mouth. You were a mess of sensation, a symphony of pleasure that was building to a crescendo. Your hands were everywhere, tangling in his hair, gripping his shoulders, digging your nails into his back. You were lost, adrift in a sea of sensation, and he was your only anchor.
He released your nipple with a soft, wet pop, a thin strand of saliva connecting his lips to your skin. He looked up at you, a slow, satisfied smile on his face. “You like that?” he asked, his voice a low, husky rumble.
You could only nod, your breath caught in your throat. “Good,” he said, his eyes gleaming with a predatory light. “Because I’m not even close to being done with you.” He began to kiss his way down your body, a slow, deliberate path of hot, open-mouthed kisses. He traced the curve of your ribs, the dip of your navel, the soft swell of your belly. His hands followed, stroking, caressing, learning every inch of you.
He reached the waistband of your pajama pants, his fingers hooking into the elastic. He paused, looking up at you, a question in his eyes. “May I?” he asked, his voice a soft, respectful whisper. “Yes,” you breathed, your heart pounding in your chest. “Yes, Mickey, please.”
He slowly, tantalizingly, pulled down your pants and your panties, baring you to his gaze. He tossed them aside, his eyes darkening as he took in the sight of you, completely and utterly vulnerable before him. He settled between your legs, his shoulders pushing your thighs apart. He looked up at you, his expression a mixture of raw desire and tender reverence.
“You’re s’beautiful,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “And you’re all mine.” And then he lowered his head, and the world fell away. The first touch of his tongue against your core was a shock, a jolt of pure, unadulterated pleasure that stole your breath. He was hesitant at first, exploring, learning. But then he grew bolder, his tongue moving with a confidence that was both thrilling and terrifying.
He found your bud, that sensitive bundle of nerves, and began to circle it with the tip of his tongue. A soft moan escaped your lips, your hips bucking involuntarily. He chuckled, a low, triumphant sound, and then he took the sensitive bud into his mouth, sucking gently. You cried out, your hands flying to his hair, your fingers tangling in the soft strands. He growled, a low, approving sound, and began to suck in earnest, his tongue swirling in a slow, maddening rhythm.
He released your button with a soft, wet pop, a thin strand of saliva connecting his lips to your skin. He looked up at you, a slow, satisfied smile on his face. “You taste s’good, angel,” he said, his voice a low, husky rumble. “S’sweet.”
He then brought one of his hands up, his long, elegant fingers tracing a path up your inner thigh. You shivered in anticipation, your breath catching in your throat. He paused, his fingers hovering over your entrance, a silent question in his eyes. “Please,” you whimpered, your hips arching off the couch. He chuckled, a low, triumphant sound. “Patience, my love. Good things come t’those who wait.”
He slowly, deliberately, slid one finger inside you. A low groan escaped your lips as your body stretched to accommodate him. He was so long, so slender, and he felt impossibly good. “You’re s’tight for me,” he murmured, his voice a low, hypnotic whisper. “S’precious.”
He began to move his finger, a slow, in-and-out rhythm that was both maddening and exquisite. He was teasing you, drawing out the anticipation, building a slow, burning fire deep in your core.
He added a second finger, the stretch a delicious, ache that made you gasp. He curled his fingers, finding that sensitive spot deep inside you, and a jolt of pure, unadulterated pleasure shot through you. “Mikey…” you gasped, your back arching off the couch. “Oh, God, Mikey…” “Right there, my love?” he asked, a smug, satisfied smile on his face. “Right there,” you panted, your hips bucking against his hand.
He added a third finger, the stretch a sharp, pleasurable burn that made you cry out. You were so full, so stretched, and it felt so good. He was a master, a virtuoso, and you were his instrument, and he was playing you with a skill that was both humbling and awe-inspiring. “You’re taking me s’well, angel,” he praised, his voice a low, husky rumble. “You’re such a good girl.”
His words were a potent aphrodisiac, a balm to your soul and a spark to your desire. You felt a surge of confidence, of power, and you began to move your hips, meeting his thrusts, taking him deeper. He growled, a low, approving sound, and then he added a fourth finger. The stretch was intense, a sharp, stinging burn that teetered on the edge of pain. You cried out, your hands gripping the cushions of the couch, your knuckles white.
“Shh, sweetheart,” he soothed, his lips pressing a soft kiss to your inner thigh. “Just relax. Breathe for me. Y’can take it. I know you can.” His voice was a calming balm, a hypnotic anchor in the storm of sensation. You took a deep breath, forcing yourself to relax, to trust him. He was patient, giving you a moment to adjust before he began to move again.
He started with a slow, gentle rhythm, a slow, in-and-out motion that was both maddening and exquisite. He was stretching you, opening you, claiming you in the most intimate way possible. The sounds were wet, slick, a obscene, beautiful symphony of your shared desire. “Look at you,” he murmured, his dark eyes fixed on the place where his body disappeared into yours. “So beautiful. So perfect. All mine.”
