hi hi hi!! i absolutely love your writing <33 can i request dean x angel reader? she’s very soft and sweet but she saves him and sammy’s ass when cas can’t make it to help 😼 feel free to ignore, love your stuff regardless 🫶🏼
omg hiii !!! absolutely twin, hope u like it <3
ANGEL OF MINE
wordcount: 2488
summary: An angel with a heart too big for their own good keeps saving Dean and Sam's lives, apologizing for it every time. Dean can handle demons, witches, and monsters– but confessing his feelings to the sweetest angel he's ever met? That might be the thing that finally ends him.
warnings: fluff, minor injuries, supernatural themes (demons, witches, angels, blood), Dean being hopelessly in love but also hopeless in every other aspect, gn!reader (i think) –think that’s all !!!
The warehouse smelled like rust and sulfur. Dean's head rang as he slammed into a concrete wall, his knife sliding somewhere across the floor too far to reach. "Dean" Sam shouted from his spot on the ground– too hurt to move, too worried not to say anything.
A demon's hand closed around the eldest Winchester's throat before he could recover from the crash, black ink swirled inside its eyes as he grinned. "No guardian angel this time" The hunter’s chest tightened because he was right– Cas hadn't answered a single prayer in the last three days. He was probably stuck dealing with another shitload of drama God knows where. The demon squeezed hard enough that dark spots flooded Dean's vision.
Then warmth flooded the room– not heat, not power. Warmth, the kind that wraps around like the sun on your face in a mid-july night. Like a blanket waiting for you after a long winter day… The demon froze in its tracks, the pressure around the blonde’s throat vanished and he collapsed to his knees, coughing. "Dean?" Soft hands settled on his shoulders, he looked up– you. Standing in front of him, your brows furrowed with concern, hair slightly messed up, there was blood on your sleeve. "Are you hurt?" You asked quietly.
Dean stared, the demon behind you looked terrified. "Sweetheart…" He croaked, throat still raspy from the previous choking. "Little busy admiring the miracle right now"
You blinked, suddenly remembering the threat still very much present right behind y’all. "Oh" The demon lunged– without even standing up, you looked back over your shoulder, lifting a hand. White light spread across the warehouse, bright and sharp. The scream lasted less than a second before there was nothing left. Silence settled over the room and your attention immediately shifted back to the man in front of you. "You're bleeding"
Dean looked down– his shirt was soaked with blood from a nasty gash across his side, already mixing up with the dirt and grime that covered his clothes. "Huh"
"Huh?" You repeated, head tilting with confused disbelief. If there was one thing angels had in common, apparently it was that puppy-like head tilt whenever y’all were trying to understand something.
"Yeah, that's usually my reaction"
Sam walked over, limping slightly. "Good to see you too" He said, letting out a tired, soft chuckle at your overbearing worry for his older brother.
You smiled brightly– the kind of smile that always made Dean's stomach do stupid things. "I'm sorry I was late" The Winchesters exchanged a look. ‘Late’. You had arrived in time to vaporize a demon and quite literally save both their lives and somehow you were still apologizing.
Back at the motel, Dean sat shirtless on one of the beds while you patched him up. (Sam had conveniently disappeared to get food) Though the blonde suspected his brother knew exactly what he was doing. The traitor. You sat beside him with a first-aid kit in your lap, sure you could heal him with a snap of your fingers but for some reason the hunter insisted on doing it the old fashioned way. Despite his stubbornness, your fingers still glowed faintly as they hovered over the wound– not quite healing him, but easing his pain.
Dean sighed half in relief and half in amusement. "That's cheating"
You glanced up from what you were doing, soft eyes meeting his sharp green ones. "What is?"
He huffs, gesturing vaguely at your hands. "The whole… being an angel thing"
A small laugh escaped you– Dean loved making you laugh. The sound was rare, not because you weren't happy, but because you always seemed surprised that anything could be funny– like every joke was a wonderful gift you got to experience. "You should still rest" You hum softly.
"Y’sound like Sammy"
"That's not necessarily a bad thing"
Dean gasped dramatically, ever the extra man he was. "Since when are you on his side?"
You rolled your eyes and he nearly melted– he'd known you for almost two years. Two years of hunts, two years of movie nights, two years of watching you quietly help strangers whenever you thought no one else was looking. For God’s sake you carried injured animals off roads, you left money for struggling waitresses, you remembered every birthday, every favorite snack, every tiny detail. And somehow you still didn't understand why Dean stared at you like an awestruck idiot. "Why are you looking at me like that?" You asked.
Speak of the angel. The hunter smirked to himself, softer than his usual teasing, smug smiles he always carries. "Busted"
You frowned, head tilting once more. "I don't know what that means"
"Means you caught me"
"Oh"
You returned your attention to his bandages and Dean couldn't stop smiling. Cute– ridiculously cute, dangerously cute actually. "Y’know– " He said, " –most people at least buy me dinner before they start taking my clothes off"
Your hands froze– Dean regretted nothing. A blush spread across your cheeks, an actual blush. From an angel. Dean Winchester had just made a literal angel of the Lord blush. "I—"
"You walked right into that one, sweetheart" He hummed proudly.
The next hunt should have been simple. Should have– which meant it absolutely wasn't. Dean was halfway through investigating an abandoned church when everything went sideways. (Why do these two idiotic brothers always split up in the worst possible situations?) The sigils on the floor activated, power surged through the room and suddenly he couldn't move.
"Dean" You appeared beside him instantly, having sensed his distress from miles away and quickly running to him.
