: ̗̀➛ imagine accidentally falling asleep with your best friend michael, only to wake up to the sweet sounds of his whimpers in the night due to a wet dream...of you. but this time, you decide to help him. 18+ (part ii) !! headphones suggested !!
— ᨳଓ . the heavy quiet of the bedroom was filled only by the soft, sound of the fan, crickets outside and the quiet rustle of cotton sheets. you shifted in the bed, turning toward his side as a faint, pained sound broke through your sleep.
michael was tossing beside you, his long torso tense under the blanket. quiet, shuddering whimpers spilled past his parted lips, his brow furrowed in the dim light as if he were caught halfway between a dream and reality.
softly, you reached out and placed your palm flush against his warm chest, right over the frantic thump of his heart. "michael, wake up."
his eyes snapped open—wide, dark, and filled with instant panic. he blinked rapidly, realizing where he was and how close you were, his chest heaving under your touch. flush crept up his neck, burning hot all the way to the tips of his ears.
"i'm—i'm so sorry," michael stuttered out immediately, his voice raspy from sleep. he tried to pull back, looking thoroughly mortified, his hands hovering nervously over the sheets. "gosh, i didn't mean to—i'm so embarrassed, i hope i didn't wake you, i was just—"
before he could spiral any further, you leaned forward, cupping his warm cheek and cutting off his rambling apology with a deep, lingering kiss.
michael’s breath hitched sharply against your lips. for a split second, he froze in sheer shock, but the moment your warmth settled over him, the tension in his tall frame completely melted.
his long fingers reached up, sliding through your hair to gently cradle the back of your head, pulling you flush against him. a needy, quiet whimper tore from his throat right into your mouth, matched by a soft sigh from your own lips as the kiss deepened.
when you finally pulled back just a fraction of an inch, your lips brushed against his as you breathed out, "let me help you, baby."
michael couldn't form words. his mind was completely fried, wide doe eyes searching yours with a mix of shock and intense relief. all that slipped past his mouth was a soft, high whine, his body twitching helplessly under the duvet.
slipping your hand beneath the covers, your fingers hooked into the soft elastic band of his pajama pants, gently pulling them down just enough to release him into the cool air of the room. your eyes caught the dark, slick bead of precum leaking from the tip, glistening in the faint light.
"you were thinking about me, weren’t you, michael?" you teased softly, your fingers wrapping around his thick length and beginning a slow, easy stroke from base to tip.
"i—i don’t know… i just.. well, yes—" he rambled desperately, his head rolling back against the pillow as his hips gave an involuntary jerk into your touch.
you chuckled softly, leaning down to press a warm kiss to his flushed cheek, then trailing your lips down the sharp line of his jaw to press soft pecks along his throat.
"you could’ve just asked me," you sighed gently against his skin, coming back up to capture his lips once more.
"i was nervous... too scared—to tell you how bad i needed you," he whined, his fingers tightening in your hair as your hand set a steady, intoxicating pace over his wet length.
"well, you don't ever have to be scared with me," you whispered back against his ear, your wrist speeding up just a fraction, guiding him through the steady friction. "just tell me what feels good."
"that—right there, mama... gosh, keep your thumb right there," michael gasped out loud, his chest heaving as his hips began to rise off the mattress to meet every deliberate slide of your palm. "it feels so good... you're strokin' it so perfect..."
your hand kept that fast, relentless rhythm, your other hand resting on his hip to hold him grounded as he completely undid beneath you. "that's it, baby... let go for me," you coaxed softly into his ear.
"i can't—oh god, mama, i'm gonna—"
with a sharp, breathless cry, michael arched his back off the bed, his entire body trembling violently as he came, thick waves spilling over his tummy and your fingers. he let out a long, shuddering sigh, his hands slipping from your hair to rest weak and spent on the mattress.
you smiled softly down at his flushed, glowing face. taking the edge of the sheet, you gently wiped his stomach clean before pulling the heavy duvet all the way back up over both of your shoulders.
michael immediately wrapped his long arms tightly around your waist, tugging you close until your head was resting right over his beating heart.
he pressed a lingering, sleepy kiss to the top of your head, letting out a deep, contented breath as you both melted back into the quiet warmth of the night.
Pairing: Michael Jackson x fem!reader
Chapter: 16/16
(Click for previous chapters: One / Two / Three / Four / Five / Six / Seven / Eight / Nine / Ten / Eleven / Twelve / Thirteen / Fourteen / Fifteen)
Tags: fake / contract relationship, slow burn, strangers to friends to lovers, romance, hurt/comfort, not actually unrequited love, mutual pining, mutual admiration, angst with a happy ending, idiots in love
Summary:
Michael Jackson is no stranger to rumors, but when increasingly invasive articles begin dissecting his private life, even he starts to feel the weight of the headlines.
At the same time, Hollywood's favorite leading lady is growing tired of being reduced to pretty smiles and successful romance films while her dreams of becoming a serious actress remain firmly out of reach.
A carefully negotiated relationship offers a solution to both of their problems. For Michael, it provides a much-needed shift in public perception. For you, it opens doors that have always remained frustratingly out of reach. It's mutually beneficial, protected by a contract, and entirely for the cameras.
At least, that's what it's supposed to be.
March 1987
"You don't get to decide that for me!"
"I already did!"
You looked at Michael. "You don't have that right!"
"I had every right!" Michael leaned forward slightly. "You were the one who walked away. You don't get to come back now and tell me I made the wrong choice by letting you."
"I didn't walk away. I was pushed."
"You left," he said. "Whatever the reason. You left and I had to build something out of what remained and now you're standing here telling me it wasn't enough?"
You looked up at him. "I'm telling you it wasn't what I wanted."
"What you wanted," he said, "changed every time I thought I understood it."
"That's not fair."
"None of this has been fair."
You held his gaze for a moment across the coffee table, the script pages balanced on your knee, and then you looked back down and said: "Do you think I don't know that? Do you think I came back here expecting easy?"
"I don't know what you came back expecting." He sat back. "That's the problem. I never knew what you were expecting. I spent the entire time guessing."
"You could have asked."
"I did ask."
"You asked once and then stopped asking."
"Because you stopped answering."
A silence.
"Keep going," you said, without looking up. "You've got two more lines before my next one."
Michael blinked. He looked at his script, then at you.
"Right," he said, finding his place. "I stopped asking because every time I asked you found a way to answer a different question entirely and then looked at me like I was the one not listening."
"That's because you weren't listening."
"I was listening. I wasn't hearing what you wanted me to hear. Those are different things."
"Are they?"
"Yes," he said, with some feeling. "They are."
You made a small note in the margin of your copy. "Good. That was good."
"Thank you."
"You were actually in it that time."
"I'm always in it."
"You're usually performing being in it," you said. Then you pointed at him. "That was different."
He considered this. "I think I related to the material."
You looked at him.
He reached for one of Katherine's cookies from the box on the coffee table, which he’d brought over that morning with a small note in Katherine's handwriting that said simply for you both, and which Michael had been treating as his personal property since approximately thirty seconds after he arrived.
"These are very good," he said, munching. "She puts something in them."
"Butter," you said flatly. "She puts butter in them."
"More than that."
"A lot of butter," you said.
He took another one and settled back into his corner of the couch and you both looked at your scripts for a moment in the comfortable silence of two people who had been doing this long enough that the silences between scenes no longer needed filling.
Casper meowed from the armchair.
You didn't look up.
He meowed again.
"No," you said.
A pause. Then a third meow, longer and more pointed, the escalating complaint of a cat who felt his position had not been adequately heard.
"Casper." You looked at him briefly. "The vet said to cut back. You've gained almost two pounds since October."
Casper turned his head toward the sound of your voice and somehow managed to convey profound disagreement despite being entirely incapable of making eye contact.
"Don't," you said to Michael, who had opened his mouth.
"I didn't say anything."
"You were going to say he looks fine."
"He does look fine."
"He looks comfortable. It's different." You found your place on the page. "From the argument after the letter. Your line first."
Michael located it. "You want me to pretend none of it happened."
"I want you to acknowledge that some of it happened for reasons that made sense at the time even if they don't anymore."
"The reasons made sense to you," he said. "They were never explained to me."
"I shouldn't have had to explain them. You should have seen."
"I'm not able to see things you don't show me."
"I showed you everything," you said. "You weren't looking."
"I was looking," Michael said. "I was looking constantly. Do you understand that? Every moment I was with you I was trying to understand you and every moment I thought I did, you changed and I had to start again."
He paused.
He was actually in it again, you noticed, finding the place where the character's experience and his own overlapped and speaking from both simultaneously.
"I was exhausted by the time you left. Not by you. By the trying. By the distance I could never close no matter how hard I–"
He stopped.
Looked at his script.
"Hm," he said.
You looked up. "What?"
"I've lost my place."
You leaned over. Looked at his copy. Looked at the page number.
"You're on the wrong scene entirely," you said.
"I turned several pages at once."
You chuckled. "You've been improvising."
"I was in the spirit of the material," he said, shrugging his shoulders.
"You were making things up."
"Things that felt true to the character."
"Things you invented because you lost your place and didn't want to admit it."
He pressed his lips together. "The sentiment was correct."
"The sentiment was very good," you said, finding the right page and holding it up so he could see. "The line is I was trying to find you inside all the distance you kept putting between us. You turned three pages and went somewhere else entirely."
He read the actual line. A pause. "Mine was better."
"Yours was not a line. Yours was you talking."
"Sometimes those overlap."
You looked at him for a moment.
Then you laughed, the genuine kind, and he smiled and took another cookie and you shook your head and settled back with your script.
"I need the bathroom," you said. "Two minutes."
You set your pages on the cushion and went down the hall.
The apartment went quiet.
Michael looked at the bathroom door.
Then at Casper.
Casper turned his nose toward him, alert now, having clearly registered that the balance of power had just shifted in his favor.
Michael got up very quietly.
The cabinet opened without difficulty. The cheese bites were exactly where they always were. He took five, crossed to Casper, and placed them in his bowl quickly and quietly, getting it done before you came back.
Casper immediately ate them up.
Michael was back on the couch with his script open before you returned.
You came back into the room, glanced at Casper, and paused.
Casper was arranged in his armchair again in a state of complete and total serenity, the sustained lobbying campaign of the past twenty minutes apparently resolved to his satisfaction.
You looked at him for a moment.
Then you looked at Michael, who was reading his script like he had been reading it continuously and was finding it very engaging.
You narrowed your eyes slightly.
Michael turned a page.
You picked up your script and a cookie and sat back down.
"From the top of the argument," you said.
"From the top," he agreed.
Casper dozed off.
The cookie box continued its gradual decline.
"You don't get to decide that for me," you said, settling back into the page, and the afternoon resumed around you, slow and entirely ordinary and entirely yours.
–
He had cleared his schedule from noon.
Not officially. He hadn't told Frank, who would have wanted to know why, and he hadn't told John, who would have been professionally curious. He had simply looked at what was on the calendar and moved what could be moved and told Bill where they were going and left it at that.
The Bellard set was smaller than he had expected. A converted warehouse space in a part of the city that didn't attract much attention.
You had gotten him cleared as a visitor a few days ago, mentioning it casually over dinner. He had not made a production of wanting to come. He had simply said he would like to and you had made it happen.
A production assistant led him to a chair set up at a respectful distance from the camera, slightly to the side of the monitor where Thomas Bellard stood watching playback. Thomas had greeted him at the entrance with genuine warmth, shaking his hand and saying something brief and pleasant, but had returned to the monitor within moments, his entire attention already back on the screen.
Michael sat down.
And watched.
The scene you were playing was between two people at the end of something. He could see that immediately without knowing the full context, the register of two people in the same room who were not sure how much longer they would be.
Your co-star was good, technically precise, but Michael found his attention going to you the way it always went to you and staying there.
You were different on set.
Not different in a way he didn't recognize, just different in the way a person was different when they were fully inside something, when the part of them that managed ordinary life had stepped aside and left only the thing underneath.
He watched you listen to your co-star during the take and understood that you were actually listening, not waiting for your cue but receiving the words as though you were hearing them for the first time.
Thomas called cut.
He crossed to you with a purposeful walk, notes clearly already formed and ready to deliver, and you listened with your head slightly tilted, the way you listened when you were taking something seriously, and nodded twice and said something back and he nodded and stepped away.
Then Thomas went to your co-star.
He spoke to him for considerably longer.
Michael watched you during this, the way you stood slightly apart and used the time, running the scene quietly in your own head, your lips moving fractionally over lines he couldn't hear.
Someone appeared at his elbow.
A young woman from the crew, eyes wide, holding a small notebook for him to sign.
He smiled at her and held up one finger and gestured toward the set, where Thomas was stepping back and the camera was being repositioned. She nodded immediately and retreated.
Three more people materialized at a careful distance, waiting.
He held up the same finger without looking at them.
They waited.
The camera rolled.
You did the same scene four times.
Each take was different in ways he couldn't always name but could feel, something shifting between the third and fourth that changed the quality of the room even from where he was sitting, and when Thomas said cut after the fourth and then stood looking at the monitor for a moment without speaking, Michael understood that the fourth was the one.
Thomas nodded.
You crossed to him immediately.
He watched you ask questions for several minutes, specific and detailed, your hands moving slightly as you described something from the middle of the scene, and Thomas listened and answered and you listened to the answer and asked something else.
Michael watched Thomas Bellard, a man not known for lingering in conversation when work could be happening instead, give you his full attention for the entirety of the exchange.
Eventually you nodded, satisfied, and Thomas moved on.
The crew around Michael exhaled collectively.
He turned and spent the next twenty minutes signing whatever was put in front of him, notebooks and call sheets and in one case the back of someone's hand, and answering the questions directed at him with genuine warmth, and periodically looking back to where you were consulting with the cinematographer about something that had clearly just occurred to you.
"He's so attentive," someone behind him said, quietly, to someone else.
"She's very focused," the other person replied. "He just lets her work."
"That's a good boyfriend," the first person said, with some feeling.
Michael pretended he hadn't heard any of this and signed the notebook extended toward him.
By evening the light in the warehouse had changed completely and the crew was beginning the quiet efficient process of wrapping, and you appeared from the direction of the set still in costume and came straight to him without breaking stride, and when you reached him you put both hands on his face and kissed him properly, the kind that wasn't for anyone watching, and he laughed against your mouth slightly surprised by the enthusiasm of it.
Around them someone made a sound. Someone else said something quietly that produced a small ripple of reaction from the nearest crew members, warm and amused, and neither of you paid any attention to any of it.
"How much did you see?" you asked when you pulled away.
"I came around noon and saw most of it," he said. "From pretty much the first take."
Something moved across your face. "And?"
"You know how I answer that question."
"I want to hear it anyway."