His praise was a powerful drug, and you were addicted. You felt a surge of pride, of a deep, primal satisfaction at being able to please him, at being able to take all of him. He began to move faster, his thrusts becoming deeper, more demanding. The pleasure was building, a slow, burning wave that was threatening to crash over you. You could feel the tension coiling in your belly, a tight, hot knot that was waiting to be released.
“Please, Mikey,” you whimpered, your hips bucking against his hand. “Please…” “What do you want, angel?” he asked, his voice a low, smug purr. “You gotta tell me you want.”
“To come,” you gasped. “I want you t’make me come.” He chuckled, a low, triumphant sound. “As you wish, my love.” He lowered his head, his tongue finding your clit again. He began to suck, a hard, demanding rhythm that matched the thrusts of his fingers. The dual stimulation was overwhelming, a sensory overload that sent you hurtling towards the edge.
The wave crested, a tsunami of pure, unadulterated pleasure that crashed over you, stealing your breath and shattering your world. You cried out his name, a raw, primal scream that was torn from the depths of your soul. Your body convulsed, your back arching off the couch, your inner walls clamping down on his fingers in a series of powerful, rhythmic spasms.
He rode you through it, his mouth and fingers never ceasing their relentless assault. He was drawing out your orgasm, prolonging the pleasure, pushing you to the brink of overstimulation.
Just as you thought you couldn’t take any more, he slowed his movements, his touch becoming softer, gentler. He lapped at you, a slow, tender rhythm that was as comforting as it was erotic. He was cleaning you, worshipping you, a silent, reverent tribute to your shared pleasure.
Finally, he pulled away, a slow, deliberate withdrawal that left you feeling empty and aching. He looked up at you, a slow, satisfied smile on his face. His chin was glistening with your essence, a messy, beautiful testament to your desire.
He crawled up your body, his movements fluid and graceful. He caged you in, a comforting weight that anchored you to the world. He lowered his head, his lips finding yours in a slow, deep kiss. You could taste yourself on his tongue, a heady, musky flavor that was both foreign and familiar. It was a primal, intimate act, a sharing of the most fundamental parts of yourselves.
He broke the kiss, resting his forehead against yours. “I love you, angel,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I love you, too, Michael,” you breathed, your heart swelling with a love so intense it was almost painful.
He settled back against the couch cushions, pulling you into his arms. You rested your head on his chest, the steady beat of his heart a slow, reassuring rhythm against your ear. He picked up the remote, turning the television back on. The Texas Chainsaw Massacre flickered to life, its screams and buzzing chainsaws once again filling the room.
You watched the movie for a few minutes, but your mind was elsewhere. You could still feel the ghost of his touch, the lingering ache of your pleasure. You wanted more. You wanted all of him. You shifted, your thigh brushing against the hard, insistent length of his arousal. He was still fully clothed, the rough denim of his jeans a stark contrast to your naked skin. “Michael,” you whispered, your voice a soft, pleading murmur. “Hmm?” he asked, his eyes still fixed on the television. “You’re… you’re still…” you trailed off, unable to finish the sentence. He chuckled, a low, throaty sound that made your toes curl. “I know.”
You shifted again, a deliberate, inviting pressure against his hardness. “Don’t you want to…?” you asked, your voice a hopeful, breathy thing. He finally looked down at you, a slow, easy smile spreading across his face. His eyes were dark, but they were filled with a warm, tender affection, not the raw desire from before. “Not now, my love,” he said, his voice a soft, gentle command. “Let’s just watch the movie.”
“But…”
“No buts,” he said, a firm but playful tone in his voice. He pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head. “I just spent the last hour giving you exactly what you needed. Now it’s my turn to just hold you.” He laughed, a light, airy sound that was full of genuine amusement. “We’ll get there.” You pouted, a childish, petulant gesture that you knew would make him laugh. He did, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through your entire body.
“Don’t you give me that look, angel,” he said, a mock-stern expression on his face. “You know it doesn’t work on me.” “It works a little,” you mumbled, a sullen pout still on your face. He laughed again, a full, rich sound that was like music to your ears. “Oh, angel,” he said, his voice soft and full of affection. “What am I going to do with you?”
“You could do a lot of things,” you said, a suggestive glint in your eye. He shook his head, a slow, deliberate gesture. “Nope,” he said, a smug little smile on his face. “We’re watching the movie. And you’re going to like it.” You settled back against his chest, a soft, contented sigh escaping your lips. You knew he was right. This was what you needed, too. Not the frantic, desperate passion, but the quiet, settled intimacy. The simple, profound comfort of being held by the man you loved.