The witch responsible smiled, stepping into the church. "Perfect" Dean's stomach dropped (God he fucking hated witches) the trap wasn't for him– it was for you. Chains carved with glowing enochian letters shot from the floor and wrapped around your wrists. You cried out at the grip, the metal squeezing your skin– the sound hit Dean like a knife to the chest. Never in all the time he’s known you had he ever heard you scream like that.
The woman laughed, dismissive and sharp. "You angels are so easy… Always rushing to save somebody, loyal little puppies you are"
Dean fought against the paralysis spell but nothing happened, his feet still firmly glued to the ground.. You struggled against the chains, the usual glow of your skin flickering down. "Hey" The hunter shouted in a desperate attempt to shift the witch’s attention from you onto him– ever the savior complex.
The witch ignored him, your knees hit the floor– fear twisted ugly inside Dean's chest. Not for himself (never for himself) for you. Because despite all the power angels had– you never fought like angels were supposed to. You didn't enjoy violence, didn't enjoy hurting people. You always held back. Always chose mercy. "Please" You said softly, trying to get her to reason and not force yourself into killing.
She just sneered. "No, dear. I don’t think I will stop just yet– I have big plans for your human pet" The witch’s steps echoed inside the abandoned building as she approached y’all. Dean saw the exact moment something changed– you looked at him, really looked at him. At the blood on his clothes, at the tension in his frame, at the panic in his eyes… Your whole demeanor flipped, your usual softness sharpening into protectiveness. Not angry, determined. The room shook, enough to make the witch's smile disappear, confusion flooding her face. Dean had only seen your true grace a handful of times– each occasion had been utterly unforgettable. Golden light burst from beneath your skin, the shadows of your wings stretching across the room behind you, the chains that held you shattered and fell, every window exploded in shards of glass, the building’s foundation groaned… The hunter could feel power vibrating through the air– ancient, terrifying, beautiful. For one breathless second, you looked like every single story humanity had ever told about angels.
Then it was over– the witch was on the ground, the light vanished and you swayed on your feet. Dean lunged forward just in time to catch you, your body felt frighteningly cold in his grasp. "Hey, hey, hey" His hand carefully taps your cheek to try and keep you awake.
You blinked slowly. "Dean?"
"Yeah, sweetheart m’ right here" You looked exhausted, drained of your usual light. "Gave quite the show"
A weak smile tugged at your lips. God, you were half out of it and still you managed to smile at him. "Sorry"
"Stop apologizing for saving my life"
By the time he drove y’all back to the motel– you were barely staying awake, your head resting against the Impala’s window and eyes fluttering open and closed every couple seconds. Using that much grace had drained everything out of you. The moment y’all stepped into the room, Dean sat beside you on the bed while Sam grabbed supplies. (What could they even use to heal a burned out angel?) Your head rested against his shoulder– for once, you weren't arguing or stubbornly insisting you were fine. You just looked tired and he hated it.
"You scared me" The words slipped out before he could stop them, soft in a way that was rare in a man like him, let alone in a Winchester.
You lifted your head, looking up at him. "What?"
"Scared me" He repeats, shifting to get a better look at your face from where it rested against his shoulder.
Your expression softened. "Oh"
"Yeah, oh" His hand gently reaches up to brush the side of your head, gently caressing your messed up hair.
Silence stretched between you. "You scare me too sometimes"
Dean laughed, a breathy, deep rumble from his chest. "What?"
"When you're reckless"
"Excuse me?" He scoffs, feigning offense despite the fond smile tugging at his lips.
"You jump in front of monsters"
"Occupational hazard"
"You pick fights with things much stronger than you" The hunter opened his mouth– closed it, opened it again. Okay, you had a point. Fair enough. "I worry about you"
The confession was so quiet he almost missed it, his chest tightened at the honesty behind your words. "You worry about me?"
"A lot"
Dean smiled. "Y’know, most people would call that caring"
Looking down at your hands, you murmured softly. "I know"
Something shifted– small, fragile, important.
The blonde reached over and wrapped his arm around you, pulling you even closer into his side as if you weren’t quite literally glued into him. "Good"
You looked back up at him and Dean forgot how breathing worked. (Again) Apparently it was becoming a recurring issue whenever he was around you. "Dean?"
"Yeah?"
Your voice was barely above a whisper, genuine and soft. "Why do you always flirt with me?" It wasn’t supposed to be awkward or pressing him– you just didn’t know any better, social cues weren’t exactly an angel of the Lord’s forte per se.
Dean nearly choked– across the room, Sam immediately looked up from what he was doing, quickly extracting himself from the situation. "Nope"
"Sam–"
"Leaving"
"Sam"
"Good luck" The door slammed shut behind him. That traitor.
The blonde rubbed a hand over his face, stubble scratching against his skin. "You really wanna do this now?"
"Did I ask something wrong?"
He lets out a breath, soft chuckle/breath, nervous and fond all at once. "No, sweetheart, ‘course not" You waited patiently for him to continue talking. Dean hated how impossible it was to lie when you looked at him like that– because you actually wanted the answer. Not a joke, not an excuse, but the actual truth. So he gave it to you. "S’cause I like you" He decided to power through before he could chicken out. "Actually, scratch that. I really like you– like hopelessly in love, chick-flick kind of feelings"
You stared, eyes wide with awe and confusion, lips softly parted in a quiet breath. Then: "Oh"
Dean groaned. "That's not exactly the reaction a guy hopes for after opening up like this, sweetheart" There he goes, leaning back into humor and jokes as a defense mechanism– very on brand for him.