"You were extraordinary," he said. Simply. The way he said true things.
You looked at him for a moment. Then you looked back toward the set, where the lighting equipment was being broken down.
"The third take was better in the second half," you said. "But the fourth had the first half right and Thomas seemed to prefer it overall and I think he's correct but I'm still not sure about the transition in the middle where she–"
"You were extraordinary," he said again.
You stopped and looked at him.
"I've always known you were good," he said. "I've watched your films. I knew. But watching you do it, watching the work behind a single scene." He shook his head slightly. "That's something else."
You were quiet for a moment.
Then you said: "Thank you for staying until the end."
"I didn't want to miss any of it."
You looked at him for another moment with an expression he recognized, the one that appeared when something landed somewhere it was going to stay, and then you said you needed to get out of costume and would be twenty minutes, and he said he would be here, and you went.
–
The trailer was small and warm and smelled of coffee and the neutral scent of makeup and you dropped into the chair in front of the mirror and let out a breath that had been waiting since sometime around the second take.
Michael's hands found your shoulders.
He didn't say anything. He just began to work, slowly and without any agenda, and you felt the tension in your shoulders that you had been carrying since this morning and hadn't fully noticed begin to yield under his hands.
"The transition in the middle was fine," he said quietly.
"It didn't feel fine."
"It looked fine from where I was."
"You're not a director."
"I'm a person with eyes," he said. "And ears. And the transition was fine."
You met his gaze in the mirror. He held it steadily.
"Thomas didn't mention it," he added.
"Thomas doesn't mention everything."
"Thomas mentions what needs mentioning."
You considered that. It was probably true. You looked at his hands on your shoulders in the mirror and felt another layer of the day release itself.
He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your cheek.
You closed your eyes briefly.
"You did good today," he said quietly, against your hair. "You did really good."
You said nothing.
You just sat there for a moment with his hands on your shoulders and the trailer quiet around you and let it be enough.
The drive home was comfortable and wordless, both of you quietly spent from the day, nothing requiring immediate saying.
You drove. He had sent Bill home earlier, knowing you'd take them back, and sat in the passenger seat with his elbow on the door, watching the city go past in the early evening dark, occasionally glancing at you and looking away again without comment.
When you got home you both stood in the kitchen for a moment assessing the situation, both too tired to cook and both aware of it and neither of you pretending otherwise.
"I'll order something," he said.
"Something with pasta," you said, heading for the bathroom. "And not from the place with the containers that always leak."
"The containers don't always leak."
"They always leak," you said, and closed the bathroom door.
He ordered from the place with the containers. He made a mental note to be very careful.
When the food arrived you answered the door in clean clothes with damp hair and accepted the bags and brought them to the coffee table and Michael had already found plates and you both settled onto the couch and ate in the comfortable silence of a weeknight, the television on in the background with the volume low.
At some point Michael had found a rerun of the Three Stooges.
You had discovered several months ago that Michael loved the Three Stooges with a wholehearted enthusiasm that clearly went back to childhood and had never diminished, and you had discovered more recently that you had developed opinions about the Three Stooges yourself, having absorbed enough episodes in his company that certain sketches now made you laugh in a way that still surprised you slightly.
Curly did something on screen.
Michael laughed, the unguarded kind.
You smiled at your pasta.
When you finished you cleaned up the plates just as another episode started and you folded your legs under you on the couch and leaned against him and he put his arm around you and you watched two more episodes in the pleasant stupor of an evening with nowhere to be and nothing requiring attention from either of you.
At some point he reached for the phone and started to dial Bill’s number.
"Wait," you said.
He looked at you.
"Stay," you said.
He looked at you for a moment. "Tonight?"
"Tonight," you said. "We both have the morning free. Stay if you want to."
The phone went back on the coffee table.
"I don't have anything here," he said. "I'd need–"
"Second drawer," you said, already standing. "In the bedroom. Left side."
He followed you to the bedroom and you opened the second drawer on the left side of the dresser and inside, folded neatly, was a set of pyjamas. Dark navy, soft fabric, clearly purchased at some point with this exact occasion in mind.
He looked at them. Then at you.
"I was thinking about asking you for a while," you said, with complete dignity.
He picked them up. Turned them over. Looked at you again with an expression that was somewhere between touched and deeply amused.
"You bought me pyjamas," he said.
"And a toothbrush. I planned ahead."
"You planned ahead for this exact conversation."
"I'm an organised person."
"You bought me a toothbrush and pyjamas and put them in a drawer and waited."
"Do you want them or not?" you said.
He laughed. The full kind, warm and genuine, and you pointed at the bathroom and told him to go get changed and he went, still laughing, and you heard it continue faintly through the door while you got into bed and tried to look as though you had not been quietly pleased with yourself about the pyjamas for several weeks.
He came back in the navy set, which fit well enough, and stood in the doorway for a moment looking at you in bed with Casper already arranged at the foot of it with his usual territorial authority, and something squeezed in his chest at the sight of the two of you there, quiet and warm and waiting, in a way that felt so completely like home that he had to stand still for a second and just let it be what it was.
"Well," he said.
"Well," you agreed, and lifted the blanket.
He got in.
You turned off the lamp.
The room settled into darkness and quiet and you shifted toward him and he shifted toward you and you arranged yourself against his side with the ease of long habit, your head on his shoulder, his arm around you.
His face was close to your hair.
He could smell your shampoo, something clean and faintly floral, still warm from the shower, and he stayed very still for a moment just breathing it in.
Your hand found the front of his pyjama top and held the fabric loosely.
Outside, the city continued its indifferent business.
Inside, nothing was required of either of you.
You fell asleep first. He knew because your breathing changed and the small tension that was always present in your hands even when you were relaxed released completely and you became heavier against his side, no longer managing anything at all.
He lay there for a while in the dark.
Listening to you breathe.
Thinking about nothing in particular.
Then he closed his eyes and the smell of your shampoo was the last thing he was aware of before he followed you into sleep, and it was, without question, the best night's sleep he had had in a very long time.
–
You woke at three in the morning for no precise reason.
That was the thing about it. No sound that had disturbed you, no dream you were escaping, no cause you could point to.
Just the natural surfacing of sleep running its course, consciousness returning gradually and then all at once, and you lay there in the dark for a few seconds orienting yourself.
Then you felt the arms.
It took a moment longer than it should have because arms in the night were not something you were accustomed to, had not been accustomed to for a very long time, and the warmth of someone else's presence in your bed was so unfamiliar that your half-awake brain spent several seconds simply registering it before recognition arrived.
Michael.
You turned your head slightly. The clock on the nightstand read 3:08.
The room was quiet except for his breathing, slow and even, and the distant ambient sound of the city outside your window, and Casper somewhere at the foot of the bed, and you lay there for a moment in the dark with the strange new weight of someone else's arms around you and felt completely, inexplicably awake.
Not anxious or uncomfortable. Just awake, mind running at full capacity while your body would have happily stayed under for another few hours.
You tried to ease yourself out from under his arm carefully, shifting your weight slowly toward the edge of the bed, thinking about a cup of something warm and the couch until your body decided to cooperate again.
His arm tightened.
"Where are you going?" he said. His voice was low and rough with sleep and he was clearly not fully awake but was awake enough.
"I'm up," you said quietly. "Go back to sleep. I was going to go to the living room so I don't keep you awake."
A pause.
He turned toward you, his eyes adjusting to the dark, and looked at you for a moment. Then he reached out and pulled you back toward him.
"Michael–"
"Stay," he said simply.
You looked at him.
He looked back at you, steady and certain, awake enough to know what he wanted and not awake enough to overthink it.
You settled back against his side.
His arm came around you again and he exhaled slowly and you lay there in the dark feeling the sensation of being held in the middle of the night, which was different from being held during the day in a way you hadn't anticipated, quieter and more complete somehow, less managed by either of you.
"I was going to make tea," you said.
"You can make tea in the morning."
"I'm wide awake."
"I know." His hand moved slowly against your arm. "Stay anyway."
You were quiet for a moment.
"Would you rather talk?" you asked.
He considered this. "Yes," he said.
So you talked.
About nothing in particular and everything that came up. He told you something about a melody he had been working out in his head for weeks that he hadn't written down yet because writing it down would make it real and he wasn't sure it was ready to be real.
You told him about a scene coming up in the Bellard shoot that you had been thinking about differently since the last conversation with Thomas and weren't sure yet whether the new interpretation was better or just different.
He asked about Casper's weight. You told him Casper was down a negligible amount that the vet had described as a step in the right direction while looking pointedly at you, which you had decided to take as a compliment.
Michael said nothing about the cheese bites.
You said nothing about the cheese bites.
The conversation wound through the dark slowly, both of you with nowhere to be, and at some point the spaces between exchanges became longer and softer and you were aware of the warmth of him and the dark and the intimacy of a three in the morning that belonged only to the two of you.
He turned toward you slightly. Then lowered his head and kissed you.
Tender and slow, the kind of kiss that didn't announce itself, that simply arrived, and you felt the familiar warmth of it move through you and kissed him back the same way, soft and without agenda, your hand finding his jaw in the dark.
When he pulled back slightly you followed him.
Without planning to, without deciding to, simply chasing the warmth of it, and in doing so you shifted until you were above him, your weight settling over his the way it always did on the couch, naturally and without ceremony, and you kissed him again in the dark of your bedroom at three in the morning with the moonlight coming through the gap in the curtains and laying itself across the blankets in a pale thin stripe.
He kissed you back.
His hands moved to your waist and then, slowly, continued past where they usually stopped. Along the curve of your side. Down the line of your hip. Following the shape of you with a purpose that was different from anything before it, not the careful avoidance you had learned to recognize over the months but something else entirely, something that felt like arrival rather than restraint.
You lifted your head and looked at his face illuminated by the moonlight.
He looked back at you, his breathing slightly changed, his hands still where they had settled, and you searched his face in the pale dark for what you needed to find and found it without difficulty because he wasn't hiding anything, hadn't been hiding anything for a long time now, and what was in his expression was clear and certain and entirely present.
His hands moved again, tracing the curve of you once more, intentionally and slow, and he pressed himself toward you gently and held your gaze and nodded once.
"Are you sure?" you said quietly. "I need to know this isn't just the dark and the hour talking."
He looked at you for a moment.
"I've been thinking about this," he said, his voice low and slightly uncertain in the way it got when he was saying something that mattered and wasn't sure how it would come across. "For a while now. And I want to. I just–"
You kissed him.
Not to silence him but to answer him. The kind of kiss that said everything the dark made difficult to say out loud, and you felt him exhale into it and the uncertainty in his hands dissolve as they found your hips again.
You didn’t kiss him gently this time. You kissed him with everything that had been waiting, all the patience and the months of it, and he made a sound against your mouth that you felt more than heard, and you kissed him until the sentence he hadn't finished was entirely forgotten.
Then you moved your lips to his jaw and then lower, toward his neck, toward the warm skin there that smelled faintly of his cologne and underneath it something that was simply him, and you pressed your lips there and stayed.
You pulled back just enough to look at him in the thin moonlight, your hand moving to his face, your thumb tracing his cheekbone slowly.
"Hey," you said softly.
He looked at you.
"We go at whatever pace you need," you said. "And if at any point you want to stop, we stop. No questions." You held his gaze. "And I will guide you, but you can take over at any point if you feel comfortable."
Something in his expression shifted, the last of the uncertainty giving way to something quieter and more settled, and he reached up and covered your hand with his where it rested against his face.
“And…” you started, then paused for a second as you felt a blush creeping up your neck. “You can touch me anywhere you like.”
Even in the pale moonlight, you could see the rosy color of his cheeks. You leaned down and pressed your forehead to his for a moment, just breathing the same air, before you kissed him again, soft and slow, giving him all the time in the world.
And underneath the softness of the kiss and the warmth of his hands finding you and the tender quiet of the room, something moved through you that had nothing to do with wanting and everything to do with what this meant.
He was trusting you. Not the way he had trusted you with his feelings or his words or the careful vulnerable conversations of the past months, but with something he had never given anyone, something he had protected so completely and for so long that the giving of it now felt like its own kind of declaration.
You understood the weight of it. You had always understood it. And you held it the way you held everything he gave you, carefully and without making a show of the care, your hands gentle and your patience real and your heart so full of him that there was no room left for anything else.
It didn’t take long before you felt his hands move up from your hips under your shirt and lift it slightly. You sat up, still cradling him and guided his hands to the hem of your shirt and let him pull the fabric above your head as you lifted your arms, leaving you with only your bra, which you unclasped behind your back and shook off as well.
Michael’s breath hitched as your breasts spilled free, the nipples already hard, begging for his touch. His eyes locked onto them, dark and wide, like he was hypnotized.
He looked at you for a long moment in the moonlight, completely still, taking you in with the same attention he gave things he wanted to remember. Then something shifted in his expression, soft and unguarded, and he reached up and touched your face gently as though you were something he was still getting used to being allowed to touch.
"You're so beautiful," he said quietly. Not as a performance. Just as a true thing that needed saying.
You kissed the inside of his palm on your face before he lowered his hands and hovered them near your waist, palms pressing against your skin as if he was memorizing the shape of you. You guided them upward, urging him to cup your breasts. His thumbs grazed over your nipples, sending a shiver through you both. His breath came faster, his chest heaving, his length stirring to life, pressing against the seam of his pyjama bottoms, a silent plea for more intimacy.
“You’re doing so well,” you murmured, enjoying his touch. Your fingers brushed against his chest, feeling the way his muscles tensed under the shirt. “Just let yourself feel it.”
The soft pyjamas you gave him were loose but still a barrier between you and the skin you craved. You reached for the buttons of his top, undoing them one by one slowly. His chest rose and fell with each breath, the faintest sheen of sweat breaking out on his skin as you exposed him inch by inch.
“You’re so beautiful,” you breathed his own words back to him, running your hands over his chest. His nipples were already hard, and you couldn’t resist leaning down to kiss a trail down his collarbone. Michael gasped, his hips jerking slightly beneath you.
You sat back, your fingers tracing the soft fabric of your pyjama waistband, slowly easing it down, panties and all, until they slipped off your legs and you kicked them away. Nude now, you could feel the cool air against your already throbbing core. You climbed back onto him, your bare skin meeting his, your slick heat pressing against his stomach as you leaned in, capturing his mouth in a hungry, passionate kiss.
Michael’s hands found your waist again, gripping you tighter as if he were afraid you might slip away. You reached down, your fingers finding the hard length of him through the thin fabric of his pyjamas. He was already hard, thick and heavy in your palm. You stroked him gently through the fabric, feeling him pulse in your hand. He let out a low, guttural moan, a sound that started at the base of his throat and rumbled out, filled with need and surprise before you hooked your fingers into his waistband and pulled them down.
