▐ Luffy isn’t naturally romantic in the traditional sense, but he’s incredibly devoted.
▐ His version of affection is wanting you involved in everything he’s doing.
▐ He’ll grab your hand and drag you on random adventures before you’ve even agreed.
▐ He shares food with very few people willingly. If he’s offering you the last bite of meat, that’s basically a love confession.
▐ Physical affection comes naturally to him. Leaning on you, throwing an arm around your shoulders, sitting way too close—he doesn’t think twice about it.
▐ If you’re upset, he’ll keep trying different things until something works. Jokes, food, funny faces, adventures. He refuses to give up.
▐ Luffy constantly seeks you out. He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. Walk onto the deck? He’s there. Go to the kitchen? Suddenly he’s there too.
▐ If he finds something funny, you’re the first person he looks at to see if you’re laughing too.
▐ He loves when you play with his hair. He’ll pretend he doesn’t care, but he’ll become suspiciously quiet and relaxed.
▐ He’ll drag you into absolutely ridiculous situations and genuinely expect you to have fun.
▐ He absolutely refuses to leave your side when you’re injured.
▐ Luffy has no concept of “too close.” Half the time he’s basically sitting on top of you.
▐ He gets excited whenever he spots you after being apart for a few hours.
▐ Sometimes he’ll stretch his arm across the entire ship just to poke your cheek
▐ He genuinely believes you’re the coolest human person ever.
synopsis: after a long awaited date night with your boyfriend michael, one of mike's "friends" couldn't help but third wheel.
content: i imagined bad!era mike but this works for any era technically! funny fluff, gf!reader curses like a sailor, a little bit of kissing, michael's pet mentioned (read to find out which one!)
wc: >1k
notes: i'm sorry does anyone else find it impossible titling their stuff ?? like, i'm so uncreative. speaking of uncreative, don't think i'm ignoring y'alls requests! i am actively working on them! i've been going through a bit of a writer's block recently but i have a few drafts in the works!! anyways this one's a shorter one for the mean time, hope you like!!
it had been almost three agonizing weeks since you’ve seen michael. he was spread thin lately: press conferences, rehearsals for tour, business meetings, blah blah blah. you didn’t care. you just wanted michael all to yourself. so as soon as he called you and told you he had a day off, you damn near broke a heel rushing out of your house and over to his.
you watched him silently as he finished the last of the homemade dinner you cooked for him. not only did you make dinner, you decked out his living and dining room area with roses and his favorite scented candles.
“you don’t happen to have dessert do you?” mike asked innocently, eyes peering at you as he patted his mouth with a napkin.
“i do.” you stood up and grabbed his hand. “me.”
he furrowed his eyebrows and smirked. "pardon?”
“you heard me.”
you led him to the couch.
“i have a surprise for you.” you straddled on top of him. god you missed him. his big hands, how attractive he looked in casual clothes, his relaxed demeanor. he never wore the stress on his face when he was with you, he always put it away, giving you his full attention.
“oh yeah?” he grinned. his hands roamed up your body pulling you closer to him.
“yeah. open my blouse.”
“oh gosh.” he immediately blushed. he took one hand and unbuttoned the first three buttons to reveal a lacy red bra that your breasts practically spilled out of. a matching red corset peeked out of your blouse, too. “wow that’s beautiful.”
“and it’s red, your favorite color, baby.”
“yes it is,” he mumbled mindlessly as he planted a kiss right on your cleavage. “wait, you had this on the whole night? was that not uncomfortable?”
“michael, you're worried about the wrong damn thing.”
“oh, i’m sorry.” he laughed, his eyebrows still showing a hint of concern.
“but, hypothetically, if it hurt really badly, like... started to hurt parts of my body i didn’t even know existed,” your hands began to travel up his shirt before you leaned in and whispered, “then i’d love for you to take me out of my misery.”
“mm." in one swift motion, he lifted you off him and placed you onto the couch, now hovering on top of you. he unbuttoned the rest of your blouse with a quickness, revealing the rest of your scantily clad body.
"faster, baby. take it all off me."
"i will, i just," he stopped for a moment, seemingly already out of breath by just looking at you. "you don't know how much i've missed you."
"show me."
on cue, he bent down and kissed you in the most random but intimate places, anywhere but your lips. he was teasing you, and you grew more frustrated by the second. so you decided to take the power away from him. you grabbed his shirt, and kissed him so deeply. and it quickly devolved into a messy make out session on his couch.
you guided one of his hands to the small of your back and he took it from there, caressing you deeply and softly. god. you. missed. this. you thought you were gonna come undone at that very moment.
and then you felt it. something large grazing your thigh.
you broke the kiss, smirking at michael. "someone's happy to see me, huh?"
"of course," michael said, kissing you again.
you reached down to grab his hardness. but the sensation was a bit different. it was cold, kind of leathery, and....moving? and last time you checked, his.. little michael doesn't slide up your thigh.
"babe, wha-" you look down and gasped.
you were face to face with a large snake slithering its way up your arm, and you let out an unearthly scream.
"OH MY GODDD WHAT THE FUCK!" you jumped off the couch as fast as you could, backing into a corner of the living room. this only scares the snake even more, writhing hysterically for shelter in the cracks of the white sofa.
"oh my- i’m so sorry, baby, i meant for him to stay in his cage. muscles, get off, boy!” his concern quickly dissipated into laughter. his calm demeanor was infuriating to you.
"michael i- i thought that was you, i thought... that was your snake." to your dismay, he laughed hysterically at your innuendo.
“you scared him, baby." he picked muscles up, letting the snake slide up his body and rest on his shoulders. at least one of us is touching on michael, you thought.
"I SCARED HIM? HOW THE FUCK DID I SCARE THAT BIG ASS THING?"
"you're bigger than him, you know," he said, before immediately wincing. he already knew that you were about to misinterpret his words.
"oh so I'm BIG, huh? oh thanks michael, i didn't know i was the biggest thing you've ever seen in your life!"
he couldn't help but laugh. unfazed by your theatrics, he held out his hand to you. "come. come touch him.”
"no. i don't fuck with pythons."
"that's good then, 'cause he's a boa constrictor," he giggled.
"i would slap you if i wasn't so far away." your hands gripped the white walls behind you, as if it would shield you from a snake-holding michael inching closer to you.
"come onnn, baby, touch him. he doesn't bite."
“michael please don't come near me with that thing, please.” your anger had slowly peeled back to a trembling anxiety as michael wasn't letting up. he was merely feet away from you.
your hands, already red from gripping the walls, were now in front of you, clasped together as if your were praying. this is it, you thought. this is the end of your damn life. you're going to die in the sexiest, most expensive lingerie you've ever owned, and your boyfriend's snake is going to unlatch its jaw at any moment and swallow your beautiful face whole.
“he’s literally moving toward you, he wouldn’t do that if he didn’t like you.”
“HE’S COMING TO EAT ME.”
“calm down, calm do-” he could barely get his words out, his own laughter cutting him off. and it wasn’t the cute, sultry laughs he did. it was one of those high pitched cackles. he was really enjoying your misery. "he's curious."
"curious about what i taste like!"
michael grabbed your hand, inching it toward the snake. "he's a friend, baby. i won't let him do anything to you."
you resisted it as hard as you could, but he was ultimately stronger. you cringed as you unwillingly petted the snake, rolling your eyes at the fact that it wasn't so bad after all. maybe muscles was kind of cute, though you would never admit that to michael.
“see, he doesn’t mind. do you, muscles?” he cooed at his boa constrictor. you could have sworn muscles looked at you with a smirk, sticking that stupid tongue out, menacingly.
michael held your hand and guided you back to the couch. “now, about my dessert?”
you pulled your hand out of his, pouting. “uh, no? no more dessert. you can eat that damn snake for dessert, good for nothin..." you mumbled on as you stormed past him toward the couch.
he couldn’t help but laugh at how dramatic you were. you both knew he'd make it up to you later.
𝘀𝘆𝗻𝗼𝗽𝘀𝗶𝘀: Being Michael Jackson's nanny was pretty easy. Dealing with a failing relationship with your boyfriend? Not so much. Your love life begins to crumble and your boss turns out to be far more charming and far more interested in you than your boyfriend ever was.
𝘁𝗮𝗴𝘀: age gap (reader is in her mid/late 20s and michael is in his 40s), cheating, unhappy relationship, dom mike, sub reader, implied chubby/curvy reader, p in v, pussy eating, unprotected sex, dirty talk, praise, creampie, nanny reader
𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁: 11k (I know)
𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗸𝘀: navigation | masterlist
𝒜 few days ago, you decided it was finally time to get a part-time job.
Between college classes, studying, and trying to maintain some semblance of a social life, you didn't need anything too demanding. Still, having a little extra money in your pocket certainly wouldn't hurt.
You'd always been good with kids. Years of babysitting younger cousins had made looking after children feel almost second nature, so when you stumbled across an opening for a nanny position, it seemed like the perfect fit. Flexible hours, decent pay, and work you already knew you enjoyed. Simple.
Or so you thought.
The application itself had been straightforward enough, and you certainly hadn't expected a response so quickly. What you expected even less was the name attached to the acceptance email sitting in your inbox.
Michael Jackson.
You had stared at the screen for a solid minute before rereading it. Then another minute after that. Surely there had to be another Michael Jackson.
There wasn't.
Somehow, against all odds, you'd just been hired as the nanny for one of the most famous people on the planet.
You hadn't submitted some special application. You hadn't pulled strings or known somebody who knew somebody. You had simply applied for a nanny position because you needed a part-time job. And somehow, that had led here.
The days leading up to your first shift weren't much better. Every time you remembered where you'd be working, your stomach performed a small acrobatic routine. You spent an embarrassing amount of time debating what to wear, eventually settling on something professional but comfortable. The night before, you barely slept.
Every possible scenario ran through your mind. What if the children didn't like you? What if you accidentally broke something expensive? What if you got lost inside the house? What if Michael Jackson himself answered the door?
That last thought was ridiculous. Surely someone else would greet you.
Still, by the time the morning of your first day arrived, your nerves were stretched tighter than piano wire.
The drive to the estate was longer than you'd anticipated. The familiar suburban roads gradually gave way to winding streets lined with towering trees, the scenery growing quieter and more secluded with every mile.
By the time the massive iron gates appeared in front of you, your stomach had already begun twisting itself into knots. You were used to small apartments and campus coffee shops, not sprawling estates that looked like they belonged in a movie.
This was ridiculous.
When the car finally pulled up the long, gravel driveway, you found yourself staring up at the house in silence. It was beautiful, sure, but it was also intimidating. It was a place of quiet elegance and old money, a place where every blade of grass seemed perfectly in place.
Taking a deep breath to steady your racing heart, you grabbed your bag and stepped out of the car. It was just a job. That was all. You were here to look after three children, earn a paycheck, and hopefully not embarrass yourself in front of a global superstar.
Easy.
The lie sounded considerably less convincing the closer you got to the front door.
Before you could knock, the front door swung open. You instinctively straightened.
But instead of the superstar you'd seen plastered across magazine covers and television screens for years, you were greeted by a woman in a crisp professional uniform.
"You must be the new nanny," she said, stepping aside to usher you into the foyer. "Come in, please. Don't just stand there outside."
As you stepped inside, the first thing that hit you was the the scent of something expensive, like sandalwood and fresh lilies. The foyer was massive, with high ceilings and polished floors that made your footsteps echo. It was beautiful.
"I'm Martha," the woman said, leading you down a wide hallway. "I handle the household management here. The children are currently in the playroom, but Mr. Jackson is in the study. He'll want to greet you properly once you've had a moment to settle in and meet the little ones."
She led you toward a set of large, arched doors at the end of the hall. As you walked, you could hear the faint, muffled sound of laughter and high pitched voices coming from somewhere deeper in the house. It was a sharp, human contrast to the quiet elegance of the hallway.
"Prince, Paris, and Blanket," Martha continued, her voice softening just a fraction. "They can be a handful, especially Prince, but they're good children. Once you get to know them, you'll see."
She pushed open the playroom doors, and the sudden burst of energy nearly knocked you back. The room was bright, filled with sunlight and scattered toys, and there they were, three kids who were about to become your entire world in the months to come.
Martha smiled and stepped back, leaving you alone in the center of the playroom. "I'll go let Mr. Jackson know you've arrived. He'll be with you in a moment." With a polite nod, she disappeared back into the hallway, the heavy doors clicking shut behind her.
The sudden silence was short lived.
Three pairs of curious eyes locked onto you, their play momentarily forgotten. They were a lively, chaotic blur of motion and color, the room a minefield of toy blocks and stuffed animals.
Paris was the first to move. She approached you with a cautious but curious expression, her small hand gripping a drawing. "Are you really going to stay here with us?" she asked, holding the paper up for you to see. It was a colorful, abstract sketch of a cat, the lines bold and confident.
"I sure am," you said, kneeling down to her level. "And that's a really great drawing.”
"Thank you," she beamed, her face lighting up with pride.
Beside her, Prince stood with his arms crossed, looking you up and down with a skeptic expression. "Do you know how to play hide and seek?" he asked, his voice serious.
"I'm pretty good at it," you replied, offering them a small, genuine smile. "But I'm even better at finding people."
Blanket, the youngest, had already wandered over to you, tugging on the hem of your shirt and pointing toward a large pile of pillows in the corner. "Can we make a fort?" he asked, his eyes wide and hopeful.
Before you could answer, the sound of the door opening again drew your attention. You turned, and there he was.
Michael Jackson stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame. He wasn't wearing the flashy stage clothes you'd seen in photos; he wore simple black trousers and a loose white button down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His expression was calm, but as he looked at you, there was a flicker of curiosity in his dark eyes. He didn't speak right away; he just watched you, taking in the sight of you sitting on the floor with his children. Then he smiled.
"Well, that was fast," Michael said from the doorway. Prince immediately pointed at you. "She's good at hide and seek."
"I haven't even played yet," you laughed, not yet really registering that Michael Jackson was standing right there. "Yeah, but she said she's good at it," Prince argued.
Michael covered a smile with his hand. "That's all the proof you need?"
"Yep."
Then it clicked. You froze for a split second, your heart performing a frantic, uneven rhythm against your ribs. Holy shit, your brain screamed. It’s actually him. It’s really him.
Internally, you were spiraling.
The Michael Jackson you'd seen in magazines and on television had always felt larger than life, someone distant and untouchable. But standing here, in the middle of a playroom with three children arguing over fort-building materials, he suddenly felt very real.
And he was looking right at you.
A thousand ridiculous thoughts rushed through your head all at once. Was your hair a mess from the drive? Did you have something on your shirt? Why were your palms suddenly sweating?
Don't trip. Don't stutter. Don't make a fool of yourself.
You forced yourself to take a steady breath and pushed the panic aside. You weren't here as a fan. You were here to do a job. The last thing you wanted was for him to think you were some starstruck girl who had wandered into his house by accident.