"No, I–" You looked flustered, he could (and will) treasure the sight forever. "I just didn't know"
"Sweetheart, I've been flirting with you for two years"
"I thought you were being nice…"
Dean covered his face with his free hand, barely hiding the embarrassed smile on his stupidly handsome face. "Un-fucking-believable"
A laugh escaped you– a real one, bright and warm. "But you were nice"
"I was trying to date you" He huffs softly, glancing down at your face, still gently pressed against his shoulder.
"Oh"
"There it is again"
The laugh grew louder. Dean thought he could listen to it forever, God that sound was better than any Zeppelin song to ever exist. Then your fingers found his hand and the room suddenly felt very quiet, smaller in that comforting, private kind of way. "I like you too"
The hunter froze– sure, he’d just confessed to you. But it was a helluva lot different when you did it to him. "You do?"
"Very much"
A grin spread across his face. "Y’know, that would've been useful information"
"I didn't know humans said those things out loud to eachother…” Dean laughed so hard his side hurt– worth it. Absolutely worth it.
The drive home to the bunker was peaceful. For once? There were no monsters, no emergencies, no world-ending disasters… There was just the Impala rolling down a dark road beneath a sky full of stars, Sam asleep in the backseat, Dean sat behind the wheel and you curled next to him– your head resting on his shoulder, the radio playing softly in the background. Dean had one hand on the wheel, the other intertwined with yours. A comfortable silence filled the car– your voice cuts through it in a quiet murmur. "Humans write songs about this"
The hunter glanced down at you. "What’s that?"
"This feeling"
His smile softened, something warm and amused flicking over his expression. "Yeah"
"I understand why now" The admission was so sincere it nearly broke him. The big bad Dean Winchester, on his knees for a soft spoken angel. You looked back up at him– sleepy, safe, happy.
Dean leaned over at a red light and pressed a kiss to your forehead and your smile appeared instantly. There it was– the thing he'd spent years falling in love with. Not your grace, not your power, not the fact that you could destroy demons with a thought. Just you– gentle-hearted, kind, good. The light turned green and Dean started driving again– for the first time in a long time, everything felt right. The road stretched endlessly ahead, the stars shined above them… And the angel who kept saving his ass was asleep beside him.
Dean figured he was the luckiest son of a bitch alive.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀TEN THINGS I HATE ABOUT YOU 𓈒 𓈒 𓈒 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐍 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑 .ᐟ
what's going on? ✶ — sam wants to take jess to the prom, the only problem is the fact that her father only allows her to going out if her older sister does it too. gladly for him, he has his brother. sadly for dean, he has to help sammy by trying to impress jessica's older sister.
tags ✶ — supernatural!modern au, inspired by the movie "ten things i hate about you", dean winchester as patrick verona, female reader as kat stratford, jock!dean winchester, fluff, mentions of samjess (and more to add).
ㅤㅤ AUTOR'S NOTE: ITS HERE!! after some weeks trying to decide if it was going to be a long fic i chose to divide it in four parts, they’re going to be uploaded every saturday night. i'm so excited about it, hope you guys loves it as much as i do.
“so, let me get this straight....you want me to date your little crush’s sister so you have a chance to invite her to fucking prom?,” dean snorted, looking directly at sam, who was sitting across the room—waiting for an answer. ”you better be joking.”
however sam’s gaze was still on him, puppy eyes looking at him. dean knew that when sam resorted to him it meant business, but not this kind of job. he expected him to ask for his car to go on a date with her, a couple of condoms, some sort of advice like that... not to go out with her goddamn sister.
“dean, please just, only this time..” sam pouted, following his big brother’s steps until he blocked the dorm’s door. “their father is such an asshole sometimes, the last time i went to her house he left me outside and i’d to say goodbye from her yard.”
dean ran his hand across his face, sighing loudly. he loved sammy more than anyone, he really did but his fucking romantic endeavors were going to kill him if he can even reach the age of 27.
dr. stratford was a notorious man in the neighborhood since they came to live here, some tales said that he slapped a boy on the face when he tried to date his younger daughter, jessica. he once heard a boy say that jess can’t date until her sister does it in between groans.
but the problem itself was her older sister.
“sammy, you’re asking me to throw my fucking body into a woodchipper,” dean argued back at him, crossing his arms over this led zeppelin t-shirt. “have you seen that girl? or even talked to her? that woman is a fucking menace, she—she made a frat bro cry after kicking him in the balls last month.. and you expect me to go out with her? you're gonna pay me to take out some chick like her?”
“she isn’t that bad..” sam corrected gently, a flicker of desperation glistening on his brown eyes. “well, maybe she is but.. come on dean—you’re the only guy in the campus who isn’t scared of her. i’ll, i’ll do your laundry for the rest of the semester or, or i’ll clean baby inside and out.”
dean paused for a moment, eyes glued on his brother. “using good wax, right?”
“carnauba, two coats each hour,” sam promised, putting a hand over his chest.
he let out a long and tired sigh, staring at the dorm ceiling asking why he has to do it? why him among all the losers in the campus?, why he was cursed by having a fucking lovebird as a little brother?.
“fine, but if she ends up stabbing me on the chest, it’s your fault.”
stanford’s campus quad was buzzing with loud music coming from the speakers across the yard when dean finally found you sitting on the bench, talking with it supposed to look like one of your girl best friends. you were so focused on listening to your friend that you didn't even notice he was standing right in front of both of you.
“evening ladies,” his voice drawled, cutting right through the loud background noise. “am i interrupting something?”