His length was exposed, long and flushed, the tip already leaking. You held his gaze, unblinking, as you slowly raised two of your fingers to your mouth and parted your lips, letting him see your tongue as you swirled it around the pads of your fingers, wetting them thoroughly.
You could see his pupils dilate, his breath hitching as you pulled your fingers out of your mouth with a soft pop.
Keeping your eyes locked with his, you reached down, guiding your fingers to your entrance. You pushed them in, feeling your folds stretch around them, your body welcoming the intrusion. You could see Michael's chest rise and fall rapidly, his gaze flicking between your fingers disappearing inside you and your unwavering stare.
Then he held your gaze throughout. That was the thing that struck you most, not the vulnerability of the moment or the intimacy of being watched so completely, but the fact that he held your gaze with a steady openness, no embarrassment, no looking away, just him watching you with an expression so nakedly tender that you felt it somewhere deeper than the physical, somewhere that had nothing to do with the body and everything to do with what you were to each other.
You had been wanted before. You had never been looked at quite like this.
After you were stretched enough, you guided him to your entrance, and as you began to sink down, Michael felt a sensation he'd never experienced before.
The tight, wet heat enveloped the head of his length, and he gasped at the intense, almost overwhelming pleasure. You were so slick, so ready, and as you took him inch by inch, he could feel every ridge, every contour of your folds.
It was like nothing he'd ever imagined, a tight, velvet grip that seemed to pulse around him, drawing him in deeper. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps as you continued to lower yourself, until he was buried to the hilt.
His back arched off the bed, a guttural, almost animalistic sound tearing from his throat as he was consumed by the sensation of being inside you for the first time.
You stilled completely, giving him time, and looked down at him.
You watched his chest rise and fall unevenly, watched him process it, and you didn't move, didn't rush him, just stayed exactly where you were and let the moment be as large as it needed to be.
After adjusting to the sensation of him inside you, you began to ride him, slow and deep at first, savoring the way his hands gripped your thighs, the way his breath hitched every time you took him deeper. Your hands braced on his chest as you rolled your hips and Michael’s fingers dug into your skin, his eyes locked on where you were joined. Your breath came in sharp, uneven gasps, his thighs trembling beneath you.
“That’s it,” you encouraged, your voice a husky whisper. “You feel incredible.”
As you picked up the speed, his hips started to move on their own, thrusting up into you as you rolled your hips on top of him. The bed creaked under the force of it, the sound of skin slapping skin filling the room. You could feel his length swelling inside you, his control slipping.
He lasted longer than you expected – maybe a minute – but then his hips stuttered, pulsing deep inside you as he came with a choked cry. His body went rigid beneath you as he spilled himself inside you. His face flushed with embarrassment as he realized what had happened.
As he rode out his orgasm, his hands flew up to cover his face immediately, a sound escaping him that was somewhere between a groan and a laugh, the mortification of someone whose body had betrayed them at the exact moment they most wanted control over it.
He turned his face to the side, away from you, chest still heaving, and you could feel the heat radiating from his skin even without touching him as he still twitched inside you, still hard despite his orgasm. He said something into his hands that you couldn't fully make out but understood the shape of completely.
You didn't let him disappear into it.
You reached up and took his wrists gently and moved his hands away from his face, and he resisted for just a moment before letting you, and when his face was visible again his eyes were closed and his jaw was tight and the flush across his cheeks had reached his ears and down his neck.
“Hey,” you said softly, leaning down to peck his lips. He looked up at you, his eyes heavy with shame. “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. This was your first time. You did amazing.”
Michael let out a shaky laugh, his hands cupping your face. “But I… I didn’t even last.”
“Yeah, well,” you teased, grinding your hips slightly, “we’ve got all night.”
He groaned, his length twitching inside you again.
You laughed as you slid off him and collapsed beside him, your head finding the warm curve of his neck, your hand resting flat against his chest where his heart was still going at a pace that matched your own.
Neither of you spoke for a moment.
The room had settled back into its quiet and the moonlight was still there across the blankets and outside the city was still doing whatever the city did at this hour and none of it required anything from either of you.
You could feel his heartbeat slowing gradually under your palm.
"How was it?" you asked, into his neck.
He let out a long breath that had been sitting somewhere in his chest. Then a soft laugh, the exhausted genuine kind.
"Amazing," he said.
The word came out slightly undone around the edges, like he meant it more than one word could contain.
You lifted your head and looked at him. His face in the moonlight was open in a way you had seen before but never quite like this, something in it that had been there all along but was now simply closer to the surface, unprotected and entirely still.
"Thank you," you said quietly. "For trusting me with it."
He looked at you for a moment without saying anything. Then his hand came up and moved through your hair slowly, just once, and the fondness in his eyes was so complete and so unguarded that you felt it settle somewhere permanent.
"I love you," he said. His voice was low and slightly rough and entirely certain.
"I love you too," you said.
He had something else to say, you could see that clearly, but the gap between having it and finding the shape of it in words was giving him trouble, and he sat with it for a moment, his expression doing the quiet work of someone who wanted to get it right rather than just get it out.
Finally, he spoke.
“How,” he said, then paused for a moment, trying to find the right words. “How can I make it pleasurable for you?”
You chuckled at his words. “Your first time is all about you, Michael,” you said into his shoulder. “Yes, I didn’t come, but that’s normal. It all happens with time.” There was no ounce of judgement in your voice.
"I want to make it good for you," he said. The directness of it surprised you slightly, so earnest, so immediately focused on you even after having just done something vulnerable himself.
You looked at him for a moment, your finger tracing a slow absent path along his collarbone.
"You already are," you said honestly.
"But if you want to know what would make it better?" You held his gaze. "Stop thinking so much. Stop managing it."
Your finger stilled against his chest.
"Just let yourself feel it. Whatever you want to do, do it, initiate it. I'm not going anywhere."
You shifted, straddling him once more, and took his hands, placing them on your breasts above him.
This time, he didn't hesitate.
He squeezed and massaged them, his thumbs brushing over your nipples, making you moan in pleasure. His hands were hungry, eager, learning your body with a newfound confidence. He gripped your ass, pulling you against him, his eyes dark with desire.
With a sudden, powerful movement, he flipped you onto your back, kicking off his pyjamas and shirt, his body covering yours in an instant. He kissed you, deeply, hungrily, his hands exploring and possessive. He broke away, his breath ragged.
"I want to taste every inch of you," he growled, his voice a low, primal rumble. He descended, his hands gripping your breasts, squeezing them together as he buried his face between them. His mouth found your nipple, and he latched onto it, sucking and licking with a hunger that bordered on merciless.
You were surprised by his sudden confidence but enjoyed every second of it as uncontrollable moans left your lips, some of them swallowed by him as he kissed you again.
You could feel his hard length pressing against you, rubbing against your entrance with every movement, the head brushing over your clit and making you arch your back, a soft moan escaping your lips as you threw your head back onto the pillow.
This time, he took control. No hesitation, no nervousness, just raw, desperate need as he positioned himself at your entrance and slowly thrust into you, his hips rolling with a rhythm that had you both gasping. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, urging him on with whispered praise.
Nothing had prepared him for the reality of it. The warmth of skin against skin, the closeness of it, the overwhelming sensation of another person this near and meaning it. He had understood it theoretically. The theory had not come close. He pressed his face into your neck and held on.
“Fuck, yes, just like that,” you moaned as he hit the perfect spot inside you. Michael groaned, his forehead resting against yours as he fucked you with a single-minded focus. You moaned into his mouth, your nails digging into his back as he pressed you into the mattress, chasing your pleasure as much as his own
His hips snapped against yours as he pounded into you. The bed shook beneath you, the headboard rattling against the wall. You could feel your own orgasm building, coiling tight in your core.
Unable to hold back any longer, you came with a cry, your body clamping down around him, waves of pleasure crashing over you. Your nails dug into his back, your legs trembling as you rode out your orgasm. Michael let out a guttural groan, his body tensing as he followed you over the edge, burying his face in your neck as he emptied himself inside you, his hips jerking with each pulse.
He lasted so much longer this time, losing track of time, of thought, of anything but the moment. He existed purely in sensation, in the feel of your body against his, in the sound of your moans, in the rhythm of your breath.
Somewhere along the way, he understood what you'd meant, the freedom of letting go, of finding himself in the act of losing himself.
When his orgasm finally hit, it was from somewhere deep and total, and he clung to you, his face buried in your neck, his arms wrapped around you so tightly you could feel it in your ribs.
"I've got you," he breathed, his voice ragged, his grip fierce. Whether it was a promise to you or a reassurance to himself, he wasn't sure.
He collapsed on top of you, your legs tangled together, his breath hot against your skin as you both caught your breath. Michael kissed your shoulder, his voice rough with satisfaction.
You lay there for a moment just breathing, his weight still partially over you, your cheek against his chest as he propped himself up on one arm, his heartbeat still faster than usual under your ear.
"That," you said finally, still out of breath, "was wonderful."
He laughed, the breathless undone kind, dropping his forehead to yours. "I think I need more practice."
You looked up at him. "You made me come during our second time," you said, with complete composure. "I'm not sure you understand how well that reflects on you."
He went slightly pink even in the dark, a soft blush creeping across his cheeks. You found it enormously endearing, a stark contrast to the man who had been pounding into you with such raw hunger just moments before.
He ducked his head, pressing his lips to your temple, hiding his bashfulness.
–
By the time you were finished, the sky outside the curtains had gone from black to the deep blue that preceded dawn and then to the grey of early morning and then, finally, to something that was unmistakably light.
You had lost count.
Not of the times you did it exactly, more of the hours, the way time had stopped being something either of you were tracking and had become simply the medium through which everything else was happening. There had been talking in between, the easy wandering kind that happened when two people were warm and close and had nowhere to be, and there had been laughter at least twice, and there had been long stretches of quiet that weren't silence so much as the absence of needing to fill anything.
And there had been him.
Each time different from the last. The careful tentativeness of the first giving way to something more present, more confident, more entirely his own, the shyness peeling back layer by layer until what was underneath it was something you had suspected was there and were very glad to have confirmed.
He had hunger in him.
He had always had it, you suspected, carefully managed and carefully contained, and watching it find its expression now, watching him reach for what he wanted without apology, was its own joy.
By seven in the morning you were both thoroughly, completely spent.
You fell asleep mid-sentence, something about the Bellard shoot, and you didn't hear the end of it and didn't need to.
You woke at ten to light coming properly through the curtains and Michael warm beside you. Neither of you moved immediately.
You lay there in the stillness of a late morning with nowhere to be, your head on his shoulder, his hand moving slowly through your hair, and talked about nothing in the way you had talked about nothing at three in the morning except that now the light was different and the city outside was fully awake and neither of those things required anything from either of you.
He said something that made you laugh into his shoulder.
You said something that made him press his lips together trying not to smile and fail completely.
Casper had come back in the morning and stretched elaborately between your legs, resettling himself with considerable ceremony.
At some point you became aware of the fact that you needed a shower and you sat up and looked at him.
"Shower?" you said.
"Yes," he agreed, with feeling.
You looked at him for a moment. "Do you want to join me?"
He was already getting up.
The bathroom was small enough that two people in it required a certain amount of negotiation, which you managed without difficulty, and he stood under the water with wide eyes, clearly encountering your shower pressure for the first time and finding it considerably more powerful than expected.
He used your shampoo without asking.
You watched him work it through his hair with focused attention, clearly wanting to do it correctly, and you said nothing, just handed him the conditioner when he looked at it uncertainly and he accepted it with dignity.
Nothing happened in the shower beyond the shower itself, which surprised you slightly and also didn't, because there was something about the ordinary domesticity of it, the two of you standing under the same water in the early morning light, that felt like its own kind of intimacy, quieter than anything else and no less complete.
When you were done and dry and dressed he stood in your bedroom in yesterday's clothes, looking down at them with a resignation that made the conclusion fairly obvious.
"You should bring things," you said, from the doorway. "Clothes. Things you can change into."
He looked at you. "Things I can change into after."
"After," you confirmed, without elaborating.
He nodded slowly with the air of someone adding an item to a mental list that he was very much looking forward to actioning.
He had to leave by eleven.
You walked him to the door and stood in the hallway while he put on his shoes, the same automatic gesture at your door that he had been making for over a year, and you watched him do it and felt the quality of a morning that was different from all the mornings before it without being able to point to any single visible thing that had changed.
Everything had changed.
Nothing looked different.
Both of those things were true simultaneously.
You opened the front door and stepped outside with him. Bill hadn't arrived yet so you stood together in the mild morning air waiting, his hand finding yours without either of you deciding it should.
He looked at you for a long moment.
"I want to say something," he said.
You waited.
He turned toward you slightly, his expression doing the thing it did when he was saying something that mattered and wanted to get it right.
"You were so patient with me," he said.
"For so long. All these months." He paused. "I knew for a long time that you were the right person. I knew it and I was still afraid and you never once made me feel the fear was wrong or that I was taking too long."
He held your gaze. "I just want you to know that I knew. And I was right. And I'm so grateful that you were the one I waited for."
You looked at him standing there in the morning light outside your door saying these things to you with complete openness and no performance and no audience except the quiet street and you felt something move through you that was too large and too warm and too complete to be contained in any single word.
"I love you," he said.
And then he kissed you.
Not a goodbye kiss or a perfunctory end-of-visit kiss. The kind that belonged to someone who was no longer afraid of being seen, who had stopped managing the visibility of what he felt and was simply expressing it, there on your doorstep in the morning with the street around you and Bill's car not yet arrived and nothing between the kiss and the world except the open air.
When he pulled back you were still looking at him.
He waited.
You always had an answer. That was the thing about you he had understood very early and had never stopped finding both impressive and occasionally frustrating. You had an answer for everything and you produced it quickly and cleanly and with a confidence that proved you had thought faster than the room for so long it had simply become how you operated.
In the entire time he had known you he could count on one hand the number of times he had managed to genuinely render you speechless.
This was one of them.
You opened your mouth. Nothing came out.
He felt something that he was not going to pretend was anything other than smugness, deep and complete and entirely deserved, spread across his chest.
He raised his eyebrows.
The smile arrived before he could manage it, widening when you closed your mouth again, widening further when you opened it a second time and produced nothing a second time, and he stood there on your doorstep in the morning and felt extremely pleased with himself in a way he intended to remember for a very long time.
You closed your mouth.
Bill's car turned onto your street.
And then you covered your face with both hands and stepped back inside and closed the door in his face.
He stood on your doorstep for a moment.
Then he laughed. Loud enough that he suspected you could hear it through the door, and he was still laughing when he turned toward Bill's car and still laughing when Bill raised his eyebrows from the driver's seat in a way that communicated he had seen the door close and had drawn his own conclusions.
Michael got in.
Bill said nothing, which was usual.