Rising to your feet, you smoothed your hands over your clothes and offered him a small smile. Hopefully it came across as polite and professional.
Hopefully it didn't reveal the fact that your heart was currently trying to beat its way out of your chest.
"Hello," you said, rising to your feet and offering him a small smile. "I'm [Name]. It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Jackson."
For a moment, his gaze lingered on you. Not in an uncomfortable way—just long enough to suggest he was taking you in properly.
"The pleasure is mine," he replied warmly.
Before either of you could say anything else, Blanket tugged on your sleeve.
"We're building a fort," he announced.
A smile immediately spread across Michael's face.
"Are you now?"
Blanket nodded enthusiastically. "A huge one."
"[Name] said she'd help."
Michael's eyes flickered back to yours, amusement dancing in them.
"Well, sounds like you've already been recruited."
You laughed softly. "I didn't realize I'd be getting assigned duties within the first five minutes."
"Oh, they're very efficient around here," he said with a straight face.
Paris giggled.
"They've been very welcoming," you added. "Blanket was just pitching the fort idea before you came in."
"A fort sounds like a wonderful idea, Blanket," Michael said, stepping further into the room.
His entire demeanor seemed to soften as he approached his children. He reached down and ruffled Blanket's hair, earning an immediate grin from the little boy.
"But don't wear yourselves out too much, alright?" he continued, glancing between Prince and Paris. "You have a very busy day of playing tomorrow."
"Dad," Prince groaned dramatically.
"What?"
"We play every day."
"Exactly," Michael replied. "Which means you gotta pace yourselves."
The children immediately dissolved into protests, their complaints overlapping one another as they insisted they weren't tired in the slightest. Michael only laughed at their dramatic reactions, shaking his head fondly. There was something almost infectious about the warmth he carried around them. The way he looked at his children made it painfully obvious how much he adored them.
After a few moments, his attention drifted back to you.
"Since you'll be spending a lot of time here, why don't we take a quick tour?" he suggested. His voice was easy and inviting, never demanding. "I just want to make sure you know where everything is. It's a big house, and it can be pretty easy to get lost."
You couldn't help but glance down the seemingly endless hallway stretching before you. Judging by the size of the place alone, he was probably right.
"That would be lovely, thank you."
A small smile tugged at his lips before he motioned for you to follow. As the two of you left the playroom behind, the sounds of the children arguing over fort-building supplies gradually faded into the background.
The house was even more impressive once you saw it properly. Every hallway seemed to lead to another wing, every room larger than the last. Michael guided you through it all with quiet patience, pointing out the library, the dining room, various sitting areas, and the sprawling gardens visible through the tall windows. He never rushed through his explanations, occasionally glancing your way to make sure you were keeping up.
Despite your nerves, you found yourself slowly relaxing in his company.
As you approached the grand staircase, Michael's pace slowed until he eventually came to a stop. His expression shifted slightly, as though he had just remembered something important.
"There is one thing I'd like to ask you."
You turned your attention toward him immediately.
"My schedule can be a little unpredictable sometimes," he explained. "There are periods where rehearsals run late or work keeps me away from home longer than expected. On those occasions, would you be comfortable staying here overnight?"
For a moment, you blinked.
It wasn't an unreasonable request. In fact, considering the circumstances, it made perfect sense. Still, the responsibility behind it wasn't lost on you.
"You'd have your own guest room, of course," he added. "I just like knowing someone is here with the children when I can't be."
The concern in his voice was genuine.
"Oh," you said, offering him a reassuring smile. "Yeah, that's completely fine. I don't mind at all."
The visible relief that crossed his features made it seem as though he'd been more worried about your answer than he'd let on.
"That's good to hear," he replied softly. "Thank you."
For a brief moment, the conversation seemed finished. Michael started to continue down the hallway before hesitating. When he looked back at you, there was something almost shy in his expression.
"And please," he said after a small pause, "you don't have to call me Mr. Jackson."
Your eyebrows lifted slightly.
"I don't?" A quiet laugh escaped him. "No. It makes me feel a lot older than I actually am."
That finally earned a laugh from you.
"Alright then, Michael." Something about hearing his name from your lips seemed to brighten his smile.
"Yeah," he said softly. "Michael is fine."
Settling in with the Jackson family was easier than you ever could have anticipated. The children were delightful little things, and you quickly found yourself becoming a fixture in their daily lives.
You spent your afternoons in a blur of activity. The siblings were funny as a trio.
"Can we build a fort?" Blanket would ask.
"A giant one?" you would ask back.
"A giant one."
"With blankets?"
"Obviously."
Prince groaned dramatically. "He always wants a fort."
"Because forts are cool."
"No," Paris corrected. "Because you're five."
Or sitting quietly on the floor to help Paris with her coloring books, running around the gardens, playing endless games of hide and seek with Prince. They were a handful, sure, but they were sweet, and they made the massive house feel warm and alive.
And then there was Michael.
Being around Michael quickly became one of the easiest parts of your day. Despite everything he was—the fame, the success, the larger-than-life reputation—he never made you feel intimidated. He was unfailingly kind and respectful, always mindful of your space and never overstepping, yet there was a warmth about him that drew people in without him even trying.
Before long, you found yourself looking forward to the quiet moments you happened to share.
Sometimes it was a brief conversation in the kitchen while you prepared snacks for the children. Other times, you'd run into him late in the evening after finally getting the kids settled for bed, only for a quick greeting to turn into a twenty-minute conversation.
The topics themselves were rarely anything extraordinary. You'd tell him about a book you'd been reading, a class you hoped to take in college, or some funny thing one of the children had said earlier that day. In return, he'd share stories from his travels, his work, or whatever happened to be on his mind.
What surprised you most was how attentively he listened.
Most people listened just enough to respond. Michael listened because he genuinely wanted to hear what you had to say. He remembered little details from previous conversations, asked thoughtful questions, and somehow always made you feel as though whatever you were talking about was the most interesting thing in the world.
It was a small thing, really.
But there was something comforting about the way his eyes softened whenever you spoke, as if he was completely present in the moment and nowhere else he'd rather be.
Then, as expected, first crack in your composure appeared.
It was a warm afternoon, and you were wearing a simple, light sundress, something easy and comfortable. As you were walking past the library, Michael stepped out, catching your eye. He paused, his gaze lingering for just a second.
"That color really suits you," he said softly, a small, appreciative smile playing on his lips. "It compliments you beautifully."
You smiled bashfully and looked down at your dress. "This old thing?"
At that he frowned, and countered, "No, don't do that."
Now you looked at him with a slightly confused expression, "Do what?"
"The thing where somebody compliments you and you immediately insult yourself." You blinked. "I'm serious," he continued. "You look nice. Just say thank you."
A reluctant smile tugged at your lips. "Thank you."
"There. See? Much easier."
Later that night, you finally made it home.
The apartment greeted you with the familiar smell of takeout containers and the faint glow of the television illuminating the living room. Your boyfriend was exactly where you expected him to be, stretched across the couch with his phone in hand.
"Hey," you greeted, kicking off your shoes near the door.
"Hey, babe."
You set your bag down and wandered into the kitchen for a glass of water.
"Today was actually pretty good," you said. "The kids were adorable. Prince tried helping me with the laundry." A small chuckle escaped you at the memory.
"He ended up folding everything into little squares. It was sweet, but I had to redo half of it."
"Mhm."
You glanced toward the living room. His eyes never left his phone. Still, you continued.
"Blanket spent most of the afternoon trying to convince everyone to build a blanket fort. Apparently it was a matter of national importance." That earned a brief laugh.
"Sounds about right." You smiled faintly and leaned against the kitchen counter.
The conversation stalled. For a moment, all you could hear was the soft clicking of his thumb against the screen and the distant noise of the television.
"It's strange," you found yourself saying. "That house." This finally seemed to get a little more of his attention. "What about it?"
"I don't know." You shrugged. "It's just... different."
"Different how?"
You searched for the right words. "Lively, I guess. There's always something going on. Even when everything's quiet, it never really feels empty." He nodded absentmindedly. "Michael was showing me around today, and somehow we ended up talking about my classes for like twenty minutes."
"That's nice." His response came automatically. The kind of response people give when they're listening just enough to be polite. You looked down at your glass.
"Yeah."
Silence settled between you again. You hated how disappointed that made you feel. Not because he'd said anything wrong. He hadn't. He wasn't being cruel or rude. He wasn't starting a fight. He wasn't even ignoring you entirely.
But while you were standing here trying to tell him about your day, it felt as though his attention was somewhere else entirely. A few months ago, he would've asked questions. Now, it felt like he was simply waiting for the conversation to end.
"Anyway," you said quietly, forcing a smile. "I think I'm gonna take a shower."
"Okay, babe." His eyes never left the screen. As you turned toward the hallway, an uncomfortable feeling settled in your chest.
For the first time, you found yourself comparing the way people listened to you. And that thought bothered you more than you wanted to admit.
A few days later, you were babysitting for Michael again. In the kitchen, you reached for a glass on a high shelf when you felt him step in behind you.
“Need a hand with that?” Michael’s voice was low, just beside your ear.
“Oh! No, I’ve almost got it,” you said, stretching your fingers toward the rim of the glass.
Before you could grab it, his arm lifted past yours, brushing lightly against you as he took it down with ease. When he handed it over, he didn’t immediately let go. His fingers lingered against yours, his thumb tracing a slow, absent motion across the back of your hand—far too deliberate to feel accidental.
The air in the kitchen seemed to shift, suddenly heavier. You froze, your breath catching as you looked up at him. He was already watching you. His gaze held yours, steady and searching, like he was waiting for something.
His hand stayed there a moment longer, warm against yours, before he finally let go.
“There you go,” he said with a small smile.
There was no explanation for it.
Or at least none that you were willing to give yourself.
After that afternoon in the kitchen, neither of you ever mentioned what had happened. Michael continued on as though everything was perfectly normal. He was still polite, still thoughtful, still the same gentle man you'd come to know over the past few weeks. If anything, he seemed even more careful around you.
And yet, despite the lack of words, something had shifted.
You began noticing it in the smallest moments. A hand brushing yours when he passed you a plate during dinner. Fingers lingering against your palm for a second longer than necessary when he handed you a book or a cup of coffee. Nothing inappropriate. Nothing you could point to and confidently call intentional.
Just enough to leave you wondering.
The looks were somehow worse.
More than once, you'd glance up from whatever you were doing only to find his eyes already on you. Sometimes from across the room while the children played. Other times from the doorway of the kitchen while you prepared snacks. He never stared for long. The moment your eyes met, a small smile would tug at his lips before he looked away again and continued whatever he had been doing.
It should have been harmless. Maybe it was harmless, but you found yourself thinking about it anyway.
The problem was that Michael noticed things.
He noticed when you were tired. He noticed when you seemed stressed after class. He remembered small details from conversations you'd had weeks ago and somehow always knew exactly what questions to ask.
It was such a simple thing, and yet it felt surprisingly rare. Your boyfriend used to be like that, at least, you thought he used to be.
Lately, your conversations had become shorter and shorter. Calls went unanswered. Messages sat unopened for hours. When he did respond, it often felt like he was only half paying attention, his mind somewhere else entirely.
At first you told yourself it was just a rough patch. Everyone got busy. Everyone got distracted.
But the excuses became harder to make when days started passing without a single meaningful conversation. The contrast was impossible to ignore.
You hated yourself a little for noticing it.
Every time Michael remembered something you'd mentioned in passing. Every time he asked how an exam had gone. Every time he stopped what he was doing just to genuinely listen to your answer.
You weren't looking for reasons to compare them, they just kept presenting themselves. And the more they did, the more unsettled you became, because somewhere along the way, those lingering touches had stopped surprising you. And that realization was far more dangerous than any accidental brush of hands could ever be.
Once again, you fell into the comfortable rhythm you came to appreciate over the last few months. After dinner came baths, pajamas, and the endless negotiations that accompanied bedtime.
"One story," you told Blanket firmly as you tucked him beneath the covers.
"Three."
"One."
"Two."
You narrowed your eyes. He narrowed his right back.
"One."
Blanket sighed dramatically, as though you'd personally ruined his entire week.
"Fine."
Across the room, Paris giggled into her pillow.
Prince looked up from the book in his lap. "You know he does this every night, right?"
"I've noticed."
"And it works every time."
"It does not."
"It kinda does," Paris corrected. You gasped in mock offense. The children dissolved into laughter, the sound warming something in your chest.
You'd only been with the family for a couple of months, but moments like this had already become familiar. Comfortable. Easy.
By the time the final story had been read and the last glass of water delivered, the children had begun drifting off one by one. Paris was the first. Prince fought sleep with admirable determination before eventually losing the battle.
Blanket lasted longest of all, "You'll be here tomorrow, right?" he mumbled sleepily. You smiled.
"Of course."
"Promise?"
"I promise."
Satisfied, he finally closed his eyes. The room fell quiet.
For a few moments, you simply sat there, listening to the soft hum of the air conditioning and the steady rhythm of three sleeping children. Then your eyes drifted toward the clock.
10:47 PM.
Michael had called earlier that afternoon to explain that rehearsals were running late. He'd likely be gone most of the night.
Which meant you'd be staying over.
You quietly slipped from the room, careful not to wake anyone, and made your way downstairs.
The house felt entirely different at night.
The laughter and noise that usually filled it had faded away, leaving only silence behind. Moonlight spilled through the tall windows, casting pale ribbons of silver across the polished floors. You wandered into the living room and sank onto one of the couches.
Almost immediately, your eyes flickered toward the telephone sitting on the side table. Nothing. No missed calls. No messages. No voicemail. Your stomach sank.
Again.
You'd spoken to your boyfriend for less than ten minutes over the past three days. At first you'd made excuses. He was busy. Work was stressful. Life happened.
But lately it felt as though every conversation had become an obligation. Something to get through. Not something either of you actually looked forward to anymore.
You stared at the phone for another moment before reaching for it. Maybe he'd just forgotten, or got distracted. Maybe—
The line rang. Once. Twice. Three times. Eventually he picked up.
"Hey." No enthusiasm. No warmth.
Just... hey.
"Hi." A pause. "What's up?" You swallowed.
"I was just calling."
"Okay."
The silence stretched. You found yourself gripping the receiver tighter. "I haven't heard from you all day." Another pause.
"Yeah. I've been busy." Something sharp twisted in your chest.
You've been busy for three days." A sigh crackled through the line.
"[Name]..."
"No, seriously." You leaned forward, frustration bubbling to the surface. "I'm not asking for a three-hour conversation. I'm asking for a phone call."
"I texted you."
"You sent me two words."
"It still counts." A humorless laugh escaped you. "Wow."
"What?"
"You really think that's the same thing?" His own patience seemed to snap. "Why are we even arguing about this?"
"Because I'm tired."
"Tired of what?"