“actually, yes you’re. you’re in the way,” you responded, shooting him a glance that usually scared away some guys. “this isn’t any of your business, big guy. don’t you have a pool to hall or someone’s tires to slash?”
dean smirked halfway through your response, completely unfazed. “you know, i actually take the weekends off from stealing shit—”
“yeah, it looks like the part,” you laughed sarcastically.
dean chuckled trying to hide the fact that his guard was disappearing after that comment. damn that iit was complicated flirting with you, i mean, he's fucking dean winchester! it shouldn't be that hard.
“come on, girly..” dean said, falling a step near you completely ignoring that your best friend was trying to drag you away from there, yet it was impossible. “just one drink, there’s a bar downtown that only plays good music and not that feminist rage genre that you listen to.”
“have you ever been told that you're too persistent?”
“i like to think i’m quite adorable,” he added.
you huffed, picking up your pace as you held your best friend’s hand to get away. "i don't date guys who think brooding is a personality trait.”
dean didn't even get a word in before you and your friend grabbed your things and left him speechless. he mentally started cursing sam out—how the hell was he going to get near you when you were harder to penetrate than an abandoned house? damn it, that brat owes him his life if he even manages to get near you.
once you were far from campus, you stood still for a few seconds, trying to process everything that had happened: what was someone like dean winchester doing coming to talk to you? because in all the years you'd been studying at stanford, you'd probably only seen him twice in the hallway.
so again, what the hell was he doing talking to you?
you reached for the door of your car only to stop dead in your tracks when you notice some idiot left a bumper on one side of it. “unbelievable,” you muttered, digging your keys out of your bag.
“you're gonna scrape the paint right off that thing. let me help."
it was dean, again. you sighed, looking angrily at him.
“excuse you? i’m perfectly capable of do it,” you bristled, gripping your keys tighter.
“yeah, i can see that.. c’mon sweetheart.”
he plucked the keys right off your hand before you can say another thing or physically stop him. before you could scream at him, dean slid into the driver's seat, adjusting the seat back to accommodate his long legs, entirely messing up your carefully calibrated mirrors. he turned the key, and instead of a gentle idle, he gave the gas pedal a sharp and unnecessary rev that made the old engine scream.
“you’re gonna wreck it,” you shouted.
“it’s already wrecked, sweetheart. just listen to how it sounds.”
with a light impact against the door was nearly enough to make that bump in the door disappear completely, smiling broadly as he watches how your angry expression changes for a few seconds.
he stepped out, leaving the door open and the engine running. he didn't say an 'I told you so'. he didn't even gloat, just simply stood there, dangling your keys from his index finger.
you snatched them back. "don’t ever touch my car again, dumbass.”
dean didn't move away. the distance between you and him was suddenly entirely too small. he looked down at you, cocky smirk fading into a little smile on his crooked teeth.
for a split second you were debating whether to punch him or spit in his face, but before you could do anything, he took a step back and adjusted his jacket before saying goodbye at you in such a sarcastic tone that, again, you thought you should punch him to wipe that silly grin off his face.
“see you around then, girly.”
he turned and walked away, his boots scuffing against the pavement.
when he was far away from you and could no longer hear your curses under your breath echoing in the parking lot, he picked up his phone and dialed his brother's number.
“sammy,” he cooed. “i hope you're ready to buy that expensive car wax ‘cause i'm going to get jess's sister to date me, no matter what.”
Imagine trying to crack ur man and Diana wants to call him. But then he chooses to answer to you jst cut the power
quick blurb before bed— xf! fiancée reader, nsfw if you squint, sub!michael kinda idk, diana can get fucked (by bad karma)
the phone rattled as it rang for the third time that night in the span of an hour. the sound immensely irritating considering it was just supposed to be an alone night. just you and michael, his lips dancing along the inside of your thigh as you two were on the couch, the movie playing long forgotten. a moment of calm in his busy schedule and he finally had time to scratch that itch of yours.
“who the hell keeps calling? i thought you told them you were unavailable tonight.”
“i did,” michael sighed. the sound torn somewhere between exasperation and borderline malice. “let me answer it—“
“michael, you said no work.”
“i’m not,” he promised. standing up but leaning down to place a kiss on your forehead before he walked over to the kitchen, adjusting his hard on in his pants as he did so. “i’m gonna tell them to stop and call back in the morning.”
you huffed and laid back down as he picked up the call on the final ring, messing with your engagement ring.
“hey, this isn’t a good— diana?”
you froze, eyes dragging slowly from the glittering diamond on your finger to where michael stood with the phone pressed to his ear.
his jaw was clenched and you tried desperately to not only hear what that cow was saying on the other end of the receiver but also summoning any shred of willpower you could to not get up and yank the phone away.
you tried desperately to be pragmatic and not fantasize about hitting her with your car.
“diana, i’m engaged. and i know you know that.”
you suddenly felt very, very cold.
michael’s eyes flicked briefly to yours. “what? no i’m not gonna… are you insane?”
you took a gentle breath. in. out.
stood up on legs that felt surprisingly steady and michael watched you carefully as you walked past him and into the kitchen. opening a drawer and shuffling around before your fingers landed on— oh yes, there they were.
then you turned and walked up to him, smile soft.
“diana, you gotta stop calling here—“
snip.
the chord connecting the phone to the wall fell limply at michael’s side and there was a brief moment of sparks.
your hand then wound in the fabric of his shirt and pulled him close, michael’s eyes meeting yours but his pupils were so blown they looked like spilled ink.
“get down on your knees.” your tone was low and left no room for argument.
not that he would, given not a moment later he was doing as told and his mouth was back where it belonged between your thighs.