Inside, you stood in your hallway with your hands still over your face and your back against the closed door and smiled into your palms until your face hurt with it.
Outside, Bill's car pulled away.
–
May 1987
May arrived with the warmth of a Los Angeles spring that had finally decided to commit, the mornings bright and the evenings long and the whole city carrying the energy of a season that had somewhere to be.
You had nowhere to be.
That was the thing about today that kept arriving with fresh pleasure every time you remembered it. Filming had wrapped three days ago and your schedule for the next several weeks was, for the first time in months, genuinely empty, and you were spending the first properly free day you'd had since January doing absolutely nothing on your couch with Casper on your feet and Michael beside you and the windows open to let in the May air.
Michael had his own news.
He had held the press conference two days ago and you had watched it on your television with a pride so complete it had surprised you slightly, this person you loved standing in front of cameras and microphones announcing to the world that the Bad tour would begin in Japan in September and then move through country after country for the better part of a year.
You had sat on your couch and thought about everything that had brought him to that moment and felt something that didn't have a precise name but lived somewhere in the territory between pride and joy and the happiness of watching someone you loved step into something they had earned completely.
Now he was sitting beside you on the couch looking at you with an expression you recognized.
"Come with me," he said.
You looked at him. "On the tour?"
"On the tour. All of it. Japan, Europe, everywhere." He said it with the easy certainty of someone who had already decided how this conversation was going to go. "Come with me."
You looked at him for a moment.
"I'd love to," you said. "But I can't be there for every stop."
His expression shifted. "Why not?"
"Because I have my own schedule. And I'm in talks for something that's set to film at the end of the year and I'm seriously considering taking it."
He was quiet for a moment.
"Skip it," he said.
You stared at him. "I'm sorry?"
"Skip the project. Come with me instead." He said it with complete seriousness. "You could see the whole world."
"I have my own money," you said pleasantly. "I can already see the whole world."
"It's different seeing it with me."
"Your schedule," you said, with great patience and a bit of attitude, "is not more important than mine."
"I didn't say it was."
"You said skip the project."
"I said skip that specific project."
"Because your tour takes priority."
"Because I cannot be apart from you for that long," he said, with some feeling, which would have been more persuasive if he hadn't crossed his arms while saying it, which made him look considerably more petulant than lovelorn.
You looked at him.
He looked back at you, clearly aware he was losing this argument and having decided that awareness changed nothing.
"Michael," you said.
"Yes."
"You are going on a world tour. You will be performing in front of thousands of people every night in cities across the entire planet. You are going to be, by any reasonable measure, the most occupied person on earth."
"And I will want you there for every second of it."
"And I will be there," you said, your voice softening slightly because you meant it and wanted him to know you meant it, "for as much of it as I can manage around my own career. Which I am keeping. Which is not a point of negotiation."
He said nothing.
"I'll rearrange everything I can rearrange," you said. "I'll be there for every rehearsal I can get to. I'll be there whenever I'm physically able to be. I'll come to every stop I can manage around my schedule."
You held his gaze. "That's what I can offer you. Take it or leave it."
A pause.
"Take it," he said, with great dignity, as though he were the one doing the conceding.
"Good."
He nodded slowly. Then, because he could not help himself, he said, "That's more like it." A beat. "Feels much better when you obey me, doesn’t it?"
You looked at him incredulously before you tackled him.
Not seriously. The light easy kind, your hands finding his shoulders and pushing and him already laughing before you made contact, and the two of you tussled across the couch cushions with Casper departing the scene at speed, his dignity clearly offended by the whole situation.
You ended up on top of him, pinning his wrists loosely with your hands, both of you slightly breathless.
"Stop being smug," you told him.
"I'm not being smug. I'm being pleased."
"You said that's more like it. Also, I will never obey you."
"I was expressing satisfaction with the outcome."
"You were being insufferable."
"Stop," he said, looking up at you with complete composure, "or I'll make you regret pinning me down."
"Stop," you said, "or I'll kiss you."
He looked at you.
"Don't," he said, "threaten me with a good time."
You stared at him.
He held your gaze without flinching, entirely at ease, and you thought about who he had been a few months ago, careful and managed and so quietly afraid of everything he felt, and who he was now, lying beneath you on your couch in May with that expression on his face, and you could not decide whether to be exasperated or delighted and settled on both.
You leaned down and kissed his cheek.
Then the other one.
Then his forehead, the bridge of his nose, the corner of his jaw, working your way across his face with the thoroughness he had long since stopped pretending to find anything other than completely welcome, and he laughed and turned his face and you followed it.
Then you moved lower, toward his neck, kissed it once and stopped.
You lifted your head.
Something had caught you.
You looked at him, then at his neck, then at him again, your expression shifting into something he couldn't immediately read.
"Michael," you said.
"Hm?" He was still smiling slightly.
"Are you wearing my perfume?"
The smile faded by approximately one degree.
He looked at the ceiling.
"Michael."
"Your ceiling," he said thoughtfully, "has an interesting texture."
"Look at me."
He continued his examination of the ceiling with great focus.
You reached up and took his chin in your hand and turned his face toward yours with gentle firmness, and he let you, resigned, having clearly known this moment was arriving and having simply been buying time.
He met your eyes.
His ears were already pink.
"I like your scent," he said, before you could speak. "I've always liked it. And I thought if I just used a little in your bathroom, I'd be surrounded by it and I know how that probably–"
"That," you said quietly, "is the sexiest thing you have ever done."
He stopped.
Something shifted in your expression as you looked at him, something that took him a moment to correctly identify, and when he did his eyes widened slightly because it was not what he had been bracing for.
You lowered your face to his neck.
And breathed.
The scent of your floral perfume on his skin was entirely different from how it smelled in the bottle or on your own pulse point, warmer and deeper and threaded through with something that was simply him underneath it, and you stayed there with your nose pressed to the curve of his neck just breathing it in, your eyes closed.
He had gone completely still.
After a long moment you lifted your head and looked at him.
He was watching you with an expression that had moved well past bewilderment into something considerably warmer, his ears thoroughly pink, his earlier smugness nowhere to be found.
You looked at him for another moment before smiling. “I think we should get you even more surrounded by my scent.”
The pink reached his cheeks in real time as he understood what you meant.
He sat up, gathered you from the couch with the easy certainty that had become very familiar over the past two months, and carried you to the bedroom without another word.–September 1987The noise backstage was something that Michael had known his entire life, the controlled chaos of a show about to begin, equipment and crew and the electric anticipation of thousands of people on the other side of a curtain who had been waiting for this and were about to get it.
He had done this hundreds of times.
He had never done it quite like this.
Japan was the first stop of the Bad World Tour and the weight of that, the weight of a first that would determine the shape of everything that followed, had been sitting somewhere in his chest for weeks and was sitting there now with considerably more presence than it had possessed at any point during rehearsals.
He found you in the wings.
You were standing slightly apart from the crew, in the way you had of being present without being in the way, and you looked at him when he appeared and your expression did the thing it did when you could see something in his face that he hadn't said out loud yet.
You crossed to him.
"Hi," you said.
"Hi," he said.
You looked at him for a moment. Really looked, taking him in completely, the costume and the nerves and everything underneath both of those things that was simply him.
Then you put both hands on his face.
"Listen to me," you said quietly. Your voice was steady in the way it got when you meant something completely and wanted him to feel that you meant it.
"You have been working toward this your entire life. Every rehearsal, every recording session, every moment you spent in a studio or on a stage or pushing yourself further than you thought you could go. All of it was practice for tonight."
Your thumbs moved across his cheekbones slowly. "Tonight is just you doing what you were born to do. In front of people who already love you."
He looked at you.
"You are the most talented person I have ever known," you said. "And I have known you long enough to say that from a position of complete confidence."
A pause.
"You're going to walk out there and you're going to be amazing. Because you always are. Because you cannot help it."
His hands had found your waist somewhere in the middle of this.
"And when you come off that stage," you said, "I'm going to be right here."
He pulled you in and held you, your face against his shoulder, his arms completely around you, and you felt him breathe slowly the way he breathed when he was grounding himself in something real before stepping into something enormous.
Around you the crew moved with practiced efficiency and nobody looked twice because they had all learned by now that this was simply the way things were, Michael finding you, the two of you existing in this quiet inside the noise for a few minutes, and then him stepping out and becoming something else while remaining entirely himself.
He pulled back just enough to look at you.
Then he kissed you.
Soft and certain and entirely present, his hands on your face, and you kissed him back the same way and felt him settle into it the way he always settled into you, like something in him that had been running at a higher frequency than was entirely comfortable finally found the right register.
When he pulled back his eyes were clear.
"I love you," he said.
"I love you," you said. "Now go."
He grinned.
And then he turned and walked toward the stage and the noise swelled around him and the lights changed and you stood in the wings and watched him step out into the roar of sixty thousand people and become the thing he was when he was most completely himself, and you felt something in your chest so large and so warm that you pressed your hand against it briefly just to have somewhere to put it.
The music started.
You stood there in the wings and watched him deliver magic.
And you thought about a charity gala in November 1985 and a boy with tired eyes who had sat beside you and talked about nothing for twenty minutes, and you thought about everything that had happened between that evening and this one, and you thought that if someone had told you then where you would be standing now you would not have believed them.
You believed it now.
Every word of it.
–
April 1988
The envelope was in someone's hands at the front of the Shrine Auditorium and Michael could not look at it directly.
The 60th Academy Awards, and your name on the list of nominees for Best Actress in a Leading Role, and the weight of that combination sitting in his chest since the moment the nominations had been announced three months ago and showing no signs of lifting.
He had decided approximately forty minutes ago that looking at it directly was not something he was capable of doing and had been managing this by looking at you instead, which was considerably easier and also considerably better for his blood pressure.
You were sitting beside him in the composed stillness you brought to things that were enormously important to you, your hands in your lap, your expression arranged into something that looked like calm and which he knew, from over two years of knowing you completely, was simply the face you wore when you were feeling everything and containing all of it.
He had watched you do it at the first gala you attended together.
He had watched you do it in your living room on a December afternoon when everything between you was breaking open and you were holding yourself together through sheer force of will.
He had watched you do it on set four takes into a scene that Thomas Bellard kept asking for because he could see you getting closer to something true.
He knew what it looked like.
He reached over and found your hand in your lap and held it.
You didn't look at him. You were looking at the stage. But your fingers closed around his immediately and held on, and he felt the slight tension in them that confirmed everything he already knew about how much this moment cost you to sit still inside.
The presenter was speaking.
He heard the words the way you heard things when you were too focused on something adjacent to fully absorb the thing itself, syllables without complete meaning, until one word arrived that cut through everything else with perfect clarity.
Your name.
He heard your name.
And then the Auditorium was applauding and the people around you were turning and you were sitting completely still for one suspended second, as though your body needed that extra moment to confirm what your ears had just received, and then something in your face broke open into the most unguarded expression he had ever seen on it, something that was joy and disbelief and relief and the overwhelming feeling of something you have worked your entire life toward arriving all at once.
He stood up.
He was on his feet before he had decided to stand, applauding, and he didn't care what he looked like or who was watching and he found he was laughing, actually laughing, the full kind, because the joy of it was too large to be contained in anything quieter.
You turned to look at him.
Your eyes were bright with tears you were not going to let fall here, not yet, and you looked at him with an expression that contained everything you didn't have time to say right now and he received it completely.
Then you leaned over and kissed him.
Brief and warm and entirely real, his hand finding your face for just a moment, and then you pulled back and stood and smoothed your gown and walked toward the stage with the grace that was simply how you moved through the world, and he watched you go and felt something so complete in his chest that he had to press his hand against it briefly.
He had felt that before.
In the wings of a stage in Japan eight months ago.
He sat back down.
He watched you walk up the steps and cross to the microphone and take the award from the presenter's hands, and the weight of it was visible in the way you held it, both hands, carefully, like something irreplaceable.
You looked out at the audience for a moment.
Then you began to speak.
"I have been thinking about what I would say if this moment came," you said, "for considerably longer than I'm going to admit to publicly."
A ripple of warm laughter moved through the room.
"And I had something prepared. Something proper and organized and appropriately grateful." A pause. "I'm going to abandon it."
The room listened.
"A few years ago I made a film that almost nobody saw," you said. "I didn't know that a director named Thomas Bellard was watching it. I didn't know that years later he would call my agent and say he wanted me for his next project based on nothing except what he saw in that film."
You looked at the award in your hands.
"What I do know is that the role Thomas gave me was the hardest thing I have ever done professionally. A woman who made a catastrophic mistake and spent the rest of the film living inside the full weight of it. I gave it everything I had because the material demanded it and because Thomas Bellard does not accept anything less and because I believed in it from the first page." A pause. "I still do."
Michael watched your face.
"What I know now," you said, "is that the work matters. That doing it seriously and honestly and without compromise matters, even when nobody is watching, even when the circumstances are difficult, even when it would be easier to take a different road."
You looked up.
"This award belongs to Thomas Bellard, who trusted me with something beautiful. It belongs to every person on that set who showed up every day and made something real. And it belongs to the people who believed in me before there was any evidence that believing in me was a reasonable thing to do."
Your eyes found him in the audience.
"Thank you," you said simply.
The Auditorium applauded again and you walked off the stage and he was already moving.
–
The apartment was quiet when you got home.
The city outside was still doing its late night business and the lights of it came through the windows and laid themselves across the floor in the familiar way they always did, and Casper appeared from somewhere and wound around your ankles, welcoming you back.
You set the award on the kitchen counter.
You stood there for a moment just looking at it, the kitchen quiet around you, still in your dress, and Michael stood in the doorway and watched you look at it and understood what the moment was and let it be what it was.
Then you turned.
"I need to get out of this dress," you said, already turning your back to him and gathering your hair over one shoulder. "Help me unzip it."
"Wait," he said.
You looked at him.
He crossed the kitchen toward you.
He stopped in front of you and looked at you for a moment, in the low light of your kitchen, in your gown, with the Oscar on the counter behind you and the quiet of the apartment around you and Casper somewhere near your feet, and something in his expression was so open and so certain and so completely without fear that you felt it before he said anything.
"I have been thinking about the right moment for this," he said, "for a long time."
You were very still.
"I thought about doing it at the show in Tokyo. I thought about doing it somewhere grand, somewhere that would make a good story." He held your gaze. "And then I realized that the best things that have ever happened between us happened here. In this apartment. With nobody watching."
He paused. "And this should be the same."
He reached into his jacket pocket.
And then he was lowering himself in front of you, one knee finding the kitchen floor, and he was holding something small and open in his palm that caught the light from the window and your breath left your body entirely before your mind had fully registered what you were looking at.