"Tired of feeling like I'm bothering you every time I want to talk to my own boyfriend." Silence. Then another sigh. Louder this time, more irritated. "You're blowing this way out of proportion."
Your eyes squeezed shut. There it was.
Every single time.
Any time you tried talking about something that upset you, somehow you became the problem. "I'm not blowing it out of proportion."
"You are."
"No, I'm telling you how I feel."
"And I'm telling you that you're overthinking everything." The words hit harder than they should have. Because part of you already knew they weren't true.
You weren't overthinking, you were lonely. And somehow that felt worse. "You know what?" you said quietly.
"What?"
"Forget it."
"[Name]—"
"No." Your voice cracked slightly. "I don't want to do this right now." Before he could answer, you hung up, the click echoed through the empty room.
For a long moment, you simply sat there staring at the receiver in your hand. The silence that followed felt deafening. Slowly, you set the phone back onto its cradle.
You told yourself not to cry. You were too old to cry over a stupid phone call. Too old to cry over a relationship that had clearly been falling apart for months.
And yet the first tear slipped down your cheek anyway. Then another. You quickly wiped them away, but more followed.
Soon your vision blurred completely. You curled slightly into yourself on the couch, pressing the heel of your palm against your eyes as quiet sobs shook your shoulders.
The massive house around you remained silent. No television, no laughter, no conversation. Just you.
And the overwhelming realization that somewhere along the way, you'd stopped feeling loved. That was what hurt the most.
You didn't hear the front door open, and you also didn't hear the quiet footsteps crossing the foyer. You didn't hear anything at all.
The argument kept replaying in your head, each word feeling worse now that the anger had worn off. Your chest hurt. Your eyes burned. No matter how many times you wiped at your face, fresh tears kept slipping free.
You were so caught up in your misery that you nearly jumped when a familiar voice spoke.
"[Name]?" Your head snapped up.
Michael stood at the entrance of the living room. He looked tired from a long day, dark, smooth hair slightly disheveled and the sleeves of his shirt rolled to his forearms.
The moment his eyes landed on your tear-streaked face, his entire expression changed. Concern immediately replaced whatever exhaustion he'd been carrying.
"What happened?" You quickly looked away. "Nothing." The answer came too fast. Too automatic.
Michael's eyebrows drew together. "[Name]."
The simple way he said your name almost made you cry harder. You laughed weakly through your tears. "I'm okay."
"No, you're not."
His voice was gentle. Not accusing. Not demanding. Just concerned.
He crossed the room and sat down beside you, leaving enough space that you wouldn't feel crowded. For a few moments, neither of you spoke.
The silence wasn't uncomfortable, it was patient, like he was willing to wait as long as you needed. Eventually, you let out a shaky breath.
"We had a fight." His expression softened in understanding. "Your boyfriend?"
You nodded. Michael remained quiet, allowing you to continue at your own pace. And somehow that made everything spill out.
All the missed phone calls, all the unanswered texts, and the way every conversation felt forced lately.
The feeling that no matter how hard you tried, you couldn't seem to reach him anymore. You hated how emotional you sounded. Hated how pathetic it all felt once spoken aloud.
But Michael never interrupted, just quietly let you rant. He listened.
By the time you finished, tears were rolling freely down your cheeks again. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then his hand carefully settled over yours. The gesture was small, steady and comforting.
And somehow it undid you completely. His thumb brushed lightly across your knuckles.
"You've been carrying that by yourself?" You looked down.
"I guess." His jaw tightened.
Not in anger toward you. In anger for you. What imbecile treats his lady that way?
Slowly, he reached up and brushed a tear from your cheek. The touch was so gentle it almost hurt. "Hey," he said quietly. Your eyes lifted to his. The sadness in his expression caught you off guard.
As though seeing you like this genuinely upset him. "You don't deserve that." Fresh tears immediately filled your eyes. You looked away. But Michael simply shook his head. "No." His voice was soft but firm. "You don't."
Another tear slipped free. Without thinking, his hand rose to your cheek again. This time he didn't pull away immediately.
"Sweetheart..." The word slipped out naturally. As though he couldn't stand seeing you cry. As though every protective instinct in him had suddenly come alive.
Your breath caught. "You deserve someone who listens when you speak." His thumb gently brushed beneath your eye. "You deserve someone who makes time for you." Your lower lip trembled. "You deserve to feel loved."
That was what broke you.
Because somewhere deep down, you'd started wondering if maybe expecting those things was asking too much.
And hearing someone tell you otherwise felt like having a weight lifted from your chest. "Oh, [Name]..." Michael murmured when another sob escaped you. This time you didn't fight it.
You leaned toward him instinctively. Seeking comfort and warmth.
Seeking something solid to hold onto. The moment you did, Michael wrapped his arms around you in a soothing embrace without hesitation.
His hand settled between your shoulder blades as he pulled you gently against his side. "It's okay," he whispered.
The tears came harder. And Michael held you through every single one.
His hand moved slowly up and down your back, soothing and steady.
"It's okay," he whispered again, his voice a low, soothing rumble against your ear. He didn't pull away. If anything, his hold tightened slightly, one hand moving slowly up and down your back as though he could somehow soothe away all the hurt that had built up inside you. The steady rhythm of it was comforting, grounding. For the first time all evening, you didn't feel alone.
Eventually, Michael pulled back just enough to look at you properly. His hands rose to your face, carefully cradling your cheeks as though you were something precious. His thumbs swept beneath your eyes, brushing away the tears that continued to slip free despite your best efforts to stop them.
"Hey," he murmured softly. You kept your gaze lowered. "Sweetheart."
The endearment was so gentle that it made your chest ache.
"Look at me." Reluctantly, your eyes lifted to meet his. The sadness in his expression nearly broke your heart. No pity, just genuine concern.
Michael's gaze searched your face for a moment before he let out a quiet sigh. "A girl like you should never have to beg for someone's attention." A fresh tear slipped down your cheek.
His thumb caught it before it could fall.
"You know what I see almost every day?" he continued softly. "I see someone who gives so much of herself to everyone around her. I see how you sit with Paris when she wants to show you every drawing she's made that week. I see how patient you are when Prince asks a hundred questions at once. I see the way Blanket lights up the second you walk into a room."
Your lower lip trembled. Michael smiled sadly. "And somehow you convinced yourself that asking for a phone call is asking too much?"
You looked away. Because hearing it out loud made it sound ridiculous. His hand gently guided your face back toward him.
"No." His voice was quiet, but firm. "It isn't."
The room fell silent for a moment.
"You make people feel cared for," he continued, his gaze never leaving yours. "You make this house feel warmer. The kids adore you. Martha adores you. Lord knows Bill won't stop talking about how good you are for 'em."
A weak laugh escaped through your tears. Michael's smile softened. "See?"
His thumb brushed across your cheek again.
"You're so busy makin' sure everyone else feel loved that you forgot you're supposed to receive that same love in return."
The tears came harder then, because for the first time in weeks, someone was saying exactly what you needed to hear.
Michael watched you quietly for a moment before his expression softened even further.
"You're a wonderful, smart girl, angel." The nickname slipped out so naturally it didn't even seem intentional.
His words felt like honey, smoothing over the rough edges of your soul. You felt yourself melting, the frustration of the fight with your boyfriend slowly dissolving.
It was the kind of praise you hadn't realized you were starving for. Under his gaze, you didn't feel like a mess; you felt seen.
You looked up at him through your wet eyelashes, and he gazed right back at you. You noticed the way his gaze lingered on your lips before drifting back to your eyes, and your heart began to race for a completely different reason. The silence that followed was charged. The air between you felt sensual, electric, and sweet.
"It's okay," he whispered again, his voice a low, soothing rumble against your ear. He didn't pull away; instead, he tightened his hold just a fraction, as if he could physically shield you from the heartache of the last few hours.
He eventually pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands moving from your back to gently cup your face. His thumbs traced the line of your cheekbones, catching the last few stray tears with a tenderness that made your heart ache.
"Look at me," he murmured, his eyes searching yours. "A girl like you... someone so smart, so incredibly kind... you should never have to feel like you're a burden just for wantin' some love"
You let out a shaky, uneven breath, your eyes fluttering shut for a second as you leaned into his warmth. The heat from his palms felt so good against your skin, a stark contrast to the cold, lonely feeling that had been sitting in your chest all night.
"You have this way of making everything around you better," he continued, his voice dropping to a soft, melodic hush. He wasn't trying to win an argument or make a point; he was just talking to you, really seeing you. "The way you handle the kids, the way you just... exist in a room. You're so bright, angel. A girl as beautiful and special as you should be celebrated every single day. You should be someone's entire world, not an afterthought."
His words felt like honey, smoothing over the jagged edges of your soul. You felt yourself melting, the frustration of the fight with your boyfriend dissolving into a hazy, warm blur. It was the kind of praise you hadn't realized you were starving for. Under his gaze, you didn't feel like a mess; you felt precious. Like something rare that needed to be handled with care.
The air between you has changed into something that almost feels intimate.
You stared up at him, mesmerized by the way the moonlight caught the warmth in his eyes. You noticed the way his gaze lingered on your lips before drifting back to your eyes, and your heart began to race for a completely different reason.
The need to close the gap, to stop the thinking and just feel, became overwhelming.
Before you could talk yourself out of it, you leaned in. It wasn't a tentative movement; it was a desperate, hungry surge. Your hand flew up, your fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck and cupping the side of his face as you pressed your lips to his.
The kiss was passionate, fueled by the raw emotion of the night and the intoxicating sweetness of his words.
You expected him to be surprised, to pull back in shock, but Michael didn't hesitate for a single second. Instead, he let out a low, muffled sound deep in his throat and melted into you. His large hand slid from your cheek to wrap firmly around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest so there was no space left between you. His other hand moved to your chin, his fingers gripping you firmly to tilt your head back and deepen the contact.
He kissed you back with a sudden, fierce hunger that made your head spin. He tasted like warmth and comfort, and for a moment, the world outside the living room simply ceased to exist.
Finally, you pulled back just an inch, your breath coming in ragged, frantic gasps. Your face was flushed, your heart hammering against your ribs. The reality of what you'd just done crashed down on you, making you feel breathless and exposed.
"Oh god, Michael, I'm so sorry," you stammered, your eyes wide and frantic as you tried to find your footing. "That was the emotions, I just I didn't mean to "
"Shh," he commanded softly, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Before you could finish your clumsy apology, he leaned in again, his mouth catching yours and silencing your words with a kiss.
This kiss wasn't like the first one. It was deep, heavy, and felt like it was pulling the very air out of your lungs.
Michael didn't just kiss you; he claimed you. His mouth was firm and demanding, his tongue sweeping against yours in a way that made your toes curl and a soft, involuntary moan catch in your throat. Every time you tried to catch your breath, he seemed to find a way to steal it again.
His hand on your waist tightened, his fingers digging slightly into your skin through your clothes, pulling you so close that you could feel the frantic thud of his heart against your own.
You felt a little lightheaded, your senses narrowed down to just the taste of him, the scent of his skin, and the incredible, solid weight of his body against yours.
The sadness from earlier the loneliness, the frustration, the feeling of being "too much" it all felt miles away. In this moment, with his hands on you and his lips on yours, you felt exactly like the girl he had just described: someone worth wanting. Someone worth holding.
He pulled back just a fraction, his forehead resting against yours. Both of you were breathing hard, your chests heaving in unison. In the dim moonlight, his eyes looked dark, almost predatory, but the warmth behind them was still there.
"Don't apologize," he whispered, his voice sounding rougher than before, a low rasp that sent a shiver straight down your spine. "Never apologize for wating this."
His thumb traced your bottom lip, which was now swollen from his kiss. The way he looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered made your stomach flip.
He didn't wait for you to respond. He moved his hand from your chin, his fingers sliding into your hair, gripping the strands just enough to tilt your head back again. He leaned down, but instead of going for your lips, he trailed a path of slow, searing kisses down the side of your neck.
A small gasp escaped you as his lips found that sensitive spot just below your ear. You instinctively arched your neck, giving him better access, your hands clutching at the fabric of his shirt as if you were afraid he might disappear if you let go.
"Michael..." you breathed, his name a soft plea you didn't even realize you were making.
"I got you," he murmured against your skin, his breath hot and teasing. "Just let go, angel. Just let go."
He moved back up, his lips grazing your jawline before finally finding your mouth again. This time, the kiss was slower, more languid, but no less intense.
It was a slow burn, a deep, intoxicating exploration that made you feel like you were melting into the couch, into him.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and heavy with a hunger that made your knees weak. He didn't look like the gentle, comforting man who had been holding you through your tears anymore. There was a new edge to him, a quiet strength that felt almost overwhelming.
"You spent so much time feeling like you're too much," he murmured, his voice dropping to a deep, gravelly rasp. He leaned in, his lips brushing against yours as he spoke. "Let me show you how a man properly loves on his girl."
The sheer confidence in his voice sent a jolt of electricity straight to your pussy. Before you could even process the words, his hands slid from your waist over your ass and down to your thighs. With one smooth, powerful motion, he hoisted you up.
You let out a tiny, startled squeak, your hands instinctively flying to his shoulders to steady yourself. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, pulling him even tighter against you. He was so solid, stronger than he looked, and the sudden change in height made your head spin in the best possible way.
He didn't say a word as he began to carry you, his stride steady and sure as he moved away from the living room and toward the grand staircase.
He wasn't rushing, though. He was taking his time. As he walked, he leaned down, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your forehead, his lips soft and sweet. Then, he trailed his mouth down to your cheek in a way that made you shiver.
"Michael," you whispered, your voice quiet and breathless, your fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck.
"I got you, sweetheart" he promised, his voice a low vibration you could feel against your chest.
He shifted his grip, his hand sliding up to the back of your thigh to hold you securely against him, while his other hand stayed firmly on your waist.
As he reached the landing, he leaned in again, his lips finding the sensitive skin of your neck. He pressed a series of soft, warm kisses there, his breath hot against your skin, making you arch your back and bury your face in the crook of his neck as he made his way to his bedroom.
The bedroom door shut with a soft thud, leaving the rest of the house feeling miles away. The room was quiet, lit mostly by the moonlight coming through the window, making everything feel calm and private.
Michael didn't just drop you on the bed; he lowered you onto the mattress slowly, staying right there with you. As you settled into the blankets, you felt a little flustered, a shy smile tugging at your lips. You were definitely blushing, but you didn't try to hide it you actually found yourself leaning closer to him, wanting to be in his space.
Michael was smiling too. It wasn't some intense, brooding look; it was just a warm, genuine smile that made him look incredibly handsome.
He leaned down, giving you a quick, sweet kiss before pulling back just an inch. His eyes were roaming over your face, taking you in.
"You have no idea," he said, his voice low and casual, "How hard it's been to actually act normal around you."
You let out a little embarrassed laugh, looking down at the duvet for a second, but he reached out and gently nudged your chin so you’d look at him again.