Jaafar has it all…a thriving career and a stable 10 years relationship with his fiancée, Maddie. But what’s really happening behind closed doors?
Previous Chapter
Three Months Later
Moon no longer asked permission before climbing into Jaafar’s lap.
He simply did it every morning like it was his constitutional right.
“Moon.”
The golden retriever ignored Y/N completely and rested his head on Jaafar’s thigh.
“Moon come to mama.”
His tail wagged.
Traitor.
Jaafar smirked over his coffee.
“I think he likes me.”
“I think he’s a terrible judge of character.”
Moon barked.
“See?” Jaafar pointed.
“Even he disagrees.”
Y/N rolled her eyes with a smile and Jaafar laughed.
The sound came easier these days.
Almost too easy.
Three months of sunrises, texts, coffee, conversations that somehow never ran out.
The strange part wasn’t how often they talked anymore, It was how natural it had become.
Neither of them remembered who started texting first.
Their chat looked less like a conversation and more like two people slowly becoming part of each other’s daily routine.
Sometimes they had days where sarcasm is the language that no one can understands but them
Their chats became a collection of sarcasm nobody else would understand.
But also there were the ranting moments that was the foundation of the whole friendship ..
But she unintentionally always makes it easier, because why would he be smiling while going back home after an exhausting rehearsals unless,
The dangerous part wasn’t that he enjoyed her company , the dangerous part was how much he missed her whenever he went home.
Because every morning when he saw or text her, everything else felt lighter, easier and when he drove home, everything felt heavy again.
Home wasn’t peaceful anymore. It hadn’t been for a while.
At first it had been questions, then accusations, then monitoring, then control.
Maddie always wanted to know where he was, who he was with, why he was late and why he didn’t answer.
At first he told himself she was stressed, wedding planning, work and life.
But eventually excuses stopped working, because no matter what answer he gave… it was always wrong.
One evening he woke up from a nap and immediately knew something was off, Maddie was sitting at the kitchen table.
His phone sat in her hands.
“Maddie??”
She looked up calmly. “Who’s Y/N?”
The room went silent, Jaafar stared at the phone, then at her, then back at the phone.
“You went through my phone?”
“I asked a question.”
“You went through my phone?”
“Answer me.”
His jaw tightened.
“She’s my friend.”
Maddie laughed, a short, bitter laugh.
“A friend.”
“Yes.”
“A friend you text.”
“Yes?.”
“You think I’m stupid.”
“Maddie—”
“When was the last time you told me about your day?” Her voice rose.
Silence.
“When was the last time you looked excited to see me?”
“I still don’t see how is that my problem tbh” He snatched the phone and walked off with tight jaw because she hit another nerve.
Blaming him for not being able to talk to her instead of getting close to him again and asking about him.
She stared at him walk of with the anger in her eyes slowly became something uglier. Resentment.
That night, while Jaafar slept…Maddie copied Y/N’s number to her phone.
The call came the next afternoon…Unknown number.
Y/N answered while throwing a tennis ball for Moon.
“Hello?”
“So you’re Y/N.”
She frowned. “Sorry?”
A woman laughed the kind of laugh that made your stomach tighten before you even knew why.
“You know who this is.”
“No…?”
“It’s Maddie.”
Y/N blinked.“Oh?”
Moon dropped the tennis ball at her feet but she barely noticed.
“Hi.”
“You spend every morning with my fiancé.”
The bitterness in Maddie’s voice practically dripped through the phone.
Y/N straightened immediately. “Maddie—”
“No.”
The interruption came fast and sharp.
“You don’t get to pretend.”
“Nothing is happening.”
“Really?”
“Yes we are just really good friends.”
Maddie laughed.“Friends? As if that makes it innocent.”
The word sounded insulting coming from her.
“You know what women like you always call themselves?”
Y/N’s grip tightened around the phone. “Excuse me?”
“Home wreckers.”
Y/N said nothing because suddenly she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the rest.
“Maddie—”
“You should be ashamed.”
Nothing had happened. Absolutely Nothing.
“You think you’re different?”
“You think because you haven’t crossed a line with him, then you’re innocent?”
Y/N swallowed.
“You aren’t.”
The words came quieter now which somehow made them worse.
“You’re just another whore waiting around for a man who belongs to somebody else.”
Click. The line went dead.
Y/N stood there staring at her phone.
Moon nudged her hand.Nothing.
The home suddenly felt too quiet, empty, exposing, because Maddie was wrong, nothing had happened. She genuinely was helping Jaafar be okay and she knew her limits so well.
But that wasn’t the problem.
The problem was that if Jaafar showed up right now and told her he wasn’t engaged, she wasn’t sure she’d walk away.
And that realization made her feel sick.
The next morning she didn’t go to the beach.
Moon sat by the door with his leash already in his mouth waiting for his morning walk, tail wagging.
Y/N looked away. “Not today Moon.”
Moon tilted his head, confused and slowly the tail slowly stopped wagging.
Y/N felt awful.
The first day Jaafar assumed she was busy.
The second day he checked his phone more than usual because she never ignored his texts.
The third day, he was sitting alone on the beach, coffee cooling beside him, watching the sunrise, people walking by, dogs running across the sand, and for the first time he realized the beach wasn’t what he looked forward to.
It had never been the beach….
His chest tightened because everything was exactly as it had always been, except she wasn’t there.
Another day passed and he stopped sleeping properly, he was angry, but not at her.
At himself, because he couldn’t figure out what he’d done wrong to push the only person who actually cared away.