"I have loved you," he said, "since before I knew what to call it. I loved you when I was too afraid to say it. I loved you when I made every wrong decision available to me." He stopped for a moment, his eyes going bright in a way he didn't try to hide, and then he continued. "I loved you through all of it and I will love you through everything that comes after this."
His voice was steady and quiet and entirely certain.
"You are the most extraordinary person I have ever known. And you loved me," he said, "when I gave you every reason not to." He swallowed once. "You are the reason I stopped being afraid."
He looked up at you from where he knelt on your kitchen floor.
"Will you marry me?"
The tears came without your permission.
Not the careful contained variety you had managed at the Auditorium. The real tears, the ones that arrived when you had run out of ways to hold something back because the thing itself was simply too large for any container you possessed.
You looked at him kneeling on your kitchen floor with a ring in his hand and your Oscar on the counter behind you and Casper sitting three feet away utterly unbothered, and you thought about every impossible thing that had happened between that first charity gala in 1985 and this evening, and you thought that you would choose every single moment of it, every difficult and painful and beautiful and ordinary moment, because every single one of them had led here.
To your kitchen.
To him.
On one knee.
"Yes," you said.
He exhaled.
The sound of it, long and slow and carrying everything he had been holding, was the most beautiful thing you had ever heard.
He stood and slid the ring onto your finger and you looked at it for a moment, at the weight of it and the light it caught and what it meant, and then you looked at him and he looked at you and neither of you said anything because there was nothing left that needed saying.
He pulled you in.
You went.
And you stood in your kitchen in your gown with your face against his shoulder and his arms around you and the award on the counter and the city outside doing whatever it did and Casper winding around your feet with complete indifference to the magnitude of the moment.
You thought about the first time you had stood like this, in front of cameras and crowds and carefully positioned photographers, his arm around you and your face tilted toward his and both of you performing something for an audience that had no idea it was a performance.
There were no cameras here.
There was no audience.
There was no arrangement and no contract and no carefully managed image and no fear.
There was just him. And you.
You were home.
You had been home for a long time.
You were only now saying so out loud.
A/N: I hope you enjoyed this fic and I'm so happy you were part of this journey with me. ❤️
A note on the intimate scene: writing it was genuinely outside my comfort zone and I was very uncertain about it throughout. I wanted to handle it with the same care and tenderness that I tried to bring to the rest of the story, which meant certain words and registers that are common in smut (like ck or p*y) simply didn't feel right here. If it fell short of what you were hoping for I completely understand, but I hope the emotional honesty of it came through even where the writing felt uncertain to me.
Thank you for reading. This story and the people who followed it mean more to me than I know how to say.
a/n: i know ppl don’t like au’s but i’m sorry i love writing them
vampire! michael jackson x f! reader
t/w: victorian setting, nosferatu inspo, toxic? dark romance, obsession, manipulation, concerning levels of yearning, stalking, blood/gore, 18+ mdni, smut, p in v, blood kink (i mean c’mon), broken bed frames and a lot of biting and hair pulling
wc: 11.6k (sorry don’t kill me)
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The morning sun was pale as it slipped past the curtains, slowly warming up the hardwood floors as much as it could with winter approaching.
You sat on the edge of your bed, your cat brushing up against your legs, impatient to be fed. Leaning down, you picked him up, taking in the soft fur and his warmth as he purred. Trying to gather the courage to get out of bed.
A melancholy had taken hold of your heart the past few months. A weight resting on your shoulders. A presence.
Ever since that night.
Weakness. Loneliness. Desperation. Sin. Whatever it was to be called.
Your mind felt like it was in hell as you called out into the night, teary eyes gazing up at the moon. At an angel. At God. You didn't know, you just needed help. An out. Not knowing how to outrun your mind.
Come to me. You cried, hands clasped so tightly in prayer, your bones shifted beneath your skin. Come to me. Guardian angel. A spirit of comfort. Any celestial being, a sob racked your chest. Come to me. Hear my prayer.
Suddenly it felt as if your breath had been robbed. Stolen. Ripped right from your lungs. The moon too bright and air too still.
But your mind— it was so quiet. Calm.
Something was holding you. The presence greedy.
Your feet carried you across your room, acting on their own accord. Or perhaps someone else's. A string tied around each joint and tugging you along, coiling you up and closer to the puppeteer.
You were brought to the window, the moon so bright. Looking at you.
Oil slipped over you mind as something, someone, he spoke.
I've got you. A caress, enveloping you. Bliss.
You shook your head, begging the memory to go away before it finished.
You always woke up in a sweat despite the long dead fire. Feeling as though you’d been dragged through something. Some sort of unreachable plane.
He was haunting your dreams. Stalking you. You felt like a rabbit running from a wolf. Not a person. Feeling it, Him, crawl beneath your skin like a spider, spinning a web around every vein and heartstring.
The clock chimed and it startled your cat, causing him to leap off your lap and his claws dug into the flesh of your thighs through your nightgown, spotting it with crimson.
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Late.
You pushed through the door with your hip, holding a crate of glass bottles filled with herbs and elixirs. Your spine felt stiff. Your bones not right. You could've sworn you felt Him on your walk to the apothecary that morning.
You were losing it. You knew you were. You couldn't have possibly… it wasn't possible.
But as you turned, the air on the back of your neck stood and it wasn't the cold.
The faintest voice. An echo rattling in your mind.
Come to me.
You blinked the thought away. The daylight was supposed to be safe.
Your boss called your name from somewhere in the back of the shop. Shortly after his head peaked over the shelves, his graying hair a mess. "Have you brought it?"
“Yes, sir." You set the crate down, urging the thoughts of Him, your shadow, to the back of your mind.
You dug the few bottles your boss asked you to order from the crate, the glass cold against your palms, bitter from the atmosphere.
He made his way between tables, his black coat heavy on his shoulders and his glasses perched down his nose as he took one of the bottles from you.
Observing it with scrutiny to see if you’d done a good job. Which you always did. You never messed up.
A slight crease formed between his brows and he set the glass back down into the crate. Barely a nod. That's all you ever got from him. All that you needed. He wasn't one to give thanks or praise. He took a chance on hiring you, you knew that. He didn't owe you anything else but your weekly wages.
He got back to work as you began organising bottles and mincing up ingredients, trying not to let your mind wander as the blade sliced through dried lilac. The sound of the knife hitting the cutting board in tune with your heart.
It began to rain on your walk home, the droplets bitter cold and feeling like bullets of ice. Other city dwellers used what they had as umbrellas if they had none.
You didn't see a point. Your skin was burning, your blood bubbling as if it were trying to claw its way out of your veins. You needed this. The cold.
You didn't mind it as rogue hair stuck to your forehead and neck, water dewing up so heavy on your lashes it was hard to keep your eyes open.
Come to me.
You flinched, turning to the sound, feet picking up pace and frantic to get away. Instincts kicking in as your eyes darted around the bodies rushing to find cover, feet splashing up water.
He was here. In the city. You knew it to be true.
Turning, your world suddenly upended as you collided with someone, black clouding your vision and you felt gloved hands grab hold of your arms to break your fall.
You blinked the rain away, your mind spinning, not understanding and your manners tried to quickly scramble their way forth.
“Apologies," tumbled out of your mouth and you tried to right yourself, but your dress was heavy with water and your skin was tight with the cold.
The hands slowly slid away from you, almost hesitant, and you finally allowed yourself to look up.
Your breath caught, heart skipped a beat, for a mere moment you thought…
“It’s okay."
The man looked down at you. Imposing. Face hidden half in shadow from his hat and the veil of rain.
Your mouth hung open slightly. Your nerves tangled in shock and what might've been trepidation.
The water pounded into the cobblestones beneath him. The rain soaking through his fine coat and hat, water beaded up on his own lashes. His eyes, they looked like the dark side of the moon that kept you company every night. Familiar.
He tilted his head to the side as he watched you, his eyes practically glowing with something you didn't think you’d ever be able to name.
Your heart was thudding in your ears. Or maybe that was just the rain.
Do something.
"I'll be–"
“Have we met–"
You both spoke at once and you couldn't help it as you felt yourself blush, but you blamed it on the cold.
He took his hat off for a moment to push his wet hair back, the locks nearly looked like spilled ink as a black-gloved hand ran through his curls. His eyes met yours again, his expression unreadable and far too encompassing.
“Find a fire, I wouldn't want you to get sick." With that he bowed his head and stepped past you, the sharp click of his shoes fading in with the rest of the crowd.
You looked after him, watching the slight sway of his shoulders, his presence alone towering over everyone else. Men parted for him as he walked, not thinking twice, like he commanded the tides.
His voice...
A crack of thunder startled you and you kept moving, your skin prickling up again.
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Those eyes flickered, blinding you, dancing in your mind. Intent. Obsessed.
You gasped, ripping yourself awake before your mind suddenly eased, like warm water was slowly consuming your body. You were slipping, your mind's chatter easing into quiet as you went under the surface.
You saw him again. That stranger. But not quite. His silhouette was flickering in the shadows but his eyes gleamed of moonlight.
Who are you? You asked, though the air remained still.
The shadows folded, swayed, his eyes tilting. You pulled me out of the dark. His voice was like oil, dripping over the room and staining it.
But who, you stretched your jaw, your common sense fighting its way up, trying to break the surface.
He stepped closer. Your breath hitched. Equal parts frightened and enamoured.
Dark curls suddenly caught the moonlight but it was still difficult to make him out. A shifting phantom. Restless. Crazed as you felt something rough yet soft slide down the side of your neck.
A hand. Possessive.
You are not for the living, your stranger said.
The sharp planes of his face morphed into something tangible as he leaned down. Cool breath hitting your face and you felt in a trance as you looked up at him.
His thumb dragged across your bottom lip. Eyes intent as he followed the action.
You knew you were in the presence of something beyond humanity but you couldn't look away. Couldn't back away. The strings all tangled and too tight.
When you woke up the next morning, your room was empty and your cat sat at the end of your bed, staring at the corner of your room.
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Your mind was muddled as the week went on. He had never touched you before in your dreams. Never... he had never been someone. You wondered if your mind was playing tricks on you. Trying to slot a face into the voice and presence you always felt. Deciding to pick that man you had run into.
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Your hand slipped and the knife tore into your hand, the pain quick and sharp but it was a mere echo.
Wrapping some cloth around the wound, you heard the bell above the door chime.
"One moment!" You called, pulling the cotton tight and weaving your way around the tables and boxes. You wished your boss would let you organize properly. But he had everything where he needed and wanted, peering down his hooked nose every time you asked and sneering, It is organized.
You rolled your eyes thinking about it.
Rounding the corner of some shelves, you stopped short at the sight of a man leaning down, hands in pockets as he looked at some of the medicinals the shop sold.
Dark eyes. Sharp cheekbones.
At your presence, his eyes flicked up, down to your hand, then back up again. Pupils blown a little wide.
"You," you breathed the word without realizing it.
He blinked a few times as he straightened, eyes dancing down to your cut hand again, the blood dotting on the fabric. "You're hurt." His tone held nothing. No worry. No concern. Though, he did sound ever so slightly breathless. Just a bit. Or maybe you were imagining things.
His eyes. He looked hungry.
"I'm fine," you managed to get out, walking behind the counter. For safety, perhaps. Some semblance of security. He was even more overwhelming in broad daylight. In person. Your dream now fading into an even more warped fantasy. Right now he was far too real.
His jaw clenched, the muscles working under his skin. Running his tongue along the inside of his cheek as he seemed to force himself to look away from you and to the wall of bottles and dried goods.
You gnawed at your lip, brows furrowing as you watched him. Taking a breath, you all but ground the words out. "Can I help you with something?"
He sighed, eyes slating towards you, nearly looking pained and it made you feel dizzy. Who was this man?
Your boss snapped your name, appearing from what seemed to be thin air and you flinched. The old man was looking at you like you had grown a second head. "Are you just going to stand there or help him? What do I pay you for?"
You opened your mouth to argue but he was already disappearing into the back of the store. Leaving you blushing and a bit embarrassed. But when you turned back around, the stranger was gone.
You let out a breath of air. Equally relieved but disappointed. In what, you weren’t sure. Curiosity, perhaps. Your eyes looked down at your hand but stopped short when you noticed the dried flowers laying on the table, a black ribbon tied around them with a small piece of parchment. Two letters were drawn in ebony ink.
M.J.
You gently picked them up. Red carnations and Fern.
Your eyes danced to where he had stood, wondering if you focused hard enough he'd materialize like he did the other night.
"Who are you?" You whispered.
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Fresh air. You needed fresh air.
Yanking the sheets off of you, your skin was cold but covered in dew drops of sweat. You could feel it. Feel Him. Crawling over your bones and staining them. An insatiable itch you couldn't reach.
You blindly made your way down the stairs and out into the garden. Your feet silent as they padded across the frost crusted grass. Your body was burning up and you wanted to strip yourself from the cotton, desperate and feeling suffocated as the moon stared down at you.
You yanked at your hair. Strands sticking to your skin. Too much. Too sensitive.
Come to me.
You squeezed your eyes shut, a cry almost leaving you as you felt your feet start to move somewhere. North, maybe.
Your conscience took a step back, a door closing, looking at you with knowing eyes. Wait– you called, but the door locked and oil spilled over again.
Who are you? You asked. You’d always ask till you got an answer, your legs carrying you through the bushes and closer and closer to an unknown. The back of your mind whispered that your parents wouldn't like this. This behavior. Your father nearly sent you off after that first night. Nearly sent you off every night you woke the house with your ramblings of a shadow man.
His voice swirled around you, almost teasing in its lilt— You know.
I do not.
A hand wrapped around the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair. It sent chills down your spine, ravishing your skin.
I... you blinked against the dark, your feet suddenly hitting cobblestone. I know you, don't I?
The hand danced down, leash loosening only a bit and you heard that familiar click of expensive shoes as they walked.
You fell in step with the sound, not feeling the bite of snow on your bare feet. Darkness was folding around you, snuffing out the flames of street lamps. You could faintly make out the sway of his shoulders.
Your head was spinning. Spinning and spinning as you turned down an alley, feet faltering and so bitterly numb you fell to your knees, scuffing your shins and you looked down. Blood. So much. It felt like the earth was pulsing around you from an open artery.
There was a body. A man. Lying stiff a few feet away. Eyes blank and empty. Soulless. Blood poured from his neck.
You should scream.
He knelt at your side, head tilting, brushing your hair away. The blood was sticky and warm against the snow.
What is this insufferable darkness? You felt like you couldn't breathe.
His nose brushed yours. Your phantom. Yours. He belonged to you. His hands twined with your own. Fingers long and much larger than yours. Holding you.
Dream of me. Only me. You felt a chaste kiss against your forehead. Swear it.
The blood was getting stickier. Voices. Approaching steps.
The words left you in a puff of air.
"I swear."