"Seriously," he continued, his gaze dropping to your shoulders before meeting your eyes again. "Every time you were here helping with the kids, watching you laugh or just seeing you move around the room... it was driving me crazy. I'd be trying to talk to someone else, but I'd just be thinking about you."
He shifted a bit closer, his hand sliding down to rest on your waist. His touch was warm and steady.
"And you're so damn beautiful," he added, his voice dropping a bit. He wasn't being dramatic; he was just telling you the truth. "I've been staring at you for weeks, just wondering when I'd finally get a chance to be this close to you."
A nervous, happy sort of flutter went through your stomach. You felt a little shy under all that attention, but it felt good. It felt right.
He leaned in, kissing your cheek and then your temple, his voice a constant, low murmur of praise. "I've wanted this since the first day you walked in here," he admitted, his lips brushing against your ear. "Just to have you all to myself like this."
He didn't stop there. His hand, which had been resting on your waist, started to wander, his palm sliding up under the hem of your shirt. The contact of his warm skin against your stomach made you catch your breath, a small, shaky sound that he answered with a low, appreciative hum.
"You're so soft," he murmured, his thumb tracing the curve of your hip as he pulled your shirt up just a little further.
The shyness was still there, making you feel a little breathless, but as he leaned down to kiss the hollow of your throat, you found yourself reaching for him. Your hands slid under his shirt, your palms pressing against his back.
"Is this okay?" he asked, his voice a low, rough rasp. It wasn't a timid question; he could tell you wanted him, but he was still being the man he promised to be the one who took care of you.
He moved his hands to the waistband of your pants, his fingers grazing the skin of your hips. He paused for a second, his eyes locking onto yours, checking in.
"You're so beautiful," he whispered, his voice sounding a little more strained than before. "I've been thinking about this... about you... for so long."
He slid your clothes down, his movements slow and deliberate, making sure you were comfortable every step of the way. As you lay there, feeling the cool air hit your skin, a sudden wave of nerves hit you. You felt exposed, and as he shifted, moving his body down the bed, your heart started to hammer against your ribs.
You'd seen it in movies, sure, but the idea of him actually being down there... it felt a lot more intense in person.
"Michael?" you breathed, your voice a little shaky. You reached out, your fingers curling into the sheets. "Is... is it okay if we just... slow down a little?"
He stopped immediately, propping himself up on his elbows so he could look at you. He didn't look frustrated or impatient; he just looked incredibly focused on you.
"Hey," he said softly, his voice a warm, grounding weight. "What's going on in that head of yours?"
"It's just..." You bit your lip, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks. "I've never really... had a guy do that. You know? Like...eat me out. It's just a little intimidating."
A slow, incredibly sweet smile spread across his face. He reached up, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his touch lingering on your cheek.
"Intimidating?" he teased gently, though his eyes were dark with a hunger that was hard to miss. "Angel, there's nothing to be nervous about. It's just me. And trust me, there ain't nothin' in the world I want more right now than to taste you."
He leaned down, pressing a lingering, soft kiss to your stomach, just above the line of your panties. You let out a tiny, startled gasp, your hips giving a small, involuntary twitch. You were so wet, you were sure that a wet patch has formed on your panties already.
"Been dreamin' about how you taste since the first time you sat on my sofa," he murmured against your skin, his breath hot and teasing. "I wanna take my time with you. gonna make sure you feel every single thing. Does that sound good?"
You looked down at him, seeing the genuine yearning in his expression. He genuinely wanted to taste your pussy so bad. The hesitation was still there, but it was being drowned out by the sheer heat of his gaze.
"Yeah," you whispered, a small, shy smile returning to your lips. "That sounds really good."
He didn't move away once you gave him the green light. Instead, he moved with a quiet, predatory grace, sliding down the length of your body until he was positioned between your thighs. The heat radiating from him was a physical weight, making your skin prickle with anticipation.
As he hooked his fingers into the elastic of your panties, his eyes never left yours for a second. He peeled the fabric down your legs with a slow, agonizing deliberation, leaving you completely bare and trembling under his gaze. The cool air of the room hit your damp skin, but you felt like you were burning from the inside out.
Then, he leaned in.
The first touch of his tongue wasn't tentative. It wasn't a light, polite graze. It was a heavy, soaking swipe that started at the very base of your mound and dragged all the way up to your clit.
A loud, unbidden moan tore from your throat, your back arching off the mattress as the sheer, wet friction sent a jolt of electricity straight to your core. You expected him to be careful, to be "gentle" in the way he always was, but the Michael looking up at you now was different. His eyes were hooded, dark, and glazed with a raw, unadulterated lust that made your stomach flip.
He didn't just want to taste you; he wanted to devour you.
He leaned back in, his face disappearing between your thighs. The sound of his mouth against your wet, swollen folds was loud and unapologetic, a heavy, rhythmic slap of skin on skin that made your toes curl into the sheets.
"Oh god, Michael..." you gasped, your head thrashing against the pillow.
"I've got you, pretty baby," he murmured, his voice vibrating against your most sensitive skin. He pulled back just for a second, his lips glistening, his eyes dark and blown out with pure, unadulterated lust. "You're so wet for me. You're so slick, angel. Just look at you... you're a beautiful, soaking mess."
He didn't wait for a response before he dived back in, his tongue working with a frantic, desperate hunger. He was lapping up every drop of your nectar, his tongue swirling deep into your slit, catching the heavy, syrupy flow of your arousal. He was being so thorough, so goddamn greedy, that you could feel the warmth of his breath mingling with the wetness of your own juices.
"That's it, sweet baby," he groaned, the sound muffled by your pussy. His thumb began to grind in heavy, punishing circles against your clit.
The sensation was too much. It was too much, and yet, you were begging for more, your fingers knotting into the bedsheets until your knuckles turned white. Every time his tongue swiped upward, catching the sensitive peak of your clit, a fresh wave of heat crashed over you, making your vision blur. He wasn't being the gentle, careful Michael you knew in the daylight; he was a man possessed, a man driven by a hunger that seemed bottomless.
"Michael... oh, god, Michael..." you sobbed, your hips jerking upward, trying to meet the relentless pressure of his tongue and the heavy, rhythmic grind of his thumb.
"That's it, angel... just like that," he murmured, his voice a dark, vibrating hum against your swollen folds. He pulled back just enough to let the cool air hit your dripping heat, only to dive back in with a sudden, forceful suction that made your entire body seize. "You're so loud for me, baby... so beautiful when you're losing control."
He was being so greedy, so unapologetically thorough, that you felt like you were drowning in the sensation of him. The wet, slapping sounds of his mouth against you were the only thing you could hear, drowning out the quiet hum of the house around you. He was lapping at you, tasting every drop of your arousal as if it were the most precious thing he’d ever encountered, his breath hot and frantic against your inner thighs.
"Please... Michael, please, I'm gonna—" Your voice broke, a high, keening whine escaping your throat as the tension in your lower belly tightened into a hard, pulsing knot.
"Gonna what, sweetheart? Gonna come for me?" He teased, his voice thick with lust, before he increased the pace. His tongue became a frantic, swirling blur against your clit, while his thumb applied a heavy, punishing pressure that sent jolts of pure electricity straight to your brain. "Let it go, baby. Give it all to me. Show me how much you want it..."
You couldn't hold back anymore. The world fractured. Your back arched violently off the mattress, your toes curling as the first wave of your orgasm crashed through you. It was a violent, beautiful explosion of pleasure, your internal muscles clamping down hard and pulsing around the empty space where his mouth was, desperate to hold onto the sensation.
"Oh! Oh, god!" you screamed, your head thrashing from side to side as you came, the sheer intensity of it leaving you breathless and trembling.
Michael didn't pull away. He stayed right there, drinking you in, his tongue continuing to swirl in slow, soothing circles to catch the aftershocks, his hands gripping your thighs to hold you steady through the tremors. He let out a low, guttural groan of satisfaction, the sound vibrating deep in his chest as he watched you unravel beneath him.
"Mm, so sweet..." he whispered, his lips and chin glistening as he finally looked up at you, his eyes dark, blown out, and completely undone by the sight of your messy, beautiful climax. "You taste like heaven, baby. Just heaven."
The aftershocks were still rippling through you, leaving your skin hypersensitive and your breath coming in shallow, ragged hitches. Michael didn't move away immediately; instead, he lingered, his lips pressing soft, reverent kisses to the inside of your thighs, his hands roaming over the lush curves of your hips. He looked up at you, and the sheer worship in his eyes made your heart ache. He didn't just want you; he was in awe of you.
"Look at you," he breathed, his voice a low, reverent rasp. He reached out, his palms sliding up the soft, generous swell of your hips, his fingers sinking slightly into your skin. "So soft... so perfect. Every inch of you is a miracle, angel."
He moved up the bed, his body a heavy, warm weight as he hovered over you. He didn't rush. He took a moment to just look at you, his gaze tracing the curve of your waist, the fullness of your breasts, and the way your thighs spilled beautifully against the sheets. To him, you weren't just a woman; you were a masterpiece of soft lines and delicious weight.
"You're so beautiful, pretty baby," he murmured, leaning down to press a slow, lingering kiss to the swell of your hip, his mouth trailing upward. "Could spend a lifetime just exploring you. Just worshiping you."
He captured one of your breasts in his hand, his thumb grazing the peak as he leaned in to take the swollen bud into his mouth. He sucked deeply, a low groan vibrating in his throat, while his other hand slid down to find where you were still slick and pulsing from your climax.
The friction of his hand against your wetness, paired with the heavy, insistent pull of his mouth on your breast, sent a new wave of heat crashing through you. You reached for him, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, needing the friction, needing the weight of him to fill the emptiness.
"Michael... please," you whimpered, your hips tilting upward in a silent plea. "I need you. I need to feel you."
"I know, baby. I know," he whispered against your skin, his breath hot and frantic. He pulled back just enough to strip away the last of his own clothes, and when he pressed himself against you, the sheer, veiny heat of him made you gasp. He was massive, a heavy, pulsing weight that promised to stretch you to your absolute limit.
He guided himself to your entrance, the head of his cock smearing your own nectar across your opening. He paused there, his forehead resting against yours, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that felt like it was stripping your soul bare.
"Tell me you want it," he commanded softly, his voice thick with a desperate kind of hunger. "Tell me you want me to fill you up, sweetheart."
"Please," you choked out, your legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him flush against your soft curves. "Fuck, Michael, please... fill me up. All of you."
With a slow, deliberate thrust, he began to sink into you. He didn't slam in; he moved with a heavy, agonizing patience, letting your walls stretch and accommodate his girth. You felt every inch of him, the way he filled you so completely that it felt like he was touching your very core. You let out a long, broken moan, your head falling back as your body yielded to the delicious intrusion.
"Mm, so wet... so fucking perfect," he grunted, his muscles corded and tense as he bottomed out. He stayed there for a moment, buried deep, his chest heaving against yours, letting you adjust to the sheer fullness of him. He began to move, his thrusts slow and deep, pulling almost all the way out before driving back in with a heavy, rhythmic force that made the bed creak beneath you.
The sensation was overwhelming. It wasn't just the friction; it was the way his body interacted with yours the way his hard, lean frame contrasted against the soft, yielding curves of your hips and thighs. Every time he slammed home, his hips hitting yours with a wet, heavy thwack, you felt the impact in your entire soul.
"You feel so good, baby," he groaned, his pace picking up, his thrusts becoming harder, more urgent. He reached down, his large hand splaying across your stomach before sliding lower to cup the underside of your ass, lifting you slightly to meet his every lunge. "I love how you feel around me... so warm, so wet... like you were made just for this."
He was relentless. He drove into you with a primal, driving rhythm, his hips snapping forward to ensure he hit your sweet spot with every single stroke. You were lost in it the sound of your skin slapping together, the scent of your shared arousal, and the overwhelming, heavy sensation of him plowing through you.
"Oh, god, Michael—" you cried out, your hands roaming wildly over his back. You were being driven to the brink again, the friction of his cock against your internal walls sending sparks of white hot pleasure through your nervous system.
"That's it, baby... take it all," he urged, his voice a guttural growl near your ear. He was pushing you harder, his thrusts becoming frantic and shallow as he neared his own limit, his breath coming in harsh, jagged gasps. "Give it to me, angel... let me see you come again..."
The world finally stopped spinning, the frantic rhythm of his hips slowing into a heavy, pulsing ache that settled deep in your bones. As the peak of your climax began to recede, leaving you limp and trembling, Michael followed you over the edge. He let out a long, strangled groan, his body tensing violently as he buried himself as deep as he could possibly go, his entire frame shuddering with the force of his release.
He didn't pull out. Instead, he collapsed against you, his chest heaving in sync with yours, his sweat slicked skin clinging to yours in the most delicious, heavy way. He stayed buried deep inside you, the sensation of his hot, pulsing length filling you up as he slowly began to settle.
"Mm... oh, baby," he breathed, his voice little more than a broken whisper against the crook of your neck. He didn't move to separate; he just held you, his weight a comforting, grounding presence that made you feel safe and cherished in the wake of the storm.
He began to move, but it wasn't the frantic, hungry driving from before. It was slow, so agonizingly slow that every tiny, infinitesimal twitch of his cock inside you felt like a caress. He was just... existing within you, letting the sensation of being joined sink in. He nudged his hips in a tiny, rhythmic circle, a gentle friction that sent soft, warm ripples of pleasure through your sensitized walls.
"You're so warm," he murmured, his lips grazing your jawline as he spoke. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes soft and glazed with a profound, quiet adoration. "You feel so good, sweetheart. So perfect. I never want to leave you."
He reached down, his hand sliding under the small of your back to pull you even tighter against him, making sure there wasn't a single millimeter of space between your bodies. He began to pepper your face with tiny, soft kisses your forehead, your eyelids, the tip of your nose each one.
"Michael..." you sighed, your eyes fluttering shut as you drifted in the haze of afterglow. You felt so full, so cherished, as if his very essence was being poured into you.
"I got you, angel," he whispered, his hand moving from your back to cup your cheek, his thumb stroking your skin with a reverence that made your heart swell. "I got you. Just breathe. Just feel me."
He continued that slow, hypnotic movement, a gentle, pulsing slide that was more about connection than conquest. It was a worship of the quiet moments the way your breath hitched when he pressed a kiss to your collarbone, the way your hands instinctively curled into his hair, the way your bodies seemed to hum in a shared silence
In the quiet of the room, with nothing but the sound of your synchronized breathing, it felt like time had stopped.
The room was quiet, save for the soft, rhythmic sound of your breathing and the distant, muffled hum of the world outside that seemed a million miles away. Michael was still draped over you, his head resting in the hollow of your shoulder, his skin still warm and damp against yours. He was moving with a slow, almost hypnotic lazyness, his hips occasionally giving a tiny, affectionate nudge that kept you tethered to the sensation of him still being buried deep within you.