He felt empty, like somebody had quietly removed the best part of his day and expected him not to notice.
Meanwhile Moon hated every new route Y/N tried, every new park.
Every single morning he pulled her toward the beach like he couldn’t understand why they stopped going.
Truthfully…
Neither could she.
Meanwhile, Maddie was planning a wedding, like nothing was wrong, like Jaafar wasn’t quietly falling apart.
One evening she spread venue photos across the dining table.
“Look at this one.”
She slid a photograph toward him, Jaafar barely glanced at it.
“Maddie.”
“I think the white roses look better.”
“Maddie.”
“Or maybe orchids.”
“Maddie.”
“The florist needs an answer by Friday.”
Jaafar stared at her not believing this was happening, she could see him unraveling and still care more about centerpieces.
Then suddenly she spoke. “You haven’t been sleeping.” For a second he thought she was finally asking if he was okay.
“The photographer noticed the dark circles.”
Silence…
“Can you fix them before the photo shoot?”
Something inside him broke like a rope finally snapping after years of strain. Jaafar looked down at the venue photos, the life they’d spent years planning.
And for the first time…It felt like someone else’s future. “Maddie.”
“What?”
His voice was calm. “We need to talk.”
She froze but continued to ignore him.
“Maddie.”
“No.”
The answer came immediately. Almost panicked.
“I don’t want this anymore.”
Her face went white.
“No.”
“I can’t do this.”
“No.”
She stood so quickly her chair nearly tipped over.
“We’re getting married.”
“Maddie—”
“You don’t get to do this.”
“I don’t get to do this?”
“Ten years.” Her voice cracked. “I gave you ten years.”
And for a moment guilt clawed its way into his chest then she spoke again.
“And she’s gone anyway.”
Jaafar frowned. “What?”
Maddie folded her arms.
“I called her.”
The room suddenly felt too small.
“What did you just say?”
“I called her.”
His stomach dropped. Because suddenly the unanswered texts, missed calls, empty beach, the way Y/N had vanished without a word, every single piece clicked into place.
Not because she wanted to leave because she thought she had to.
His chest tightened. “What did you say to her?”
Maddie looked away.
“She needed to know her place.”
The rage that hit him was immediate and violent, not because Maddie called. Because Y/N had been carrying whatever was said to her completely alone, thinking she is a bad person for being his bestfriend.
She’d been hurting and he hadn’t even known.
Maddie hesitated. “Jaafar—”
“What.” his voice rose “did you say?”
Maddie swallowed, for the first time she looked uncertain. “I told her to stop being a home wrecker and to stay away from you.”
The blood drained from his face, because suddenly he could picture it.
Y/N answering her phone, hearing those words, blaming herself for being a friend, disappearing because she thought it was the right thing to do.
His hands shook. “She was my friend.”
“Oh please.”
“No.” His voice cracked. “YOU don’t get to do that!”
“You were choosing her over me!”
“I wasn’t choosing anyone!”
The words exploded out of him.
“I was trying to breathe!”
Silence.
“You don’t understand.” His chest felt tight. “She was the only person who actually asked if I was okay.”
Maddie’s face fell.
“And you made her think she was doing something wrong for caring.”
He looked at Maddie, really looked at her and for the first time…
He couldn’t see their future, only exhaustion, distance, two people desperately trying to hold together something that had already broken.
Whatever she saw in his face at the moment, made her heart crumble. Because she saw his eyes go cold.
“No.” Her voice cracked. “Jaafar…”
He closed his eyes.
Because this was the moment, the point of no return.
🐆💋 — imagining michael being teased by you relentlessly, your lips rubbing over his tip, tongue licking up the base of his dick. you’ve been doing it for the past two minutes, just so you could hear his whimpers. or, michael finally inserting himself in you, your pussy taking him in while you call him sweet names. your hands are dragging down his back. or, maybe he’s lying on the bed, you on top as you ride him slowly, purposely teasing the tip of his dick with your wet pussy before sliding down and rocking into him. your nails drag down his chest, leaving marks on his skin as he begs you to continue, he’s so close to cumming, almost embarrassed at how fast he’s reaching. also, adding the fact both of you have a breeding kink so he really becomes a whimpering mess when your pussy drips out a mixture of his cum and yours, only for him to slide his dick back in you to fill you up.
SUMMARY: Singer!Reader creates Sugar Talking with Michael by her side every step of the way: from songwriting and choreography rehearsals to a festival performance where he unexpectedly joins her onstage.
CONTENT: michael jackson x singer!reader. established relationship. sabrina carpenter’s sugar talking. sabrina carpenter’s coachella performance. fluff. artists loving each other.
The first time Michael Jackson heard Sugar Talking, he wasn’t supposed to.
The studio had been split into separate recording rooms that day, Michael and Quincy working on mixes down one hallway while Y/N worked with her producer in another.
At first it was just muffled bass through the walls.
Then laughter.
Then Y/N’s voice.
Loud.
Animated.
“NO, no, listen,” she insisted somewhere down the hall. “It has to sound meaner. Like pretty-girl rage.”
Quincy looked amused immediately.
Michael tried very hard to stay focused on work.
Then the music started again.
Put your loving where your mouth is—
Michael froze.
Quincy slowly looked up from the soundboard.
Because even through studio walls, Y/N sounded magnetic.
Confident.
Playful.
Sharp in that specifically Y/N L/N way where every line sounded like she was smiling while ruining someone’s life.
Michael leaned back slightly in his chair, listening despite himself.
“No, wait—wait, write this down,” they heard her say excitedly. “What if I say ‘your seventh last chance honey?’”