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Your nightmare hadn't ended yet. You were sure of it.
You sat dazed in the chair. Your parents sitting nearby. Your mother clutching her rosary like a vice. Your father wouldn't look at you.
"Father," your father's voice shook with conviction. "Is there anything you can do? Anything we can do?"
You felt dizzy as you stared up at the multicoloured windows. Mother Mary gazed down at you, tears in her eyes.
"Someone has offered to take her in."
Your eyes snapped forward, staring at the priest and he averted his eyes. Right now you were the other. The secret. Fallen. Your mind had been tainted for years now. Your mother said so as she cried into her cross.
"Who?"
"A practitioner… a doctor, of sorts. He's known within a small community for handling rare cases such as these with his treatments." The priest paused, shifting in his chair and removing his spectacles. "However–"
"And what were the results?" Your father asked, inching forward in his chair.
The holy man sighed. "His methods are... are arcane, if any, and I can't–"
"Were they successful?"
The priest rolled his jaw at your father, seeing a lost battle in front of him. "To a degree, but I advise you to think on this, the Church can provide perfectly–"
All you did was stare as the whole... transaction unfolded. That's what it felt like. Being handed off in such a way. The priest's warnings fell on deaf ears. Your mother only bowed her head as the carriage door shut on you. Your father did not say a word.
Your eyes slid to the man sitting across from you. He worked for whoever you were being sent off to. This practitioner. You were hopeless. Damned. No one could possibly fix you. You weren’t sure if there even was anything to be fixed.
The man across from you was not phased at your stare. He returned it tenfold. Gray eyes sharp.
Insightful.
"Where am I going?" You eventually asked, watching the city fade as the wheels turned.
"Somewhere where you know how to be handled."
Your eyes narrowed slightly. "I don't need to be handled."
He settled himself in his seat, crossing an ankle over his knee and forcing you to lean back. "I'm the attendant."
You looked away out the window, your breath fogging up the glass. "I don't care."
"Your father said you could be a handful, he didn't say you were rude."
Clenching your jaw, you looked back at him. He was pale. Strikingly so. His greying hair hidden beneath a cap. "Where am I going?" You asked again.
He sighed as he lit a pipe. The fire from the match lit up his eyes and for a moment they gleamed red. He waited to answer you till he held the pipe between his teeth and smoke plummed out.
"The Jackson Estate."
You raised a brow. You’d never heard of it.
"It's the Practitioner's residence."
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Heels clicked against the polished flooring. It was dark. The only light being candles that flickered along the hall. Illuminating the portraits in a macabre sort of beauty.
You held your breath as the attendant— he still had yet to give you his name, escorted you inside. The estate felt heavy. Dense. The air a little suffocating. You felt Him here. Strongly. Concerned that without the bustle of the city to drown him out he'd be more... loud.
His tour was curt and to the point. Telling you what was off limits and what wasn't. Telling you your schedule, though it was vague. Treatment. He wouldn't elaborate.
Everything was very...elaborate. Elegant. Old.
Refined and styled with thought. Every stitch in the carpet intricate. You felt horribly out of place. And too hot. You had passed by numerous hearths, all of them roaring. Flames licking out onto the marble.
He came to a stop in front of a door on the third floor, turning its silver handle and it popped open with a click. "Your quarters."
You didn't know what you were expecting. A small bed with restraints, maybe. Isn't that what mad people get put through? Bars on the windows. Rats in the corners. Scratch marks on the walls.
But as the door creaked open, you were met with an elegant, albeit ordinary room. Your brows furrowed and looked at him. "What is this?"
"Your room." He said flatly, like you were stupid.
Your jaw clenched and you waved an arm out. "No, what is this? Everything. This house. What treatment? What practitioner?"
He bit the inside of his cheek, looking past you into the room. "You can ask all the questions you want at dinner."
He left before you could say anything else, mouth agape like an idiot as another servant brought in your single trunk. He only nodded briefly at you, not sparing you a glance before scuttling from the room.
You huffed. Confused. A little scared, but your curiosity was winning that battle.
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You weren’t even sure where the dining room was.
Come to me.
The rug softened your foot fall as you walked. Your hand trailing along the wood paneling of the wall. Dizzy as you looked at some very old portraits. They looked like Him. Your stranger. Your ghost. He was haunting you, even here.
The practitioner didn't attend dinner that night.
The attendant said he had a mess to clean up.
Your questions went unanswered.
Jackson. The name was heavy on your tongue. Whispers in your sleep. Restless. Your stomach pooling. Melting. Those eyes. You clenched your thighs together and awoke with a start when there was a sharp knock on your door.
Your breath left you in heavy pants. A shadow could be seen beneath the door. Pulsating. Begging to be let in. Fighting against the moonlight that poured through the tall windows.
You bit your lip, fear crackling in your veins. It was Him. It had to be. You could feel it.
Your name was said lowly from the other side of the door.
You froze. Blinked. Hands moving the covers off of your body before you could think better of it.
You creaked the door open.
Dark brown eyes stared down at you, half swathed in shadow.
Your lips parted. You had a feeling, but lately you couldn't trust your own thoughts. You should've known.
His hands were clasped behind him. Still wearing a suit despite the late hour. He smelled faintly of iron and orchids.
"You." Your brows furrowed. A mixture of disbelief and anger. "How–"
"May I come in? I was told you had some questions."
Let me in.
You nearly fell backward with the force of it. Hands trembling as they opened the door further. He didn't spare you another glance as he walked into the room, shutting the door softly behind him.
"You're in my head," the words tumbled out and you pressed your back into the post of the bed.
His hands were in his pockets as he tilted his head at you. Moonlight glinting off his hair. Looking just like he had that first night you saw him in your room.
"It's... it's you." He was your melancholy. Your darkness. It was him.
"What on Earth are you talking about?"
"Don't deny it!" You bit out, your voice nearly a cry.
He sighed, as if you were being unreasonable. "I see treatment needs to start tomorrow–"
"What treatment? Who are you? You're the one who's been haunting me. I'm not mad, it's you."
All he did was stare at you. Patient.
Pupils wide in the dark.
⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹
You couldn't remember falling asleep. Just the heaviness. Dizziness. Your stranger, looking at you as if you were some sylph.
Your neck was sore and you winced as you moved but hands gently caressed your head.
You faintly heard your name.
You blinked. The world a blur and slowly coming into focus.
You were on the ground, someone kneeling over you, cool breath dusting your face. Thumbs swiping gently under your eyes. "Wake up." The voice. So soft. Smooth and like oil. His. A creature comfort.
You tried to take in the feeling of his calloused hands as he held your face. "What..." early morning light was pooling past the curtains. Your eyes finally found his. The closeness of him was more jarring than anything else had been.
Your brows furrowed. He was infuriatingly complicated.
"I'm not mad." Is all you could think to say.
He hummed, dark hair falling over his eyes as he observed you. This time more clinical. Less consuming than last night.
Had he stayed with you?
You became acutely aware you were sprawled out on the carpet in only your nightgown.
A blush reddened your cheeks and you tried to move but you winced again with the turn of your neck.
"Careful now." He helped ease you up. One hand on the back of your neck, the other around your waist. You were on fire again.
"What happened?"
"You fainted."
"I gathered that much, thank you."
His eyes twitched slightly. You weren’t sure if it was in amusement or not.
Before anything else could cross your mind, such as to push him away, his large hands found your elbows and he hauled you up.
"I'll see you after breakfast."
"What for?"
His hands dropped from you as he walked to the door.
"Our first session."
He left without saying anything else. And if you hadn't been so overwhelmed, you would've noticed the blood on his collar.
Would've noticed the blood on you.
You sat for some time after he'd gone, the faint imprint of his hands still warm against your skin. Your fingers brushed your neck again, wincing but you chalked it up to the faint, perhaps you’d twisted it in the fall. That must be it. You told yourself so twice.
When you did rise, the room seemed too quiet, as if it had been holding its breath. You wrapped your arms around you and padded barefoot in circles around your room, the silence of the house only broken by the occasional tick of the grandfather clock below.
Your eyes then caught on a tray. Not sure when it had gotten there. Maybe he brought it. Though the gesture seemed too...kind.
Toast. A soft boiled egg. Tea that had already begun to cool. You sat, stared at it, then lifted the cup with trembling hands. The tea had a strange aftertaste to it. Iron, maybe? Or the remnants of your own unsettled stomach, but you drank it anyway. You needed something solid in you, or you feared you might float away altogether.
A light knock came at the door, too soft to startle.
The attendant’s voice called your name through the door.
"Yes," you replied, brushing some hair from your face.
He stood just beyond the threshold as he opened it, dressed in proper attire while you were still in your nightgown.
"Your first session," he said. "Mr. Jackson is ready, if you are."
You hesitated only for a moment before nodding.
The disquiet in your chest was not fear, it was something stranger. Curiosity. Longing. Like a moth pressing against a glass. You grabbed a robe hanging off a hook and tied it tightly around you, the softness of it only easing you slightly.
He led you through the house without speaking. The halls were long, lined with portraits you didn't recognize, faces that all seemed to follow you with their eyes. You tried not to stare too long.
The door to the study opened before you’d realized you arrived, the attendant excused himself while Mr. Jackson smiled at you.
The study was warm, fire lit though it was barely past dawn. Curtains drawn tight. A chaise lounge by the hearth and a high backed chair beside it. He gestured for you to lie down.
You obeyed. You didn't know why.
He took his seat, crossed one long leg over the other, folded his hands.
"Tell me about the voice."
So much for easing into things.
You stared at the ceiling, trying to get comfortable if even possible. "I don't remember much. Only that it was... kind. Gentle."
His head tilted. "And familiar?"
"Yes. I think so."
He said nothing. The fire cracked and hissed.
Your eyes fluttered closed for a moment. You could still feel his fingers against your face from earlier, the way he held you like you might vanish.
"It led me to the body, didn't it?"
"That depends. Do you think it did?"
You opened your eyes again. "I thought we were discussing memory, not madness."
He smiled at that, though not unkindly. "And what if they're the same?"
You looked away.
"I didn't hurt anyone," you whispered. "I couldn't have."
"No," he said softly. "You couldn't have."
It was the gentleness that undid you. That and the quiet assurance in his voice. A sudden ache pressed behind your ribs and your breath hitched, though you didn't know why. Not a person, you reminded yourself. A rabbit.
Perhaps you only wanted to believe him.
There was a rustle of paper shortly followed by his voice. "When did this start?"
Your mind wandered back. That night. Your loneliness had swallowed you whole. "Months ago. Dreams."
"Dreams?"
You nodded, twisting your fingers till they hurt. Not wanting him to ask but you knew he would.
"And what happened?"
You couldn't help the blush. The shame. How badly you had wanted comfort that night. "I don't know, it was..." you shut your eyes briefly. "They grew darker. My dreams. The first night felt like the first act. But the rest," you turned her head, neck still aching. "Tell me, does evil come from within us or beyond?"
There was a long pause. The kind that hung in the air like fog, wrapping cold fingers around your throat.
He didn't answer at once. He stood, slowly, the firelight casting long shadows across his face.
He moved toward the window, though the curtains remained drawn. One hand rested lightly on the sill, the other behind his back. He looked like a man waiting for something. Or someone.
"Tell me," he said at last, voice low, smooth as silk but sharp beneath it, "if a wolf kills a rabbit, is the wolf evil for wanting food?"
You blinked. The question struck you oddly, given the allusion he landed on was painfully familiar.
"No," you said carefully. "Of course not. It's the circle of life. The wolf survives. The rabbit... doesn't."
He turned his head, just enough for you to catch a glimpse of him over his shoulder. His eyes were unreadable, but there was a glint there. Not of mischief. Not quite of hunger. Something older. Deeper. You couldn't place it, and it unsettled you more than you liked.
"And what if the wolf enjoys it?" he asked.
You frowned. "Enjoys what?"
"The hunt."
Your mouth went dry. Your tongue felt too large for your mouth.
"I suppose that's natural too," you said, after a pause. "Isn't it?"
He smiled, slow and fleeting. "Natural," he echoed, as if tasting the word.
You drew the robe tighter around you. Your neck still ached, a dull throb now, pulsing with each beat of your heart.
He turned fully then, his expression polite once more, hands folded neatly before him.
"You've done very well," he said. "It takes courage to speak so openly. Especially when the truth feels... inconvenient."
You looked up at him, eyes narrowing slightly.
"Truth is only inconvenient when it frightens us."
A beat.
"Agreed.”
There was something in his tone, just for a moment, something that sounded oddly like admiration.
"I'll leave you to rest. You've earned it."
He moved toward the door, and again, you caught that strange sensation as he passed, like the air folded around him. Like the shadows themselves knew to step aside.
You waited until the door clicked shut before you exhaled.
You hadn't answered his question properly. Not really. Nor had he answered yours.
And you couldn't shake the feeling that he already knew exactly what you were going to say.
⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹
It had been eleven days since your arrival.
Or perhaps twelve.
The house made time feel elastic, stretching and snapping without rhythm. Mornings bled into evenings. Meals arrived without clocks. Mr. Jackson, for all his precision, never gave you a fixed schedule.
You found yourself waiting for him anyway.
You stood now before the long mirror in your room, studying the hollowness beneath your eyes. You weren’t sleeping well. Or you were, but it was the wrong sort of sleep. You would wake with the taste of earth and copper on your tongue, your limbs heavy, tangled in sheets as though you’d been dancing with something in the dark.
He called it suggestion. A method of drawing the subconscious forward.
You called it dreams. Vivid, sickly sweet things that left your skin in a sweat and your mind fogged.
Still, you attended each session.
You told yourself it was part of the process. That the warmth in your chest when he looked at you was merely the result of trust. That the way your skin remembered his fingers long after they'd left was simply... psychological. A trick of the treatment.
Today, the parlour was darker than usual. Curtains half-drawn, the fire low. He waited, standing rather than seated, large hands clasped behind his back. His coat was red today. Velvet, or something like it. It made his eyes almost luminous.
He said your name with the faintest nod. “You're late."
"I wasn't told a time," you replied, chin lifting slightly.
"Even so." His eyes glinted. "You're slipping."
You opened your mouth to protest, then closed it again. He gestured to the chaise.
You lay down without being asked twice.
"You're tense," he murmured. He always knew.
"Let's begin."
He never touched you during these moments. Not really. Sometimes his voice alone felt like a hand resting lightly on your temple. Sometimes you swore you could feel his breath on your throat when he spoke low and close, but when you opened her eyes, he'd be across the room.
"Close your eyes," he said now. "Breathe in. Slowly. Hold it. Good. Again."
You obeyed.
The room dulled. Colours softened. His voice moved through you like music, smooth and lulling.
"You're walking through a garden," he murmured. "Stone underfoot. A chill in the air. You're not afraid. You are guided. Can you see it?"