"You're so quiet, baby," he murmured, his voice a low, sleepy vibration against your skin. He lifted his head just enough to press a lingering kiss to your temple. "Thinking about something?"
"Just... how much this feels like a dream," you whispered, your fingers tracing the line of his shoulder, feeling the lean strength of him. "it feels like if I blink too hard, the world is gonna come rushing back in and take all of this away."
Michael went still. The playful, sleepy haze in his eyes shifted, replaced by something much more intense, much more grounded. He shifted his weight, propping himself up on one elbow so he could look down at you. The soft light of the room caught the dark, serious depth of his gaze.
"It ain't a dream, angel," he said, his voice dropping an octave, becoming that steady, commanding weight you had come to rely on. He reached out, his thumb tracing the curve of your lower lip with a tenderness that made your breath hitch. "I don't do anything halfway. You know that. When I want something... when I want someone... it's everything."
He paused, his eyes searching yours, reading the flicker of hesitation that always lived in the back of your mind. He knew about him. He knew about the man you were supposed to be with the one who was supposed to be your "stable" choice, but who left you feeling half empty and unappreciated.
"You're so good to everyone," Michael continued softly, his hand sliding down to cup your cheek, his touch heavy and warm. "You take care of other people, you take care of the kids... you're so selfless, angel. But who takes care of you?"
Your heart gave a painful little thud against your ribs. You knew where this was going.
"Michael..." you breathed, a warning and a plea all at once.
"He don't see you," Michael whispered, his gaze dropping to your lips before snapping back to your eyes, fierce and unwavering. "Not the way I see you. He doesn't know how to worship you. He don't know how to make you feel like the center of the whole universe."
He leaned down, pressing a slow, firm kiss to your forehead, his forehead resting against yours. "You don't gotta decide anything tonight. Not while we're right here. But just... just think about it, okay? Think about what it'd be like to be with someone who's actually hungry for you. Someone who's gonna give you everything you deserve."
He pulled back just a fraction, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips a hint of the man who could command thousands, but was choosing to use that power just to hold you.
"Because in a way, you're mine, sweetheart," he murmured, his voice a promise as he lowered his head to kiss you again, deep and slow. "In every way that matters... you're already mine."
As he pulled you closer, his body settling back into yours, the weight of his words lingered in the air, more intoxicating than the sex had been. You closed your eyes, drifting off to the feeling of him inside you, wondering if the dream was finally starting to become your reality.
Chapter 6: Fuel for your dream is like Wind in your sails.
Word Count:
Contents: Luffy X Traumatised!DevilFruitUser!Reader. Long&SlowBurn. Fluff. Angst. Eventual Romance&Smut. Strawhat Crew X Reader. SPOILER WARNINGS. Character Building&Growth. Long Read, Several Chapters.
Content Warning: Mention of Abuse. Brutal+Violent scenes targeted towards and against reader. Traumatic Events. Death of close ones. (Let me know if I’ve missed any!)
Summary: From being Ace’s right hand girl, to meeting Monkey ‘D Luffy for the first time in Alabasta, Then watching everything that was once important to you vanish mercilessly infront of you. You find yourself on a strange journey you never expected standing alongside none other than Ace’s brother.
Chapter Summary: Rayleigh is forced to accept a new kind of training, one that was never meant for you or Luffy. A dream emerges with no sight of fuel, anxiety growing as you spend the final day on the island.
RAYLEIGHS POV
The days seemed to blend together. Wake up, Train, Fail, Sleep. Or at least attempt to. The routine repeated itself so many times that the stargazer stopped counting the days entirely. Rayleigh would arrive each morning just as the stars disappeared.
"Morning."
"Morning."
Then the same lesson would begin.
"Hit me." The answer never changed.
Miss. Miss. Miss.
"Again." The word had become more familiar than her own name.
At first she had treated the training like a challenge, Something to overcome, Something to solve. Every night she sat by the fire creating new plans, New attacks, New combinations, New ways to catch the old pirate off guard. Every morning Rayleigh dismantled them effortlessly.
By the second month she stopped creating plans.
By the third she stopped believing there was a solution.
The island itself had begun to feel different now, Colder, Larger, Emptier. The silence that once felt peaceful now felt suffocating, Even the stars seemed quieter.
Meanwhile, on the opposite side of the island, Luffy wasn't doing much better. The boy still trained, Still ate, a decreasing amount. Still fought, with weakening haki. But the energy that normally surrounded him had dulled. Stories ended halfway through. Conversations were held with nobody. Several times Rayleigh caught him talking before remembering he was alone.
One afternoon Rayleigh watched Luffy launch himself at a target, a simple exercise, One the boy had mastered months ago. Luffy missed, entirely, his fist flew right past the target as it barely dodged with a single step. The beast itself was thrown back by the way the boy had missed. Although enemies a few of the abnormally sized beasts had become to enjoy the fights that were used as training.
The old pirate frowned, Luffy frowned harder. "Again."
By the fourth month both had started going backwards, Not physically, Mentally, Emotionally. The confidence they'd built over two years seemed thinner somehow, as though something fundamental had been removed.
Neither complained. Neither understood what was happening. Neither realised the other was experiencing the exact same thing. Rayleigh did. And every day he became more concerned.
The fifth month was when Rayleigh stopped believing the problem would fix itself.
The old pirate sat alone overlooking the ocean. Watching the waves crash against the rocks. Thinking. What was he doing wrong?
He had trained pirates before, Many pirates, Strong pirates, Weak pirates, Idiots, Geniuses, People who listened, People who didn't.
Never once had he watched a student move backwards.
The stargazer should have improved, Instead she had become hesitant, Distracted, Exhausted.
Luffy should have improved, Instead he had become reckless, Impatient, Unfocused.
The separation was supposed to force independence. Instead it was breaking something.
Rayleigh found himself replaying every lesson he had taught, Every decision he had thought, Every conversation he had spoken, Searching for the mistake. Where was it, where was the mistake, what is causing this situation.. this mistake.
One evening he watched the stargazer swing, Miss. Again, Miss, Again, Miss. The frustration on her face looked familiar. Not because she'd shown it before, but because Roger had, years ago. Whenever he couldn't understand something. The thought made Rayleigh pause.
Roger, the old pirate, closed his eyes. Remembering, Remembering stories, Remembering laughter.
Remembering a drunken captain staring up at the stars and speaking about bonds nobody could explain. "The strongest bonds aren't made by blood, Rayleigh."
The words echoed through his memory, Shared dreams, Shared pain, Shared freedom.
Rayleigh opened his eyes. A long sigh escaped him. "No." The answer felt ridiculous, impossible. Yet every piece of evidence pointed towards it.
Maybe, just maybe the problem wasn't the training. The problem wasn't them. The problem… Might be him. For months he had tried teaching them how to stand alone. How to fight alone. How to live alone.
What if that was the wrong lesson? The thought lingered, refusing to disappear. The next morning Rayleigh made a decision.
One final test. If Roger was wrong, everything would continue as normal. If Roger was right… The old pirate wasn't entirely sure what he would do.
"Stargazer."
The girl looked up from the fire, eyes empty. The stars that used to fill her eyes hidden away.
“Meet me at the old training ground by noon.” Was all he said as he already started to walk back in the same direction he did almost every second night.
"Luffy."
The boy stopped mid bite, as he chewed his breakfast.
"Meet me at the old training ground after you finish your meal."
The old training ground hadn't changed, The same dirt, The same trees, The same broken rocks from countless fights. Only the people standing within it felt different.
Luffy arrived first. He had stopped before the meat stock finished, extremely unlike him as if he was anticipating something. Immediately sitting on the ground. Immediately complaining, immediately asking where his lunch was hiding. Rayleigh found the behaviour strangely reassuring.
Several minutes later another presence entered the clearing. The stargazer. The moment she stepped into the clearing, Luffy's head snapped towards her. The same happened in reverse. Neither seemed surprised to see the other. Neither said much.
"Hey."
"Hey."
That was it. Yet something shifted. Immediately. The old pirate noticed it before either of them. The tension that had become normal over the past months vanished. The exhaustion seemed lighter. The atmosphere itself felt different. More alive.
The realization made Rayleigh uncomfortable. "Right." The old pirate stood. Crossing his arms. "Hit me."
Both groaned. Simultaneously. Rayleigh ignored it. Luffy moved first, A punch. Rayleigh stepped aside. The stargazer followed, A kick. Rayleigh leaned backwards.
Miss. Miss. Just like always. Good. The old pirate relaxed slightly. Perhaps he had been overthinking things. Luffy attacked again. The stargazer moved at the same time. Something felt different. Not stronger. Not faster. Different. The air around him tightened. Not enough to hurt. Not enough to restrict him. just enough to notice. A strange pressure wrapped around his chest. His next breath caught unexpectedly. For the first time in years, Rayleigh found himself aware of his own breathing.
Rayleigh stepped left to avoid Luffy. Only to realise the stargazer had already adjusted. He shifted backwards. Luffy changed direction. His eyes narrowed. The movements weren't faster. They weren't stronger. Yet somehow every adjustment he made was already being answered. Not individually. Together. For a brief moment, the old pirate found himself reacting. Not predicting. Reacting. A fist brushed his shoulder. Rayleigh froze. Silence.
The strange pressure vanished. Just as suddenly as it had appeared. His lungs expanded fully once again. The sensation gone before he could properly understand it.
Luffy blinked. The stargazer blinked. Rayleigh slowly lowered his gaze. The fabric of his shirt had shifted. A faint mark sat on his shoulder. The two younger pirates looked at each other. Then back at him.
"...Did we get him?" The old pirate said nothing. "Rayleigh?" Concern began to creep onto both of their faces. Why wasn't he saying anything?
Because for the first time in months, he wasn't thinking about the attack. He was thinking about everything that came before it. The sleepless nights. The frustration. The failed lessons. The regression. The silence.
How the stars that sparkled in your eyes had slowly disappeared with each month.
How Luffy’s goal of becoming the king of the pirates was said out loud less and less. The way Rayleigh felt as both of their sparks slowly disintegrated in front of him and had caused him to rethink everything. And how quickly it had reappeared the moment they saw each other. The moment they stood beside one another. The moment the island felt alive again. His mind replayed the exchange. Again. And again. And again. Searching for the answer. The attacks hadn't changed. The speed hadn't changed. The strength hadn't changed. So what did?
The pressure against his lungs returned to his thoughts. That impossible feeling. Like standing before a creature far larger than himself. Like something unseen had briefly wrapped itself around the clearing. Watching. Waiting. Rayleigh frowned, no, that wasn't possible. The air couldn't do that. The atmosphere itself couldn't change. There was no Haki technique he knew capable of creating such a sensation. No Devil Fruit ability either. Yet he had felt it.
The old pirate stared at the two confused faces standing before him. A childish idiot. And a stargazer who still looked half asleep. Neither seemed aware that anything unusual had happened. Which somehow made it even more unsettling.
For months Rayleigh had searched for an answer. A flaw in their technique, a weakness in their Haki, a mistake in their training. There wasn't one. The answer had been standing in front of him the entire time. The lesson had never belonged to them. It belonged to him.
By the time Rayleigh had snapped out of his thoughts Luffy was already celebrating. Running around the clearing shouting about finally hitting the old man. He moved his gaze to you. The stargazer looked confused. As if she couldn't understand why Rayleigh had gone silent, concern still written all over her face. Neither understood. Rayleigh smiled, A genuine smile, The first in months.
"You two are impossible." The statement only confused them more. But made the concern distant itself. Not worried.. still confused.
Roger's voice echoed through his memory. "The strongest bonds aren't made by blood, Rayleigh." Shared dreams, Shared pain, Shared freedom. For years Rayleigh had assumed Roger was speaking philosophically. Like he often did after too much sake. Now he wondered if the old fool had understood something long before him. The old pirate looked between the two of them.
One swinging around trees, yelling in celebration, with a massive grin over his face. The other with a small closed smile pretending to not be watching him. Months apart, Both became weaker, One hour together, Everything returned. No. Roger wasn't entirely right. The strongest bonds weren't forged by blood. But they also weren't forged by freedom, Or dreams, Or pain, Those things only lit the fire. Trust was what kept it burning.
A laugh escaped Rayleigh. Small and Quiet, Almost disbelieving. For months he had tried teaching them how to stand alone. Only to discover their greatest strength came from standing together. "You stubborn old fool." The words escaped before he could stop them.
Luffy looked around. "Who?"
Rayleigh laughed. "An old friend."
END OF RAYLEIGHS POV
The separation ended that day. Neither you nor Luffy fully understood why. Rayleigh never explained. The old pirate simply stopped sending either of you away. And strangely… That was enough. The following weeks felt different. Lighter. Sleep returned, Not immediately, Not perfectly, But it returned. The nights that had once stretched endlessly now disappeared in the blink of an eye. You found yourself waking up rested again. Luffy stopped waking during the night. Stopped wandering around camp. Stopped staring into the forest as if he'd forgotten something important. The campfire returned too. Not the fire itself. The conversations. The endless stories. The pointless arguments. The races through the forest. The complaints. The laughter. The sparkle in your eyes grew with each night, the stars eventually shining as bright as before, glistening. Luffy’s dream he stopped hiding, saying it after every victory, saying it at least once throughout the campfire stories. His spirits had lifted. The island felt alive again. Training improved almost immediately. Not because either of you suddenly became stronger. Because you could focus again.
One afternoon Rayleigh watched as the two of you sparred. Luffy launched himself forward. You stepped aside. Grabbed his arm. Used his momentum against him. THUD! Luffy crashed into the dirt. The silence lasted exactly one second.
"You cheated."
You stared at him. "No."
"Yeah."
"No."
"Yeah."
Rayleigh sighed. The argument continued for another twenty minutes. The old pirate smiled into his tea. For the first time in months. Everything felt normal. The weeks passed. Then months. Time slipped through their fingers once again. The seasons changed. Storms came and went. The monsters became easier. The training became harder. The island slowly stopped feeling like a place they had been sent. And started feeling like home again.
One morning Rayleigh found himself watching the two of them from a distance. Neither noticed him. Both too busy arguing over breakfast. The old pirate smiled. Roger would've liked this.
The announcement came without warning. Which was exactly how Rayleigh liked doing things. The three of you sat around the campfire. The same campfire. The same clearing. The same island. The only difference was the people sitting around it.
"You've finished." The words were so casual that neither of you reacted.
Luffy continued eating. You continued staring into the fire. A moment passed. Then another.
Luffy blinked. "Huh?"
Rayleigh laughed. "Your training." The old pirate gestured between the two of you. ”It's finished."
The silence that followed felt strange. For years everything had revolved around training. Getting stronger, Learning, Surviving. Now there was nothing left. No next lesson, No next monster, No next goal. The realization settled heavily around the campfire.
"You mean..." Luffy sat up. "We're going back?"
Rayleigh smiled. “You're going home."