Michael burst out laughing again.
God.
He adored her brain.
Because Y/N wrote exactly like she talked: dramatic, funny, brutally honest and somehow still charming enough to get away with it.
Then they heard her sing the chorus again.
Put your loving where your mouth is…
And this time Michael just sat there quietly smiling to himself.
Completely gone.
Quincy noticed instantly.
“You’re proud of her.”
Michael looked embarrassed immediately.
“I just think she’s talented.”
Quincy stared at him flatly.
“Michael.”
Michael smiled shyly, ducking his head.
“…Okay, maybe a little proud.”
“A little?”
Michael’s grin widened helplessly.
Because hearing Y/N create in real time genuinely fascinated him.
The way she bounced around the studio barefoot while singing ideas into the microphone.
The way she scrunched her nose when something sounded wrong.
The way she’d suddenly yell “WAIT I HAVE IT” every ten minutes like a mad scientist discovering electricity.
To Michael, it was magic.
Especially because she always looked for him first after getting something right.
A few minutes later the studio door burst open.
Y/N appeared dramatically in the hallway wearing giant headphones around her neck.
“Mike!”
Quincy immediately smirked.
Michael blinked innocently. “Yeah?”
“Were you eavesdropping?” She placed a hand on her waist, brows raised suspiciously.
“…No?”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
Michael started laughing while Y/N pointed accusingly at him.
“I knew it because I could feel your judgment through the walls.”
“I liked it!”
“You laughed!”
“Because you’re funny!”
Y/N narrowed her eyes.
Then immediately softened.
“…You really liked it?”
Michael nodded instantly.
“It’s good, baby.”
And the smile Y/N gave him after that nearly killed him on impact.
⋆⭒˚.⋆
The choreography rehearsals became dangerous almost immediately.
Because Y/N had one very specific vision for the Sugar Talking performance:
something playful.
Sexy.
Old Hollywood.
A little Dirty Dancing.
Which meant Michael just had to get involved.
And Michael Jackson helping choreograph a sensual duet with his own girlfriend turned out to be catastrophic for everyone involved.
Especially Y/N.
The rehearsal studio mirrors stretched wall-to-wall while dancers practiced around them, but honestly nobody could focus once Michael stepped in to demonstrate partner choreography with Y/N.
Because suddenly the energy shifted completely.
Michael’s hands on her waist.
Y/N laughing breathlessly while he spun her across the floor.
The way they moved together felt unfair.
Natural in that soulmate kind of way where neither person even had to think.
“Again,” Y/N said immediately after one run-through.
Michael laughed softly. “You just wanna make me dance with you.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Well, at least you’re honest.”
The other dancers around them rolled their eyes.
Because the flirting never stopped.
Not once.
At one point they worked on a section where Y/N sat on the floor while Michael moved toward her during the bridge.
The choreography was dangerously intimate.
Michael crawled slowly toward her while holding the microphone for her to sing into, eyes locked on hers the entire time.
Y/N forgot the lyrics mid-rehearsal.
Completely.
Because Michael looked devastating like this up close.
Focused.
Smug.
Completely aware of the effect he had on her.
“Baby,” Michael laughed softly, still kneeling in front of her. “You stopped singing.”
“You’re distracting.”
“You told me to hold the mic.”
“Yeah, but not like that.”
The entire rehearsal room burst out laughing.
Michael turned pink immediately while Y/N buried her face in her hands dramatically.
“This is humiliating for me.”
“You’re the one who asked me to help!”
“Yeah, but I forgot you were Michael Jackson.”
And honestly? The choreography only got worse from there.
Michael dipping her low enough that her hair brushed the floor.
Y/N pulling him closer by his shirt during the chorus.
Their faces inches apart while she sang directly into the microphone he held for her.
Every rehearsal ended with the dancers screaming like they’d just witnessed something illegal.
⋆⭒˚.⋆
Recording vocals somehow proved even worse.
Michael stayed in the studio the entire time despite absolutely not needing to be there.
Curled up on the couch.
Watching her through the glass with the softest expression imaginable.
Occasionally distracting her on purpose.
“Do the line again.”
Y/N narrowed her eyes from inside the booth.
“You just wanna hear me say ‘your paragraphs mean shit to me’ again.”
Michael looked thoughtful before nodding with sincerity.
Y/N burst out laughing mid-recording.
At another point, he stopped her halfway through a take.
“What?”
Michael hesitated.
Then smiled shyly.
“You sound really pretty on this part.”
Y/N forgot how to speak for a second.
Because compliments from Michael always sounded devastatingly sincere.
“Michael,” she whispered dramatically into the mic, “you can’t flirt with me while I’m working.”
“I wasn’t flirting.”
“You’re naturally seductive, that’s worse.”
Her producers collapsed laughing.
Michael hid his face behind one hand while smiling helplessly.
And somehow the song only got better from there.
⋆⭒˚.⋆
The performance itself nearly changed pop culture permanently.
It was Y/N’s biggest festival crowd yet.
Thousands upon thousands of people packed beneath flashing lights screaming her name while backstage absolute disaster unfolded.
Because her lead male dancer had food poisoning.
Violently.
Ten minutes before showtime.
Everyone panicked instantly.
Managers yelling.
Dancers scrambling.
Y/N standing there in her performance outfit — an electric-blue sweatshirt slipping dangerously off one shoulder, glittery black tights hugging her legs, hair tousled perfectly from rehearsals — looking moments away from collapse.
“…Oh my God.”
Someone whispered, “We have to cut the partner choreography.”