"Yes," you whispered. And you could, wisteria hanging in curtains, fog coiling at your ankles. And a figure. Tall, blurred at the edges. Watching you.
"Describe him," he said.
"I... I can't."
"Try."
"He's... not a man. Not really. He's shaped like one. But..." Your brow furrowed. "There's something in his eyes. A hunger. He's—"
You jerked as though touched. Your eyes flew open.
The fire was brighter now. Your hands trembled.
Mr. Jackson regarded you with his usual calm. One eyebrow arched slightly. "Interesting."
"What was that?" you asked, breath catching in your throat.
"Your mind," he said softly. "It speaks, if you listen."
You sat up slowly, arms curling round yourself. "I don't like that garden."
"Few like the place where the truth begins."
You looked at him then, properly. The angle of his jaw, the stillness of him. Not a muscle twitched. Not even his breath.
"Do you ever sleep?" you asked suddenly.
He smiled without showing his teeth. "What would I dream of?"
You pondered it, rolling on your side and perching yourself up on one arm. Allowing yourself to really look at him. You knew absolutely nothing about him. He was poised. In control of himself. Calm. At least on the surface. But this estate... this house. It was far too big and too lonely. Daunting. Sometimes you felt like you could hear the portraits whisper at night. There was one in particular you always stopped by. So very old but better maintained than the rest. A woman with eyes like his but warmer. Fresh flowers were always underneath it. A loved one, you could only assume. The rest of the portraits were left to rot.
"The past, maybe."
His fingers tapped a rhythm into his thigh as he watched you. "You think of me as nostalgic?"
You laid back down again, eyes tracing the pattern in the carved ceiling. Thinking back to your childhood. How bright it all felt. The flowers smelled better and the sun shone more. You remembered laughing more, as a girl. Of running down side streets with your friends before they went off to university. Abandoning you.
"Aren't we all?"
It was quiet for a moment. The only sound was your beating heart and the crackle of the hearth before you heard him stand.
Your breath caught at his retreat. The sudden panic alarming but unavoidable.
"Mr. Jackson," you started. His footsteps paused. "Why is it they think you can... fix me. Find answers that others cannot?"
You didn't look at him. Couldn't. Waited for the sound of his shoes to click again with bated breath. A beat of your heart passed before you felt him shift closer to you.
"My reputation, perhaps."
You raised a brow, finally turning. Catching his eyes. Glowing. "Reputation?"
He observed you another moment before bowing his head slightly. "I'll see you tomorrow." And he left without another word.
More of your questions going unanswered.
⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹
You felt rigid that morning as you sat down for breakfast. A maid had come to grab you instead of leaving a tray like usual.
Your appetite was scarce and a trembling hand reached for your tea, the porcelain rattling against the saucer but you paused as soon as he entered the room.
Morning light made everything look hazy. Filtering in through the high windows and catching in the curtains that always remained half drawn.
In the time you had been there, you two had never eaten a meal together. Not even the attendant, technically. That first dinner he just sat there, drinking wine and being infuriatingly unhelpful.
Mr. Jackson sat, though he touched nothing laid out on the table.
"Good morning."
You clenched your trembling hand into a fist as you pulled it away from your tea, deciding it was best to clutch it beneath the table.
You dreamed about him last night. Again. Sinful and wrong. Wretched.
Lovely.
He didn't miss your silence and he looked at you with a brow barely raised.
Time ticked by. You could hear it on the clock.
He leaned back in his seat, adorning it like a throne.
"You don't seem to like practitioners very much."
Your jaw ticked and you looked down.
"Or do you just not like me?"
His question took you off guard and your usual attempt at being polite rushed forth. "No, I—" you bit your tongue. You shouldn't find excuses. Reasons.
You swallowed dryly and tried to focus on your food as you spoke. You couldn't look at him. "I've just had bad experiences, is all. Bags filled with knives. Strange things to measure my skull." All things considered you could at least admit to yourself the relief you felt when you realized all you two would be doing is talking. At least for now.
His fingers thrummed on the table and you finally took note of the ring he was wearing.
"I'm not that kind of doctor."
Your jaw ached as you clenched it. Watching him lean forward on the table by his elbows. His expression unreadable as he spoke.
"Are you afraid of me?"
"I don't know." You didn't. You hadn't the faintest idea how you felt about him. A thousand things. Perhaps nothing. A few. It felt complicated.
The thrumming stopped and he dug into his coat pocket before pulling out a moderately small package and holding it out for you. "This is for you."
You eyed it for a long moment. Taking note of his slender hands. The bones and muscle that made him up. A gift?
With furrowed brows and a cautious hand, you gently took it from his hold and peeled back the wrappings.
Your shaking hands suddenly stilled.
"What?" He asked, voice even, as ever.
You lightly ran your fingers down the cover, over the ridges of the title. It was the first edition of your favorite novel. "Nothing, just...a book?" You looked at him, brows furrowed. Trying to read him but he was written in a foreign language.
He nodded, resting his chin in his palm.
Was this a session?
"And what does it remind you of?"
Your lips parted to ask him how he even knew but the memory from your childhood outshone the rest of your thoughts.
It was Christmas morning when you were a child and your mother had grown tired of you stealing the papers from the neighbors despite them all saying the same thing. You were convinced you’d find something new in them and your father no longer had time to take you to the library.
It had been the first book you were ever gifted. Your own. The first thing you felt like you could truly call yours.
You blinked away tears and set the book down. "I'm sorry, I don't understand—"
"I think you understand me well enough."
So this was a session. He took you off guard. No warning. A change of scenery. You couldn't prepare. You hated it.
"A bookshop." The lie slipped out.
He hummed. He knew.
You thrummed your own fingers now on the table. This whole thing was off kilter. Not right. Your mind trailing back to the hesitancy of the priest.
"Are you a clergyman?"
He blinked. "No."
"Do you have any affiliation with the church?"
There was a moment, brief reluctance. “No.”
Your brows furrowed. Not understanding how your mother would have agreed to this. Not understanding the priest's suggestion even though he did try to warn.
Which brought you to your next question.
Why the warning?
"I'm a practitioner. I work with the mind. Diseases of the mind. I don't deal with fantasies of demons lurking in the shadows or behind closed eyelids."
Science. A man of science. Perhaps that was the reason for caution given the two tended to clash heads. But you still felt like that wasn't enough. Not to mention you weren’t diseased. You weren’t.
You were not mad.
He said your name in a lull, dancing around your throat and tilting your head up. "I'm here to listen to you. To reason." He paused and seemed to consider his next words. "I don't think you're mad. We just need to prove to everyone else that you're not. And that only begins once we stop your... night terrors."
"They're not night terrors." Your stubbornness was still intact, apparently.
He sighed, looking at you through long lashes. "I would like to help you. If you talk to me, I will listen. But—"
"I don't want to go back to the garden."
The words were out and you were holding onto your dress so tight you were sure the threads would rip. Thinking about that night is one thing. Actually reliving it, that was not something you wanted anyone else to witness.
All he did was hum and tap your book with a finger as he stood.
"Until tomorrow."
⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹
You felt heavy. Caressed. Something soft grazing the side of your face.
The pain was sharp and sudden but melted into something alien and blissful. A silent gasp left you and your pulse thrummed. Skipped.
Hazy and opium filled the air.
You looked up through heavy eyes, spotting the now familiar darkness of his hair.
Part of you wanted to touch it. Touch him.
But your limbs were too heavy.
Only as you went to the bathroom later that morning did you finally take notice of the bruising.
⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹
Eyes bore into each other. The tick of the clock matched your heart.
He was so patient.
You were sitting today. Not laying. Not wanting to be that vulnerable, yet.
There was the rustle of fabric as you shifted. Watching him watch you.
"I'm not sure what you want me to tell you."
He shook his head, chin tilting down. "I don't want anything. It's what you want to say that's of interest to me."
You looked down. Your fingers tapped a light rhythm into the book you held in your hands. Since he'd given it to you, you were already about a quarter way in.
Silence stretched and pulsed.
"How's the book?"
You pressed your tongue behind your teeth. "It's fine."
"What do you think?"
Your eye twitched. "Are you laughing at me?"
"No." He leaned forward, elbows on knees. Keen.
"I'm just curious. The book seemed to mean a lot to you."
You shook your head, looking away again. "It's just a book."
"Does it remind you of anything?" That head tilt of his had a habit of slowly unraveling you. "Your childhood, perhaps? If we are to circle back to the topic of nostalgia."
Your skin felt too tight. He somehow knew. Knew too much. Too little. "Not quite. Lots of children want books—"
"And did you? Want books? Want that one?"
"To say so is bad luck."
"Bad luck?"
You hummed. Tracing the letters. "To say what you want does the opposite. It's best to keep it to yourself. Be careful of wanting anything." Your mind trailed to that night. Your desperate prayer. "You may be punished for it."
You hadn't realized he stood, now in front of you. Hands in pockets and staring down. A god deciding to observe mere mortals.
"Do you think you're being punished?"
His eyes. So stunning in their appearance. Their depth. Flickering red for a moment in the firelight.
You were breathless as you spoke. "I think so, yes."
You felt like you were being torn open.
Not like flesh. Not the gruesome tears.
Softly, like fruit. Too ripe and splitting with barely a tug.
Abrasive.
That's what he was. That's what this was.
"Have you had any dreams since being here?"
You paused as you messed with the hem of your sleeve. "I suppose." You didn't dare look at him. The room dark, as always. You debated on running to the window and tearing open the blinds just to see what he would do. "Not that I can remember them, though."
You couldn't help it.
A peek, that's it.
He looked... disappointed.
⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹
You were brought down for dinner.
Snow was coating every window and you couldn't help it as your mind wandered. Watching the gardens from each window you passed. That's the only time the curtains were pulled back. Swathing the estate in moonlight and candles. Fires roaring.
Christmas was nearing. Your first without your family. Your mother.
Every year you were gifted a book.
You wondered what this year would've been.
Your knife slipped at the thought and crimson bled onto your plate.
However, you were distracted from the pain by the sudden intake of breath from someone else at the table.
Your eyes danced up.
The attendant looked... well it was rather concerning.
He looked as if he were about to lunge at something—you, before Mr. Jackson’s sharp tone cut through the air.
"Take your leave." he practically snapped. A warning.
"Michael—"
"Now."
You’d never heard him sound like that.
Michael... so that was his name.
The scrape of wood met your ears as the man left and you looked at the head of the table.
He was sitting perfectly still. Not even blinking.
Pupils wide.
You bit the inside of your cheek. Grabbed your napkin and pressed it to the cut. "Rude not to offer a wounded lady help."
A beat.
"I was under the impression you didn't want my help."
You took a drink of your wine. Annoyed. At him. Yourself. Your life.
"And I was under the impression you were going to give it anyway."
He smiled slightly, into his own glass.
You shouldn't have felt pleased.
⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹
You laid awake as the night droned on. Staring at the ceiling and seeing red carnations in your minds eye.
M.J.
"So that's who..."
⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹
You didn't remember falling asleep.
It was a craving. To know him.
Forbidden.
Insatiable. A lurid glare to it as you tried to claw your way toward it.
Down down down into the pit. Persephone stumbling after Hades.
You wanted to go where you knew you couldn't. Not that you weren’t allowed... it wasn't possible. Shouldn't be.
You shouldn't want to descend.
You shouldn't want to tear into his body like he did yours and look inside.
But you did.
You wanted to claw your way through shadows and flesh and hold the heart of your shadow.
Your affliction.
⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹
It felt as if your skeleton had shifted inside of you.
Evolved.
Adapted.
You watched him more closely.
You knew he was familiar. Knew something wasn't right.
Come to me.
It didn't scare you anymore.
There was no fright.
Just fuel to the fire that was your curiosity.
You remembered all your dreams. You always had.
You wanted to know him.
Whatever the cost.
⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹
The bruises bloomed like lilacs, soft-edged and dusky, nestled in the hollow of your throat and curling faintly at your jaw. They didn't ache like bruises should. They pulsed.
You stood at the washbasin, fingertips hovering above the discolouration. You didn't dare touch them. The skin there felt different, as though it didn't belong to you.
Sleepwalking, you thought. A fall, perhaps. A bedpost knocked in the night. You had no memory of it. Only of... warmth. A heaviness. A dream that left you breathless, as though you’d run from something and forgotten why.
And always, always his voice. Somewhere between a lullaby and command.
You dressed high-necked that day.
Michael— Mr. Jackson, didn't remark on it, though he watched your collar with pointed interest.
⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹
That night, you dreamt of teeth.
Not fangs, not the obvious kind, but rows of them.
Clean, white, perfect. Smiling. Too wide. Set in a face you almost recognized, but the name felt wrong on your tongue.
When you awoke, your bed was cold. You had no memory of leaving it.
The bruises were darker now. Deeper. Like ink stains pressed just beneath the skin.
You no longer believed you’d walked into a bedpost— never believed it in the first place.
⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹
You stopped a maid that afternoon. A girl no older than twenty two, with flaxen braids and red-raw hands.
"Where is Mr. Jackson sleeping?" you asked.
The girl blinked, confused. "He doesn't, miss."
You tilted your head. "Doesn't?"
"Not since I've been here."
You left the conversation colder than you entered it.
⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹
The next evening, you didn't sleep.
You waited.
You left the lamps unlit and the windows cracked to let the night in. Bitter cold with yule on the heels. You let the estate settle into silence, that old, heavy silence peculiar to large houses built to hold the dead. And then you crept from your room, barefoot on the carpet. Soft. Cautious.
Drawn.
The air grew colder the further you wandered. Corridors unfamiliar. Doors you hadn't seen. The paintings on the wall were more distorted here, melted faces, hands too long, eyes that followed.
And then you heard it.
Music.
Low. Disjointed. Like a lullaby played backwards.
It drew you to a door at the end of the hallway, grand, arched, carved with something that might have once been ivy. It was ajar.
You pushed.
Inside was not a room.
It was a chapel. Barely lit. The walls were stone, the air damp. An altar stood at its centre, not with a cross, but with something old, older than the Church, older than scripture. A symbol you couldn't place, carved in ash and bone.
And him.
Not standing. Kneeling.
Michael Jackson, his head bowed, dark curls catching the candlelight. His lips moved. Singing? Praying? You couldn't hear.
You took a step back. The floor creaked.
His head turned.
He said your name plainly. Gaze knowing. His voice was calm. Almost warm. "You ought to be in bed."
You didn't answer. Couldn't.
"Curiosity," he murmured, finally rising to his full height, "is a strange sort of affliction, isn't it?"
You swallowed. Your mouth was dry.
"I heard music."
"Did you?" He approached you slowly, like one might approach a skittish doe. "What did it sound like?"