You couldn't help but grin at Luffy's reaction, even though your stomach was twisting itself into knots. "You're going home." The words replayed in your mind. Home. The conversation continued around the campfire. Luffy was already celebrating. Rayleigh was smiling into his tea. The atmosphere was warm, happy. You should have been happy too, instead, anxiety began to crawl beneath your skin. You forced yourself to smile, forced yourself to laugh, forced yourself to stay present. But eventually it became too much. Quietly, you excused yourself, Neither of them stopped you. You weren't sure if they hadn't noticed… Or if they had.
Your feet carried you towards the beach without thinking. The same beach where you had first arrived two years ago. The same beach where your training had begun. You lowered yourself onto the sand. Pulling your knees against your chest. Wrapping your arms tightly around trying to ground yourself. The waves rolled in and out, steady and calm. Unlike your thoughts.
Where was your home? Why weren't you happy? You had just completed two years of training. You had survived, You had grown stronger, You should have felt proud, Instead, your chest felt tight, Your breathing felt shallow. Tears burned behind your eyes, You blinked them away, Not here, Not now. That would be stupid.
But what were you supposed to do now? Luffy had somewhere to go. A crew was waiting for him. Friends, No, Family. He had a ship, A dream, A destination, A future.
A tear slipped free despite your efforts. Your voice came out as little more than a whisper. Unable to keep them inside.
"What am I supposed to do?" The words disappeared into the wind. "Where do I even go?" You stared down at the sand. "Even if I wanted to go back to the Whitebeard Pirates..." Your throat tightened. "It wouldn't be the same." The thing that had fueled you was gone. Gone for over two years. Would the crew even still be together? Would there even be a crew left? You laughed bitterly. "I don't have a ship." Another tear. "I don't have a family." Another. "I don't even have a dream." Your hands clenched. "Why don't I have a dream?"
A familiar presence settled next to you. You jumped, quickly wiping your face. Rayleigh sat down beside you as though he'd been invited. His arm rested gently across your shoulders. You leaned into it without thinking. The realization made you huff out a small laugh. Two years ago you would've punched him. "You heard everything, didn't you?" Your voice was quiet.
"Even the things you didn't say." Rayleigh chuckled. The sound was soft, Comforting. For a moment neither of you spoke. The waves filled the silence.
Then Rayleigh spoke again. "You said you don't have a dream." Your smile disappeared instantly. "So tell me." His voice remained calm. "What did?" You frowned. "What fueled it?"
The question hit harder than expected. You opened your mouth, closed it, opened it again. "I..." Nothing came out. Rayleigh waited patiently. "Ace." The answer slipped free before you could stop it. "Ace did." Your gaze dropped. "He was my dream."
"No." The response was immediate, firm and certain. You blinked. "He wasn't."
You stared at him. "He was the reason I kept moving."
"That's different." Rayleigh squeezed your shoulder gently. "A dream is where you're trying to go." His gaze drifted towards the ocean. "Fuel is what helps you get there." The words settled heavily. "Ace wasn't your destination." A small smile appeared. "He was the wind in your sails, so tell me, where were you sailing too?”
You swallowed hard. "I..." Rayleigh remained silent. Waiting for you to answer his previous question.
"When I was younger..." Your voice was quiet. Small. “I used to look up to the stars whenever things got bad, because no matter what happened,” You lifted your eyes to the darkening sky. “No matter where I was, they were always there, they always came back.” A shaky breath escaped you. “I used to spend hours looking for one, a special star, a star that would follow me no matter where I went.” Your gaze moved back down to your lap. “A star that I could always see, a star that could guide me, but no matter how hard I looked, I couldn’t find one that stayed, they all eventually got replaced and covered with darkness.”
Another sigh escaped you as you let your words free. “There wasn’t one. So.. I wanted to become one. I wanted people to look up and feel something, a star that could guide you no matter where you were.”
You looked back up to Rayleigh leaving a moment of silence as you thought your next words carefully.
“But I think that's changed.” The old pirate raised an eyebrow but remained silent.”I don’t want to just guide people anymore, I don’t want them to look up and only feel.” You felt yourself gulp breaking the sentence. “Something. I want them to feel what I feel right now.” You scanned Rayleigh's face, his eyebrow still raised.
“I want someone who’s scared to look up and feel safe, I want someone who’s lost to feel a path, I want someone who’s alone to feel like they're not.” You laughed softly,
“I want to create and become a star that gives people that same kind of comfort you do.”
For the first time all evening, Rayleigh looked genuinely caught off guard.
You continued before he could interrupt. “Not because it tells people where to go, or what to do, but.. Because it reminds them that wherever they’re going, whoever and whatever they’re up against.. that they’ll be okay, I want to leave behind my own constellation, that tells people they’ll never be alone as long as it shines, and it always will.”
The old pirate was quiet for a long moment. Then a smile slowly appeared beneath his beard. "That's a far better dream than the one you started with, Stargazer."
The squeeze on your shoulder intensified pulling you in closer. Rayleigh sighed.“ You really are one of a kind.” He continued before you could gather up a response.
“Ace fueled your dream, now the fuel has run out.” He paused for a moment as he felt you tense back up. “Fuel can run out, but a dream? A dream can’t.” He paused as he felt your gaze back on him, your eyebrows had furrowed at his words. “A real dream doesn’t change. But fuel?”
Silence followed as you waited in anticipation for him to fill his unfinished sentence. He didn’t, only making your eyebrows furrow more, a small crease lined between them. He watched your expression as your mind was filled with relentless thoughts and questions you didn’t have answers to yet.
His palm raised to his forehead as he sighed. “When was the last time you felt the fuel burn?” He paused as he looked directly at you. A soft and comforting tone returned. “When was the last time you hesitated?”
You could feel your heartbeat start to increase as the intensity in his questions grew. The silence he left between each one not helping your wandering mind. He shifted his gaze out to where the dark sky cut off the sea. His questions make you more and more restless. They were so simple. Why did you have to think so hard? What was he trying to say? Even more questions spiralled through the wind.
“When was the last time you felt yourself hiding your feelings.”
Before you could comprehend any of the other questions you felt yourself pick up on one instantly, having a response. “Tonight” You knew what he meant, you still couldn’t stop the childish response leaving you.
Rayleigh picked up on your surprised expression as he realised you couldn’t hold back the banter. “You call that hiding your feelings?.. I followed you for a reason” a small amused gruff escaped him.
He finally seemed to take a deep breath in, clearly preparing himself for the final question.You felt your whole body tense as he took another breath in, his demeanor instantly shifted, still comforting, still reassuring but serious.
“If you left tonight, what would you miss? What would you look for first?”
You didn’t respond to his question. He didn’t force it either, he simply held you for a while til you managed to completely calm your anxiety. It was still there but you didn’t feel like collapsing in a pool of your own tears anymore.
“If worse comes to worse, I won’t leave til you find your fuel.” His words soothed your thoughts even more.
Eventually returning to the campsite. When you returned you felt a sudden surge of panic. Rayleigh must have felt it rolling off you as he quickly broke the silence. “Oh, I sent Luffy off for some very specific flowers.” Your gaze lifted to Rayleighs.”He won’t be back for a while.”
You couldn’t help but laugh as you realised what Rayleigh meant. Poor Luffy. You rested down on your rock, unnaturally grateful that Luffy wasn’t there. It allowed you to think, without any distractions. You let the questions from earlier replay. One question after another. Many memories resurfaced. The questions finally had an answer, so why were you still confused, why did nothing connect.
“Hey, what's wrong?” Luffy's voice cut through your thoughts, you lifted your site to watch him running quickly over to you. Placing a hand on your curled up knee.
You didn’t realise you had your tears freely flow, You blinked whilst staring at Luffy with almost begging eyes. Please don’t push me, Please don’t push me. I'll collapse again.
"Hungry?" You shook your head. But glad he got the hint.
"Cold?"
A smile appeared on your face. "A little."
The tension instantly left his shoulders. Without hesitation he dropped beside you. Throwing an arm around your shoulders. Pulling you closer. This was new. You had expected him to use your shoulder as a pillow, Not this. His warmth wrapped around you instantly, Comfortable, Safe, Familiar. Within minutes his breathing slowed, Then came the soft snoring. You laughed quietly. The stars above were beautiful. As beautiful as they'd always been. Sleep found you quickly that night. One thing replaying throughout your dreams. ‘If worse comes to worse, I won’t leave til you find your fuel.’
The following morning arrived quicker than expected. You took a deep inhale trying to capture the last air of the island before you stepped onto the smallish boat. The boat cut smoothly through the ocean. The island growing smaller with every passing minute. Luffy stood at the front. Excited as ever. Blabbering about how much his crew must have changed, and how excited he was to show them how strong he had become. You sat closer to the middle. Watching the horizon. Watching the past slowly disappear and the unknown future coming closer and closer.
Rayleigh remained silent. Content simply watching. Then finally. After almost a week. The islands appeared. Sabaody.
The old pirate smiled. "Well." He stood. Brushing off his coat. "This is where I leave you."
Neither of you spoke immediately. The islands grew larger. Closer. More real. The training was over. The waiting was over. The next chapter of your lives sat directly ahead. And for the first time in two years. The future no longer felt distant. It felt close enough to touch.
Let me know how you liked the POVs, the Poll was so close so I have decided I’ll mix in both POVs and dialogue!
Next Chapter ➡️ (link will be provided when it’s posted)
luffy 's love language is physical touch. HE LOVESSS touching you in some way, often stretching his arm so he can hold your hand even when he's on the other side of the room.
Luffy can't stand being a second away from you he's the clingiest person ever.
Luffy tells EVERYONE he meets about you. "She's the best! Like the coolest person girl ever!" He repeats that to every. Living. Thing . It can hear? It can listen to luffy yap about you.
Luffy HATESS when you want any alone time, he can't comprehend why would you not want him around you. What did he do?
Luffy took forever to realize he has feeling for you, he didn't find it out himself, someone else has to point out how luffy always looks at you first in every situation
Luffy absolutely lovess your attention. He will bother you for hours just to get you to pay attention to him, and he DESPISES being ignored. Never do that
Luffy holds you so tightly while sleeping, stretching both arms and legs around to ensure you won't leave his side while he's sleeping
Luffy will lay down next to you the moment he sees you sleeping because, if you're sleeping. He's sleeping
Luffy only shares his food with you, sliding a piece of meat under the table so no one else can see because he thinks they'd get "jealous" that he's sharing meat with you. he sees it as the most romantic thing ever
Hiiii!!! Can you do a one-shot with Michael and a pop star reader? Reader is very closed off about her child/teenage hood and speaks very little about it, only sharing small details. She's in the studio to record the songs for her new album and Mike decides to surprise her with a visit but finds her trying her best not to break down while singing and she finally decides to tell Michael about her past. (The song she's singing is basically just 'Teen Idle' by Marina) I just want some comfort with MJ pretty please 🥺🥺🥺
𝑾𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒀𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒔 𝑾𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒀𝒐𝒖𝒕𝒉
Michael Jackson x Reader
Synopsis: You finally open up to Michael about your childhood when he finds you in tears while recording a new song. You realize that you aren't as alone as you thought you were.
Content/Warnings: ANGST CENTRAL, Daddy issues, depression, disordered eating, rough childhood, past trauma, angst, hurt/comfort, PLEASE TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF! This may be a hard read for some people so please please please look after yourself.
W.C. 1.8k
Masterlist
The ride to the studio was quiet. Typically, you liked to listen to music, or just anything on the radio. You usually preferred anything over silence. But tonight was different. The radio was turned off as you held the steering wheel so tight that your knuckles had turned white. Nothing had happened to make you this upset, but you knew what kind of atmosphere you were driving into. Your label wanted a different sound from you. You were great at what you did, your pop songs were smash hits. But the record wanted something relatable, something that showed a softer side to you. So, here you were, on the way to record a song you knew would wreck your night.
You didn't like to talk about your past. For you, anything pre 20 year old you was off limits to everyone, including those you felt closest to, including your sweet boyfriend, Michael. It wasn't that you didn't trust them, it wasn't even the fact that you hated pity. It was simply the fact that you didn't know if you could handle saying things like that outloud. You felt embarrassed, even though you knew that you shouldn't. Admitting that you had a hard childhood felt like an admission of weakness, and you never ever wanted to feel that way again.
But of course, here you were about to sing a song that hit a little too close to home.
The label had found people to write the song after you refused to do it yourself. You had hoped that maybe it would be generic, that you could at least fake the emotion just a little bit. But when they sent you the demo, you just about quit on the spot.
When you arrived at the studio, it was empty per your request. You didn't care that you would have to move the recording equipment into the main room so that you could work by yourself. I just needed to be alone.
You were determined not to let the song get in your head. You wanted to stay strong, even while you were alone. You were doing everything in your power to convince yourself you had moved on from your childhood, that it had no control over you. You had been pushing it down for so long, keeping yourself above the water. But as you sat at the microphone you felt the pain grab onto your legs, pulling you under the waves.
It was a battle, your body fighting your mind to stay in control. But you could feel the memories taking over as you sang. You remembered the fighting, the irate eyes, the commands, the fear, the guilt, the anguish. All of it came rushing back at you the longer you sat in front of the microphone. You could barely get through a single verse without your voice getting caught in your throat, the vision of your fathers vicious eyes and his resounding voice plaguing your mind. You could hear him howling insults at your mother as you stood frozen in the other room. You saw the shadows of objects being hurled against the wall, chairs knocked to the floor. Most of all you could feel the fear that you had felt back then. The fear that had lasted from your first memory to the moment you packed your bags and moved out. It was the fear that had kept you locked in your own head all during school, the fear that maybe there was really something wrong with you and if you spoke everyone would see it. You had floated through your entire life in that town like a ghost. If people weren't looking, they would miss your presence entirely.
You regretted letting that fear take everything from you. You regretted letting him plant that fear in you with something as simple as a word or a glance.
You hadn't felt the feeling in so long, and now here it was again. During what felt like the 100th take, mid chorus you choked out a sob, slamming your hand on the stop button. Your body leaned back in the chair, hands coming up to your face to try and wipe away the tears plunging down your face. But your mind was stuck in that house. Stuck in your room that felt less like a home and more like a solitary chamber. You had spent so much of your life in that room, hiding, instead of being a kid. And there you stood again, now an adult, watching the four walls closing in on you like you had imagined so many times.
A grasp on your shoulder and the sound of your name falling from concerned lips was what pulled you from the room. Startled, you pushed the person away with a sharp cry as your eyes snapped open.
"Hey, hey, it's okay. It's just me."
Even through blurry vision you knew Michael's figure, touch, and voice. You blinked rapidly, tears falling and clearing your sight. Michael knelt in front of you, one hand on your knee and the other holding your hand tightly.
So badly you wanted to wipe away the tears, apologize for the sight, and pretend like nothing had happened. But seeing Michael there, looking at you, not with pity or concern, but with understanding, made your instincts crumble.