“No!” Y/N looked horrified immediately. “That’s like half the performance!”
Everybody started talking at once.
And then Michael, who had been sitting quietly backstage, who had been there to support his girl, watching the chaos unfold, stood up calmly.
“I’ll do it.”
Silence.
Every single person in the crew turned toward him.
Y/N blinked.
“…What?”
Michael shrugged lightly like he wasn’t casually offering to alter human history.
“I know the choreography.”
The room collectively lost its mind.
“Michael—”
“Are you serious?”
“Oh my God.”
Y/N stared at him in disbelief while Michael smiled softly at her.
“You need a partner,” he said simply.
The poor woman genuinely looked like she might faint.
And somehow — unbelievably — ten minutes later Michael Jackson was backstage preparing to make a surprise appearance at his girlfriend’s festival set.
Nobody in the audience knew.
Not even the cameras.
The performance started normally enough.
Y/N exploded onto the stage in blue and glitter and confidence while the crowd screamed themselves hoarse.
Then Sugar Talking started.
The audience already loved it.
But halfway through the intro, the spotlight shifted.
And Michael Jackson walked onto the stage.
The crowd reaction was instant hysteria.
Actual hysteria.
People screaming so loudly Y/N let out a laugh mid-performance.
Because there he was.
The most famous man alive.
The King of Pop himself.
Stepping into her choreography without hesitation.
And God, the chemistry.
It was unreal.
They moved together like they’d been built for the same rhythm.
Michael spinning her across the stage with impossible smoothness while Y/N laughed breathlessly into the microphone.
“Put your loving where your mouth is…”
The teasing smiles.
The lingering touches.
The way his hands settled low on her waist during every turn like he couldn’t bear letting her go too far.
And the eye contact. Jesus Christ.
It felt invasive to look at.
Because they looked completely locked into each other, like the audience had disappeared entirely.
Y/N sang directly at him while circling slowly around his body.
“Your sugar talking isn’t working tonight…”
Michael’s expression darkened immediately at that line.
Amused.
Smug.
Completely aware she was performing half the song directly for him now.
At one point Michael dipped her so low her hair nearly brushed the stage floor, his face hovering just inches above hers while the crowd screamed loud enough to shake the stadium.
Y/N’s breath visibly caught.
Michael noticed immediately.
Of course he did.
The cocky little smile he gave her afterward nearly killed her onstage.
Then came that part.
Y/N dropped onto the floor as planned while Michael moved toward her slowly through the flashing lights.
The crowd was already losing their minds before he even reached her.
But then Michael knelt in front of her.
Held the microphone gently toward her lips.
And started to crawl closer while she sang.
Their eyes never left each other.
Not once.
“You tell me that you want me…”
Michael moved even closer.
Close enough for her knees to brush against his.
“But baby if you need me…”
Y/N sang directly into the microphone while Michael held it steady for her, both of them so close the tension became almost unbearable.
He looked completely hypnotized by her.
And Y/N? She looked like she forgot there were thousands of people watching.
Michael moved closer again during the chorus until their mouths were barely inches apart.
Close enough for Y/N’s breath to hit his lips while she sang:
“Put your loving where your mouth is…”
The audience absolutely lost it.
Because for one horrible, glorious second it genuinely looked like they were about to kiss.
Michael’s eyes flickered briefly toward her mouth.
Y/N’s hand tightened against the front of his shirt.
And instead of kissing her, Michael slowly dragged the microphone away with the most devastatingly smug expression imaginable.
Y/N actually laughed in disbelief mid-song.
The tension somehow got worse after that.
Every movement became heavier.
Hotter.
Michael’s hand sliding along her thigh during one lift.
Y/N pulling him closer by his jacket during the bridge while singing:
“It’s your seventh last chance honey…”
The way they kept circling each other during the dance break like magnets trying and failing not to collide.
It didn’t even look choreographed anymore.
It looked intimate.
Like the audience had accidentally walked into something private.
By the final chorus they were both breathless, laughing, completely drunk on each other and the crowd’s energy.
“Yeah your paragraphs mean shit to me…”
Michael spun her hard enough that she crashed lightly against his chest afterward, both of them smiling helplessly.
“It’s verbatim what you said last week…” She sang, changing the original tone of the song on purpose.
The audience screamed louder at Michael’s reaction alone, head thrown back laughing while Y/N pointed accusingly at him during the lyric.
“It’s your seventh last chance, honey…”
Then came the final move.
“Get your sorry ass to mine.”
Y/N jumped lightly into Michael’s arms while he caught her effortlessly, one arm locked securely around her waist as fireworks exploded behind them.
And instead of pulling apart immediately, they lingered.
Faces inches apart.
Breathing hard.
Smiling helplessly at each other while the entire stadium screamed.
Michael’s forehead brushed hers for half a second.
Close enough that another inch would’ve turned into a kiss.
The audience genuinely sounded feral.
Then the lights cut out.
And the stadium absolutely detonated.
People cried.
Actually cried.
Because nobody had ever seen Michael Jackson like this before.
Not guarded.
Not distant.
Just hopelessly in love with a girl who loved him right back.
And backstage afterward, while everyone screamed and celebrated around them, Y/N grabbed his face breathlessly.
“You saved my life.”
Michael laughed softly, still flushed from performing.
“Nah,” he said quietly, pulling her closer. “You just wanted an excuse to dance with me.”
jbbartram-illu
snowghoul
ellievsbear
pixelskylines
discoholicmusic
blakekathryn
yousharknotpass
titsay
turnnoffyourmind
vaporwave