"Michael." You cried his name in relief as you sank from the chair into his arms. Michael cradled you in his arms, rocking back and forth ever so gently. He didn't shush you, didn't tell you everything was okay, didn't try to soothe you. He let you cry. He let you dampen the shirt he was wearing, let your fist his jacket and pull him closer, he gave you the comfort to not be okay.
Being with Michael had been life changing. It gave you slight hope that maybe somewhere out there, there was a higher being looking out for you. He wasn't perfect, and neither were you, but that's what made it so refreshing. Neither of you felt the need to overcompensate, to put on a perfect act. You both understood that you were human, that things would be rocky at times, but that what mattered more than anything was that there was a willingness to try, to keep going.
You had kept that promise to try in so many areas. All but one; you had never tried to be open about your past. Until now.
Without even noticing, Michael had moved the both of you to the couch that sat against the back wall of the studio. He held you in his lap, your head against his chest, as he ran his fingers through your hair. You weren't sure when your tears had stopped, or when your body had stopped trembling. Michael knew you well. He knew you were trying to gather your thoughts, knew that you were trying to figure out how you wanted to explain things. He knew you were trying. Which is why he sat there quietly, his hands gently running over your skin in soothing patterns, waiting for you to speak first.
You weren't sure where to start, should you start at the beginning, maybe open with a joke, maybe it was best to not say anything at all. You could feel your brain trying to reel you back in, so your body made the first move. Your mouth moved before you could stop it, "My dad used to call me names. Actually it was more than just names, he just," You took a deep breath, "Words were his weapon of choice. He didn't beat me, I mean of course I got my butt whooped a few times and he would throw things around, but it never got violent. He was just vindictive."
You paused for a moment, mentally opening up the box that all your memories had been stuffed in for so long. Your eyes closed as you spoke. "He used to say things about my mom and I. We got critiqued on anything and everything. Our posture, voices, bodies, how we spoke, when we spoke, anything. He didn't like it when I cried or honestly when I had anything except a smile on my face. I remember him saying that the stray cats outside were more obedient than I was and that maybe I was the one that deserved to end up in a cage or starving on the side of the road. He told me that there was something wrong with me, that I was lucky he didn't toss me on someone's doorstep, that I was lucky to even have a family. And I believed him. One time, in the 4th grade, he asked one of the parents of this boy in my class if they were willing to trade kids. They saw it as a joke, but I knew he was being serious, I knew that he was making a statement, that I was always replaceable. I missed out on everything because I was so scared of proving him right. I went through all of my education with no friends, no fun memories, just one big looming fear that if I tried to do anything everyone would see what he saw. He used to get in fights with my mom about anything. Dinner wasn't ready at exactly 5:30 sharp, he'd flip out, and the next day we would be shopping for another dining room chair. One time he said I chewed too loud and kept smashing things until it was completely silent, so I just stopped eating. I'd sit around at dinner, just silent, and late at night I was always too scared to sneak into the kitchen to eat anything. School was the only place that I felt safe at, and it was because I was completely invisible. And then my mom left. And it was just me and him in the house. He blamed me, and decided I was a waste of breath. We didn't speak to each other from halfway through my junior year until I left town after my graduation. It's why I hate the quiet. He's why I feel so embarrassed about everything. Because I know he was wrong, even then I knew, but I still let him dictate my life. I wasted years of my life silent and afraid. And now here I am, the opposite of what I was, and I hate looking back on that girl. Because deep down, I know that she never got the ending she deserved."
Michael didn't wipe the tears away, he let them take their course. Instead, he cupped your face gently, and looked deep into your eyes. "I think she just did." He spoke softly.
You looked up at him. He was right. She could go now, the girl that you had kept captive deep in your heart, denying her existence, was out in the open. She was real, and she could finally rest knowing that at least someone else out there knew about her. She wasn't the ghost anymore.
You managed a small smile, nuzzling into his hand slightly. "Thank you, Michael."
"You don't need to thank me. I'm proud of you. I'm proud of you for letting me in, for letting me see what you went through. You're not alone in any of this, and you won't ever have to feel like that ever again. Not around me, and I won't let anyone make you feel that way. Especially not some old man." He poked your sides.
A laugh slipped from your lips as you twisted in his arms, "He was pretty old."
"Do you think it would make national headlines if I beat him up?" He asked genuinely.
You laughed again, "Oh I can see it now, Michael Jackson Picks Fight With Old Man and Loses!"
He gave you an exaggerated hurt expression, "I would not lose! I can fight real good! I've got a black belt in martial arts!" He defended himself, now squeezing at your sides.
You squirmed, trying to avoid his prodding fingers, "Yeah an honorary black belt!" You giggled.
His hands moved around you quickly, jabbing and poking you in various places before you could stop him, "Y'know I used to always say float like a butterfly sting like a bee." He stood up and got in a fighting position, pretending an opponent was in front of him. "Y'see I'd hit em with a quick Boom!" he jabbed quickly then spun on his heel, "then a real quick quick!" He kicked his leg straight up, spun around again, "Then I'd finish it off with a hit straight to the face!"
You sat back on the couch watching in absolute glee. "I'm not sure it'd be a good look if you beat up a super old man."
He shrugged and dropped beside you on the couch, "Well, it's the thought that counts, right?" He smiled at you.
"Correct, and thank you for thinking of beating up my shitty dad on my behalf, how noble of you." Your arms wrapped around his neck as your face inched closer to his.
He pressed a kiss to your nose, "Anytime, m'lady. And by the way, song sounds great. I think you should leave in the voice cracks, they sound authentic."
"That's cause they are authentic, Michael." You rolled your eyes.
"Well, you and I know that, but the label will think that you're just suuuuper good at actin out a song." His hand floated to your hip, rubbing small circles over your jeans.
"Are you suggesting I use my trauma for sales?" You laughed.
He nodded, answering deadpan, "Yeah, I am."
"You're unbelievable" You pushed him away slightly.
He quickly pulled you back into him, "But you love me."
"Yeah, I do. And you love me."
He smiled and brushed the hair out of your face, "More than anything." He spoke softly as he closed the small gap between you.
Sinopse : Luffy losing his virginity to you. Unfortunately he doesn’t last very long but you don’t care, right?
visuals.
Warnings : smut, virginity loss (virgin Luffy), overstimulation(m), creampie, premature ejaculation, multiple orgasms(m), female reader (F/M), established relationship, gentle sex turning rougher, dacryphylia, Luffy is whiny, riding, short one shot.
Ever since your relationship with Luffy began to develop, you knew you had to take things slowly. Luffy had never been romantically involved with anyone before, and being his first came with the responsibility of setting the right standards.
The most important standard was sex. Luffy was incredibly eager to take things further with you. He would often make small, casual comments about being ready for the next step, flashing that carefree smile of his as if the thought alone wasn’t enough to make your heart race with nervous excitement — far more than when you had lost your own virginity.
So when you finally decided the time was right for the two of you to have sex, Luffy was overjoyed.
Now, you were on top of him, his cock buried deep inside you.
“D-Don’t move yet… Please…” he muttered, his voice cracking as he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to adjust to the overwhelming new pleasure. Luffy’s hands gripped your hips firmly, holding you completely still while he familiarized himself with the sensation.
Your boyfriend had always been the prettiest person in your eyes, no matter the moment, but you could swear he had never looked more beautiful than right now. His cheeks were flushed a deep red, sweat making his dark hair stick to his forehead. His lips were parted slightly, ragged breaths escaping between them. The marks and hickeys you had left on his neck stood out beautifully against his skin — your marks.
You knew he had started getting used to the feeling when his grip on your hips began to weaken. Taking that as your sign, you slowly dragged your hips upward, then sank back down onto him in one smooth motion.
His hands immediately tightened on your hips again as a needy whine slipped from his lips. You couldn’t help but chuckle softly at the sight. You had never seen your confident captain look so vulnerable before.
Leaning down, you captured his lips in a soothing kiss. “You okay?” you asked sweetly, though a wicked little smile played on your face as you pulled back just enough to see his expression.
He nodded, that familiar boyish grin tugging at his lips despite everything. “M’gonna start moving now, okay?” you whispered.
He closed his eyes and nodded again.
You lifted your weight and began rolling your hips slowly at first, sliding up and down his length with careful, deliberate movements. It was difficult to keep the slow pace when you felt so desperately horny, but you tried. Still, the ache between your legs soon won out, and you gradually sped up.
“Oh— Fuck!” you moaned, planting your hands firmly on his chest for balance. Your gummy walls clenched tightly around his aching cock as Luffy whimpered beneath you from the increased pace.
“Stop— Ngh… I think I’m gonna cum soon if you keep up…” he cried out, his voice strained. He tried to steady your hips again, but his strength faltered.
“You want me to slow down?” you asked gently, though the mocking edge in your tone was unmistakable.
Instead of slowing, you let out a soft giggle and moved even faster, riding him with more urgency. “No… You’re— Ngh! You’re not slowing down…” he whined, squirming helplessly underneath you.
“I am!” you lied playfully, feeling his fingers dig almost painfully into your hips as you chased your own high. “Please… gonna cum…” His voice cracked beautifully, his hips starting to buck up instinctively to meet your rhythm.
Your cunt fluttered around him, his raw desperation only turning you on more. He moaned pathetically loud, twitching hard inside you one last time before thick spurts of cum flooded your pussy.
That didn’t stop you.
It was your duty to teach your clueless boyfriend about sex, after all — and he needed to learn that the girl had to finish too.
You kept riding him through his orgasm, your movements relentless. His voice climbed higher in pitch as the overstimulation hit him. “No— can’t—” he mumbled, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes.
“I’m sure you can, Captain,” you replied breathlessly, tilting your head back in pleasure as you chased your own release. “You’re doing so good for me… Fuck—”
The heat in your stomach built rapidly. Watching your beautiful boyfriend cry out from the overwhelming pleasure only pushed you closer to the edge.
“Haah! ‘M cumming—!”
With a sudden, desperate move, Luffy pulled you down into a tight hug, burying himself as deep as possible while he spilled inside you once more. At the same moment, your own orgasm crashed over you, your walls pulsing around him as you came together.
You both collapsed back onto the bed, breathless. Luffy’s face was completely flushed, a few pretty tears still slipping down his cheeks. “You were so good, Captain,” you whispered tenderly, kissing him gently while one hand cupped his cheek.
He just smiled softly, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck, clearly exhausted but content.
You could bet this had been a very memorable first time.
Hey guys! First of all, sorry for any grammatical errors and the short fic, english isn’t my first language and i’m a flawed human S/2. Second of all, divider credits to @uzmacchiato !!
Lowkey thinking about writing a soccer! luffy x reader in honor of mexico winning but i dont know SHIT about soccer😭😭
But just imagine him being in the world cup too and winning then he runs up to you like OUUUUUUU🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤 someone get their pen and paper rn this is so fucking good.
If anyone decides to write it themselves, PLEASE tag me. Idc about credits I just love luffy and need more luffy x reader content
the morning after didn’t feel like anything had officially changed, and that was the problem. because everything had.
you woke up too early again and stayed in bed too long, staring at your ceiling.
no new messages, no missed calls, nothing that confirmed yesterday had actually happened outside of your own memory. you turned onto your side with a quiet sigh, but your mind kept replaying it anyway.
his voice when he laughed, the way he paused like he was actually thinking before he spoke, the quiet at the end — when neither of you hung up first.
you pulled your blanket over your face. “this is insane,” you muttered, right before falling back asleep.
· · ─ ·ʚ📍𝐒𝐘𝐃𝐍𝐄𝐘, 𝐀𝐔𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐀 𝟏:𝟒𝟐𝐀𝐌 ɞ· ─ · ·
across the world, at the same time, michael was still awake even when the sun set hours ago. he’d barely slept. not because anything was wrong.
that was the irritating part, nothing was wrong. he just couldn’t stop thinking about the call as well as just you.
he sat on the edge of the bed for a while, phone in hand, thumb hovering over your contact name like it might suddenly require more courage than it did yesterday.
it didn’t make sense to him.
he’d talked to people all day earlier — papparazzi, crew, bandmates, strangers who said too much or too little. none of that stayed with him.
only your voice did.
he locked his phone and put it down. “…it’s not that serious,” he said quietly to himself. it didn’t help.
· · ─ ·ʚ📍𝐁𝐄𝐋 𝐀𝐈𝐑, 𝐂𝐀 𝟏:𝟑𝟎 𝐏𝐌 ɞ· ─ · ·
all day, you've tried to be normal about it.
you really did.
you got up at 10:30AM, showered, ate breakfast, answered a text from aaron with a response that was probably too calm to be convincing.
now, you were laying in your backyard hammock after a few episodes of your favorite show. after your mood yesterday, jennifer cleared your schedule for the day.
the hammock was tied between two thick trees at the far end of the yard, tucked just enough behind the house that the world outside felt like it didn’t exist unless you let it. tall hedges lined the fence, trimmed neatly but grown dense enough to block out any hint of the street beyond.
from where you were, you could see the corner of the pool glinting faintly in the sunlight, water shifting in small, lazy ripples whenever the breeze touched it. somewhere near the patio, a fountain ran quietly, steady, unbothered, almost hypnotic. the kind of sound that filled space without demanding anything from you.
you had on a light pink halter top with floral embroidery, the fabric catching a little warmth from the sun whenever you shifted, and a pair of light wash capris that felt soft against your skin. your phone rested beside you, your eyes closed.
you lasted about an hour.
your phone sat beside you the entire time. you didn’t check it not once. you were very proud of yourself for that.
which is why it felt especially unfair when it finally rang.
not a text, not a notification, a call.
you turned your head, opening your eyes to look down. the only thing you saw was his name.
michael.
your entire body reacted before your brain did. you answered too quickly.
“hello?” you said, like you hadn’t just stared at the screen for a full second too long.
“hey,” just that. his voice.
closer than it had been yesterday. you were starting to think he was alone this time.
you let your head sink back against the hammock pillow, the fabric shifting slightly under your weight as it swayed with you. “hey,” you repeated. it was like both of you were trying to remember how this worked.
“are you busy?” he asked. you looked around. your eyes drifted up through the branches above you, sunlight breaking through in scattered patches of gold.
“not really,” you said. “i’m just in my backyard.”
“good, is it nice out?” he replied, immediate, and something about how immediate that was made your chest tighten a little. there was a soft sound on his end — movement, maybe him leaning back in a chair.
“yes, very. i pretty much just took a nap out here.” you both shared a laugh.
“that’s good.. i wasn’t sure if i should call,” he admitted. you blinked. “why?”
he then hesitated. “because yesterday felt… different,” he said finally, causing you to swallow. because it had.
“yeah,” you said quietly, then he let out a small breath that almost sounded like a laugh.
“i’ve been thinking about it all morning,” he added.
your heart skipped a beat. “me too.. i was hoping you’d actually call back,” you confessed.
“i didn’t want it to just end there, like it was just… a one-time thing,” he replied. your grip tightened slightly on your phone, because you hadn’t wanted that either.
“it didn’t feel like that,” you said, “i really enjoyed talking to you yesterday.”
his voice softened. “good, i’m glad because i did as well.” you could almost hear the smile in his voice.
“i thought about texting first,” he said.
“and?” you furrowed your brows.
“didn’t feel like enough.”
that did something to you. you closed your eyes for a second. on the other end, you could hear faint movement — paper shifting, maybe him leaning forward in his seat.
“we’re flying in atlanta today.”
“already?” you added.
“yeah.. but this is the first time i’ve actually stopped for a second. y’know, having to leave and all.”
“because of me?” you asked, half-joking, half-not. there was a small exhale on his end. “yeah,” he admitted, clearly no hesitation this time. it made your stomach flip in a way you didn’t know how to explain. you didn’t answer immediately. you could hear him breathe though, like he was thinking about how honest he actually wanted to be.
“like…” he started, then stopped.
“like i’m not doing it because i have time,” he said finally. “i’m doing it because i want to.”
you swallowed. “stop, you’re going to make me feel special,” you giggled, trying again to joke your way out of it.
“you are special,” he said immediately, causing you to blush.
“michael,” you said, before you could stop yourself.
“yeah?” his voice softened at your tone. “you can’t just say things like that,” you said lightly, but it didn’t quite hide how your voice changed at the end.
“like what?” he asked.
“like… that,” you said. “like it’s normal.”
“it is normal,” he said.
you frowned. “no it’s not.”
“to me it is,” he replied, immediately, like he didn’t need time to think about it. you shifted in the hammock, suddenly very aware of the way the fabric moved with you, of how quiet the yard really was. the fountain kept running somewhere behind you, steady and unbothered, like it wasn’t witnessing anything important at all.
“you don’t even know me like that,” you said, softer now.
“not yet,” he said.
“you’re dangerous,” you muttered, trying to recover a bit of control in your voice.
he let out a quiet laugh. “how?” he asked.
“you make it sound like you mean it.”
“i do.”
“i should probably let you go soon,” you said after a while, quieter this time.
he didn’t respond right away, because you both already knew what came next.
“yeah,” he said finally. “you probably should.”
“but i don’t really want to,” he added.
“me neither,” you admitted, voice soft.
then he exhaled lightly. “okay,” he said.
“call me when you land?” you asked before you could overthink it. “yeah,” he said, immediately. “i will.”
“okay,” you repeated.
“talk to you later.”
you smiled, eyes still on the trees above you. “later,” you said.
and this time, when the line finally clicked off, it didn’t feel like the conversation ended. just paused.
· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·
you stayed in the hammock a little longer than you meant to.
not because you were waiting for anything, just because moving felt like admitting it was over.
eventually, you pushed yourself up, the fabric shifting under your weight as it let you go with a slow creak. your phone was still warm in your hand when you stood, sunlight catching the screen and flashing briefly before it dimmed.
you slipped your phone into your pocket and walked toward the house slowly, barefoot steps quiet against the stone path.
the back door was already unlocked. someone — staff, probably — had left it open for you. you paused with your hand on the handle for half a second, then went inside.
the air conditioning hit you immediately, cool and blasting, pulling you out of the warmth of the yard like a reset you didn’t fully need yet. the house was quiet in the way expensive spaces often were when no one was trying to fill them.
clean floors, natural lighting pouring through the windows. everything exactly where it was supposed to be.
you walked past the kitchen without stopping, even though your brain briefly considered pretending you needed water.
you didn’t.
you just needed distance from your own thoughts.
upstairs, your room was exactly how you left it. blanket slightly rumpled, curtains half-drawn, phone charger still plugged in like you’d been planning to return sooner than you actually did.
you sat on the edge of your bed, leaning back on it.
“get it together,” you muttered, but there was no real force behind it. the problem wasn’t that you were spiraling.
it was that you weren’t sure you wanted to stop.
· · ─ ·ʚ📍𝐒𝐘𝐃𝐍𝐄𝐘, 𝐀𝐔𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐀 𝟔:𝟓𝟐𝐀𝐌 ɞ· ─ · ·
michael didn’t move right away after the call ended either. he stayed sitting in the dressing room chair, phone still in his hand, staring at the blank screen like it might restart the conversation if he gave it enough time.
frank dileo knocked once before opening the door slightly, poking his head in.
“we’ve got to head out in ten,” his said. michael nodded automatically.
“yeah, okay.”
but he didn’t stand immediately. instead, he set his phone down carefully on the table. then picked it back up.
with an exhale, he was annoyed at himself more than anything else.
“you’re being weird,” he muttered under his breath.
he finally stood, grabbing his jacket off the back of the chair, rolling his shoulders once like he could physically reset whatever was happening inside his head.
in the hallway, everything was movement.
crew walking with purpose, cases being rolled, someone laughing too loudly like they weren’t thinking about anything at all. he fell into it easily. that was the part he was good at.
he said hello when people greeted him, nodded when someone gave him a time update, let conversations pass over him without fully anchoring to any of them.
but every few minutes, without fail, his hand drifted toward his pocket.
where his phone was. where your name was. instead, he just kept walking.
when he got outside where the car was, the air outside hit differently.
fans were already gathered behind barriers at a distance, voices rising when they noticed him. he smiled, waved. did what he was supposed to do.
outside the window, the city blurred past in pieces. buildings, traffic, movement.
eventually, he leaned his head back against the seat and let his eyes fall shut for a second.
not sleep, just an escape. every time he tried to think about anything else, his brain circled right back to you.
your voice, the way you laughed when you tried to cover how flustered you were, the pause at the end of the call that neither of you had filled.
like neither of you wanted to be the first to step away. his jaw tightened slightly at the memory.
“this is ridiculous,” he muttered under his breath. “what is?” frank asked from the front.
he blinked his eyes open.
“nothing,” he said immediately, straightend his body.
· · ─ ·ʚ📍𝐁𝐄𝐋 𝐀𝐈𝐑, 𝐂𝐀 𝟐:𝟒𝟔𝐏𝐌 ɞ· ─ · ·
you were still laying on your bed when your phone buzzed again.
michael.
this time, it wasn’t a call. just a message.. that you opened immediately.
michael:
you good?
you stared at it for a second longer than necessary. it was such a simple question. so normal, so unassuming, and somehow that made it worse.
you sat up, phone resting on your thighs before you replied.
you:
yeah. just went inside.
you paused.
you?
you watched the typing bubble appear almost immediately. disappear. then come back again.
michael:
tired. heading to the airport.
glad i called.
your breath caught slightly at that. you typed slower this time.
you:
me too.
you hesitated, cursor blinking.
call me later if you can. if you’re too tired, don’t.
you almost didn’t send it.
but you did anyway.
in the car, michael’s phone lit up again. he didn’t even pretend he wasn’t waiting this time. he opened it immediately.
his thumb hovered over the screen for a second too long. then he typed back:
michael:
yeah. i will.
he locked his phone after.
this time, he didn’t put it away. because he already knew — tired or not, he was going to call.
· · ─ ·ʚ 𝟔:𝟒𝟔𝐏𝐌 ɞ· ─ · ·
the problem with waiting was that it made everything else feel fake.
you tried to distract yourself. you really did.
you websurfed on your iMac without reading anything, you started a show and didn’t hear a single line of dialogue, tried starting a book you’ve been too busy to start for the longest and it was like reading gibberish, you even opened messages from your friend and forgot to reply halfway through typing.
your phone stayed on the beside you the entire time, silent.
you kept telling yourself not to check it. just time moved slowly in that frustrating, uneven way where every minute felt longer than it should’ve. and then—
your phone rang. you didn’t even look first this time.
you already knew.
“hello?” you said.
“hey.”
just like that, same as before. closer than text. real in a way nothing else today had been. you exhaled without realizing you were holding your breath. that got a quiet laugh out of him.
“same,” he admitted. did he hear it?
“you sound like you made it through your day,” you said lightly.
“barely,” he replied.
you smiled into the pillow without meaning to. “dramatic.”
“honest,” he corrected.
“i meant what i said,” he added after a moment.
your fingers curled slightly against your blanket. “about calling?” you asked, even though you already knew.
“yeah.”
your heart did that thing again.
that small, annoying shift you were starting to recognize too well.
“i figured,” you said softly.
you turned onto your side, phone pressed closer to your ear now, like distance mattered less if you pretended it didn’t exist.
“you could’ve waited until tomorrow,” you said.
“i could’ve,” he agreed.
“didn’t want to.”
you stared at your wall, blinking slowly. “you’re gonna make this a habit,” you said, trying to keep your tone light again. he hummed softly.
“maybe.”
and that should’ve scared you more than it did.
instead, you just closed your eyes.
“i’ve gotta go in a bit, just wanted to hear your voice,” he said eventually. you blushed
“i’ll call you after,” he said. not a question, not uncertain anymore. you let out a quiet breath.
“okay,” you said.
“don’t disappear again.” there was a small silence on his end.
“i won’t.” and this time, neither of you hesitated when the call ended.
ᝰ a/n: hi guys.. i'll try my best to post chapt. 5 tmr. i'm sure we all know michael's death anniversary is tmr & i'm gonna go see 'michael' for the 3rd time in theaters with my friend. i hope all of you guys mentally prepared yourself for all the edits about him tmr!! if i don't post chapt. 5 tmr, i'll post a few oneshots for you guys. please remember, it's okay to cry!! i know i will. 🥲
also this really isn't proofread.. sorry if theres mistakes or typos.
I think because of what day it is tomorrow, we should all collectively agree NOT to post any mj angst fics…please guys just for that one day, i need to stay sane and not cry the whole day💔
summary: the paparazzi are mean to michael. reader tells them off. that’s it. that’s the plot.
word count: 1078
author’s note: a quickie in response to this request. (was this a request or just a thought? idk but i love you anon)
i wrote this so fast it was insane so if it flops i’m gonna delete it and pretend it never happened, okay? just play along.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
The red carpet was buzzing with energy. All around you, people milled about - cameras flashing, paparazzi shouting, fans pressing against the velvet ropes, desperate to get a glance at their favorite celebrity.
The noise all faded into the background as you watched the man ahead of you in line.
Michael Jackson.
Despite your own success, you were admittedly a little starstruck when you found yourself standing next to him.
Scratch that. You were a lot starstruck.
You’d tried to play it cool. You’d tried not to say anything at all, but the line for pictures was creeping forward at a snail’s pace, forcing everyone else to make small talk, and you’d blurted out a “hi” before you could stop yourself.
He’d smiled at you, and you forgot the English language for a second. “Hi.”
“You’re Michael Jackson, right?” You’d asked like an idiot.
That had made him laugh. Not out loud—he was too kind for that—but a single, quiet chuckle under his breath.
“Never heard of him.”
Your face had gone the exact same color as the carpet. You should have shut up then, but you’d never been good at knowing when to quit. Before you knew it, you were rambling on about what a big fan you were and how much of an inspiration his music had been to you.
He’d nodded along, polite and gracious even though he’d heard it all before. Then the line had moved forward, and that was it.
Flash forward to now. Now, you were watching him pose for photos, his smile just as dazzling—but maybe not as genuine?—as it had been with you.
The paparazzi were yelling at him louder than anyone else who had gone through the line. It started with the same old chorus of “Look over here!” and “Give us a smile!” but that had only lasted for about ten seconds before the comments turned nasty.
You couldn’t believe the way they were talking to him.
“Michael, is it true that you wanted to make yourself white?”
“What number nose job are you on?”
“Tell us, who is the real father of your kids?”
You saw it then—the dip in his smile, the barely perceptible twitch of his jaw. That was the question that really got to him.
“Shut the fuck up.”
The words came out of your mouth so unexpectedly that for a moment you thought, Who said that?
Then everyone was staring at you, and you realized, Oh. It was you.
But you didn’t back down.
“You want to ask him a question? Why don’t you ask him about having the number one selling album of all time?”
A camera flashed in your face, and the paparazzo who had asked about Michael’s kids started to cut you off, but you gave him a glare that could have frozen hell over. I said shut the fuck up.
“Ask him how it feels to hold the world record for the most Grammys in a single night. Or the most hit songs in a year. That’s what we should be talking about. Not his fucking nose.”
Flash. Flash. Flash. You were going to be all over the tabloids tomorrow morning.
“If you really want to get personal—That’s what you want, right? To get personal?—ask him about being the most philanthropic celebrity in the world. That’s not hyperbole. Look it up in the Guinness Book, asshole.”
You took a deep breath, composing yourself. When you spoke again, your voice was calmer, but no less lethal.
“And if none of that is newsworthy enough for you, then I suggest you pack it up and go home. Because if I hear you disrespect that man one more time, I will personally make sure that you never set foot on a carpet again.”
For a moment, the flashing stopped. You glanced at Michael and saw that he was staring at you slack-jawed, but you couldn’t make out his expression behind his sunglasses. Oh, God. He was going to think you were certifiably insane.
The room was quiet for less than half a second before it erupted into noise—screams of “You go girl!” and “Tell ‘em!” mingling with utter disbelief that you’d just spoken to someone like that in public.
You huffed and stomped across the carpet without pausing for a picture—they’d taken enough of those already—not stopping until you’d reached a quiet corner away from all the noise.
You'd only been alone for a few minutes when you felt a presence behind you, large and imposing despite its average height.
“That was somethin’ else.”
You turned and saw Michael standing there, chewing lazily on a piece of gum and looking at you with an amused gleam in his eyes.
“Oh my God.” You laughed, covering your face with your hands. You could feel your cheeks burning beneath your palms. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”
“It was nice. I liked it.” Michael shrugged off your apology. “Nobody’s ever stood up for me like that before.”
“Well, they should have.” You were getting shy, but the weight of his stare was trapping you in place, and there was nowhere else to look but directly at him.
“Hm. You sure know an awful lot about me.”
It wasn’t a question or an accusation, just an observation, but your face grew even hotter.
“I told you I was a fan. And that’s all public knowledge.” You crossed your arms defensively across your chest, and he laughed.
“I’m not sayin’ that’s a bad thing. I’m just… sayin’.”
“Well… I’m sorry if I crossed a line. I just couldn’t stand to hear them talking to you like that.”
“I’m used to it. But what you just did… I could get used to that too.”
You didn’t have a chance to consider what the hell that was supposed to mean before one of his security people whispered something in his ear, and Michael nodded.
“I’m gonna be in trouble if I don’t get on out there. Maybe I’ll see you around?”
“Yeah, maybe. I’ll bring my boxing gloves to the next carpet just in case you need me to fight somebody for you.”
He laughed again, hearty and warm, and caught you off guard by pulling you in for a hug. “Thank you. I mean it.”
His whisper in your ear sent a tingle down your spine.
You decided right then that you’d like to fight the paparazzi more often.