You stepped back, suddenly afraid you wouldn't remember how to run if you needed to.
"What is this place?"
"A room for reflection," he said. "Or confession. Depending on what you bring to it."
"And what do you bring?"
His eyes glinted. That unreadable thing.
"Hunger."
"Hunger," you echoed, and your voice sounded thin, like stretched glass. "For what?"
He stopped just shy of you. Too close. His shoes almost scuffing against your slippers. Taunting.
"Truth," he said softly, tilting his head. "Is that not what you want as well?"
Your pulse was a staccato drumbeat in your throat. "You don't pray," you whispered. "You said so. You don't believe in demons."
"I don't," he agreed. "But belief is not a requirement for truth."
Your spine pressed against the cool stone of the doorway. He hadn't touched you, not really. Not with his hands. But you felt surrounded all the same.
⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹
You couldn't remember how you got back to bed.
"This isn't treatment," you breathed.
"No," he admitted.
A candle flickered beside you and in that small movement of flame, something shifted in his face. A flash, not anger, not cruelty. A melancholy.
He looked lonely.
He took your hand, gently, like you were spun sugar, and placed something cold in your palm.
A key.
"Next time you walk the halls," he murmured, "don't wait for music. Choose a door."
And then he turned from you, his coat whispering behind him like wings. The candlelight dimmed as he passed, and when you looked down at the key, you swore you felt it hum.
That night, your sleep was not your own.
When was it ever?
You stood in your dream, or in something like it, in the same chapel. Barefoot. There was no roof, only a black sky, the stars like puncture wounds.
Something brushed your collar. Breath, maybe. Wind. Or worse.
When you awoke, your feet were dirty. The key still clutched in your hand.
And the bruises had bloomed again.
⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹
At breakfast, you wore a scarf.
He made no remark — only poured your tea, and added a drop of something from a dark bottle you hadn't seen before.
You didn't stop him.
Treatment, maybe.
"Tell me," he said after a long pause, "has the voice grown louder?"
You froze.
You hadn't mentioned Him in a while.
Had you?
You met his eyes across the table. Something within you said: ask. Ask the thing you don't want to know.
So you did.
"Am I sleepwalking?"
He took a slow sip from his glass, and when he set it down, the reflection in it wasn't quite his.
"No," he said evenly.
⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹
The key was warm in your palm that evening.
It shouldn't have been.
You sat on the edge of the bed, the curtains drawn against the dusk. There was a hush to the estate that night, not silence, not quite, but the sense that everything was listening. The house breathed.
You held the key between your thumb and forefinger, turning it, studying the tiny sigils carved into the metal. Not letters. Not anything you knew. But the more you looked, the more they started to seem... familiar. Like the curl of smoke. Like the bone-white markings you'd once seen drawn in salt outside a chapel. A priest who spoke in tongues. A body buried without eyes.
⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹
You didn't remember leaving your room, only that you were suddenly in the east wing — the one the staff never went near. The corridor stretched long and crooked like a spine. Doors lined either side, tall and narrow, all unmarked. Some had handles. Some didn't.
One door breathed when you passed.
Another sighed.
The third... sang.
A low note. Barely audible. A single violin string beneath the floorboards. A tone that rang behind your teeth and in the base of your spine.
Your key fit that lock.
Of course it did.
Your fingers trembled as you turned it. The door creaked inward and a cold breath of air curled out, kissing your neck.
The room inside was, impossibly, a replica of your childhood bedroom.
Down to the crooked bookshelf. The lavender candle. The missing curtain hook. A pair of scuffed shoes too small to wear now, placed beside the bed.
You stepped in. The air was stale with memory.
"Clever," you murmured. To yourself. Or maybe not.
The candle lit on its own.
There, on the nightstand, was your old hairbrush. The one your mother had broken in half in a fit of frustration the year your hair refused to be tamed.
You lifted it — not a crack to be found.
Something in the mirror moved.
You turned. Nothing there. But your reflection lingered a moment longer than it should have.
You left quickly after that.
⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹
You didn't sleep. Not really. You floated. Drowned, more like.
The next morning, he greeted you with soft eyes and a darker waistcoat. You noticed his cuff was stained with something that looked like wine. But wasn't.
"Shall we begin again?" he asked, voice smooth as ever.
You didn't respond.
He gestured to the settee. You sat, heart stammering, mind fractured from the night before.
"I want to try something," he said. "Nothing frightening. Just... deeper. A guided state. The mind is like a room. Sometimes we must rearrange the furniture."
You blinked. "You mean hypnosis."
He smiled, but not unkindly. "I mean honesty."
Your fingers twitched.
"You're safe," he said, and for one treacherous second, you almost believed it.
His voice dropped into that lulling cadence you now recognized, the one that threaded through your dreams. The one that made the air feel thick and sweet.
"Close your eyes."
You didn't want to.
You did.
He was in the garden again. You could smell roses.
There was blood beneath your fingernails.
And in the trees, something watching. Breathing. Waiting.
He knelt before you.
Not the practitioner. The other him. The version with no shadow. With too-sharp eyes and a mouth that had forgotten how to be kind.
"Do you know my name yet?" he asked.
You tried to speak.
Couldn't.
He leaned closer, whispering into your throat.
"Say it, and I will set you free."
⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹
Something was wrong.
You stared down at your hands as you sat in bed, watching the bones shift as you moved your fingers.
Something was missing. Fading.
But what?
Everything felt as if it were breathing. Too sharp. Too colourful. Too aromatic.
You crawled to the window, desperate for something fresh in this house.
The pane of glass creaked as it slid open and you inhaled winter sharply.
Not enough. Not nearly enough.
You didn't even think to grab your robe or shoes before you slipped out the door.
The gardens greeted you with open arms as if they'd been waiting for you. Lush despite the season. White roses gleaming with ice as they caught in the moonlight.
You felt faint needle pricks in your feet as they crunched through the snow. Your head pounding, a sharpness behind your eyes that made the stars a bit blinding.
Your breath came out in puffs and your skin was riddled in goosebumps but you didn't mind. It was a nice distraction. A needed one.
You did not want to sleep.
Your mind raced as your fingers brushed along the roses.
This treatment didn't seem to be going anywhere. You still had dreams. It felt as if it were getting worse now that you were covered in bruises.
You weren’t sure what was real or not in this place. That chapel, your childhood bedroom... being outside helped ground yourself a little bit.
"Taking a late night stroll?"
You spun around at the voice, your flesh snagging on thorns and blood began to drip into the snow.
The attendant went deathly still and you watched as his carefree smile grew tense. His eyes trained on your hand, the slickness of crimson and how it glinted in the moonlight.
"Sir—"
You weren’t quite sure how it happened. It felt like you had only blinked before you found herself on your back and blinking up at the stars, a silent sort of pained sound leaving you as something burrowed its way through your skin. Your cut opened up even more.
Blood terribly warm against the cool night air.
Someone was on top of you. Pinning you to the earth and snow soaked through your nightgown but you couldn't focus on the cold as hands gripped you tight, securing you in place.
You felt light headed, back arching slightly at the pain and you forced yourself to look down. At what was happening to you.
Your mind couldn't keep up or perhaps it simply couldn't understand.
It looked as if he was kissing you. The visual rather romantic. His mouth open and his tongue sliding against your skin, but his teeth–
They were in your flesh. Buried deep and you felt the pull.
He was there one moment and gone the next.
Ripped from you and only then did you scream as his teeth tore jagged lines from being forced away.
Everything was spinning but you faintly registered shouting.
Your head rolled to the side, trying to make sense of the blurry figures a few feet away from you.
Focus, your mind begged.
It was Michael and the attendant. Fighting. The latter looked like an enraged animal and the former attempted to restrain him.
It didn't take long.
A fist went flying in the air, knocking the attendant right in the temple and he crumbled, not getting back up.
You caught sight of dark eyes gleaming as footsteps crunched through the snow, approaching you.
Michael might've fallen to his knees at your side, but you weren’t sure.
⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹
Dim lighting flickered across the ceiling and you felt strange. Cold despite the fire. Despite being swathed beneath thick blankets.
Your eyes slated to the side, half surprised to see him there. A chair drawn close to the side of the bed, elbows perched on his knees and chin resting in his hands as he watched you.
There was something different.
Either regarding him, or yourself. You weren’t sure.
Something was missing.
“How do you feel?”
You felt… fine. Serene. Grounded in a way that didn’t feel correct.
“Am I dreaming?”
His hand reached out, tentative and slow as if he were approaching a wounded animal and your breath hitched as his thumb dragged lightly along your cheekbone.
“I didn’t think I would have to do this so soon.”
Your brows furrowed, your question dying on your tongue as Michael leaned forward, dark eyes drifting from your mouth to your neck.
The gasp that left you was a soft exhale as you felt something prick, too distracted by the softness of his lips against your throat to take hold of the concern that should’ve been paralyzing you.
You felt a pull, almost as if your soul was being unspooled by the fates and you felt so dazed as you gazed up at the ceiling. Your fingers burying themselves in his hair without thought, his own hand coming up to cradle the other side of your neck while his other arm wrapped around your waist, practically pulling you into his lap.
⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹
You felt him everywhere. The gentle touch of his fingers drifted over your sensitive skin like leaves dancing over flagstone, mere whispers but enough to entrance.
You couldn’t stop staring at him. Finding a different footing on a new sense of madness and yes… yes, you knew him. Knew who he was.
You had known all along.
He was your ghost. Your shadow. All those months… praying to him through the messenger of the moon.
The garden that night…
“It’s you.” Your voice cracked, the realization settling in the cavity of your chest like a revelation worthy enough to be slotted into scripture.
His mouth tugged up at the side, being pulled by an invisible string and you could finally see them— fangs, the tips pressing into his bottom lip like a promise.
Michael’s hand cupped your throat, thumb pressing up beneath your jaw to tilt your head back while his other hand wound in your hair. “Look at you,” he spoke quietly, a dazed expression woven into his features.
⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹
You weren't used to them.
They itched. The kind of itch that was maddening and made your head swim— a lick of hunger curling around your stomach violently as you sat on the ground in front of the hearth, head resting against Michael’s knee as he ran fingers through your hair.
“It’ll pass,” he muttered, voice hiding beneath the crack of fire.
You were half tempted to sink them into his thigh, your eyes slating to the side as you looked at the muscle of his leg—
Michael’s hand tightened in your hair. “Don’t.”
Your eyes flicked up. He wasn’t looking at you.
Jaw tight as he gazed at the fire and eased his hold on your hair. “Once that line is crossed, I can’t—“ he shut his eyes and took a breath. “Just, don’t. Not yet.”
⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹
Your dreams had stopped since then, or perhaps they’d become your reality— your own version of Alice slipping through the cracks of the soil after failing to follow the rabbit.
He had fixed you, his reputation not failing him.
You stood in the gardens. Slippers wet with blue snow and you stared at the frozen body of the attendant. Still crumbled up on the ground like a discarded newspaper.
It had been weeks. Days. Months?
You didn’t know.
Your eyes danced up to the moon. Please, you prayed.
A ravenous hunger hollowed you out and then you finally realized what had been wrong. What had been creeping up your mind like a spider.
You hadn’t heard your heartbeat in a while.
⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹
Your eyes met his in the dark. Breath still as your nail traced a line down his cheek to the corner of his mouth, thumb coming up to press against the tip of his fangs.
A breath passed as you waited for him to pull away. To grab your wrist. Not yet— his two favorite words lately.
Michael didn’t say a thing.
You barely had to try, not a moment later your flesh was pierced like it was ripened fruit. A spot of crimson dewing up and before it could drip, Michael’s lips wrapped around your thumb. Gaze locked on yours and you watched as his eyes flashed red at the taste of you.
You’d never known such longing.
The rawness of it as it consumed you, feeling on fire as he slowly dragged you towards him, pulling your strings because your limbs were suddenly useless.
Say it.
You shut your eyes as his voice blanketed your mind, his soul consuming yours as you straddled his hips.
His grip tightened on your waist, “please.”
Your hands came up to cup his face, taking in the beauty of him. He was sculpted of sharp lines, his creator clearly obsessed with perfection and his eyes— Christ, looking at him felt like damnation. Like Orpheus turning to glance at Eurydice because he just couldn’t help himself.
“Michael.”
His mouth met yours and you saw a burst of multicolored lights dance behind your eyes as they slid shut, melting into him as your hands greedily pulled him close.
He stood up, carrying you easily as you wrapped your arms and legs around him, hardly paying any mind as your back settled on the bed. You couldn’t feel anything but his soul and yours.
Michael’s hips settling between your own and his hand was in your hair again, pulling taught and guiding your mouth lower— “Now.”
One word. That one word sounded like Gabriel’s trumpet— heaven reigning down in a blinding cascade of fire and finally…
Your teeth sank into the side of his throat and the sound that left you wasn’t human.
He shuddered violently, holding you close and chanting your name like a hymn he’d known for thousands of years. A millennia passing before he finally got to taste the sweetness of it on his tongue.
Michael held you close, hips pressing into yours and when you felt him thrust inside— the drag of it felt like a hit of opium.
He pulled your hair, dragging your mouth to his, hot and open— tongue dancing with yours and he groaned at the taste of your blood.
Michael’s arms held himself up just enough not to crush you as he thrusted forward, pushing you further into the mattress and your mouth gaped open at the force of it.
He was dancing on the edge of violence and it was lovely. A macabre beauty to the way his hips rolled and then his teeth dragged along your throat, drawing blood and his tongue flattened over the fresh wound moments later.
Then he was saying your name again— the cadence an ancient lilt as his cock dragged out and back in, hitting something inside of you that teased the entrance to the Elysian Fields.
The orgasm hit you hard and you choked out a cry, legs trembling but Michael kept going, his mouth and teeth digging into your throat so deep you thought he might get carried away and actually start eating you.
“Michael.”
He forced his head back, mouth and chin and teeth covered in crimson and he looked so unraveled— hips slamming into yours and pelvis grinding against your clit.
Michael was kissing you again, the action a complete mess. Wet and tasting of iron and something else a bit sweeter. Dancing between the notes of orchids and ichor.
His thrusts became erratic, the bed slamming into the wall so hard the old oak frame cracked down the middle and the mattress collapsed to the floor like the earth had opened up beneath you.
When he came and your name dripped off his tongue, you knew you’d found it. What you’d been praying for.
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: ̗̀➛ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: cameron cade x best friend black!reader
: ̗̀➛ 𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆: M 18+, NSFW
: ̗̀➛ 𝐖.𝐂: 2.03K
: ̗̀➛ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒: best friends who finally do the do.
: ̗̀➛ 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆: ROUGHLY EDITED, explicit sexual content, porn with no/minor plot, unprotected sex, rough sex: manhandling, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, dirty talk, slight breeding kink [he has you in a mating press], slight toxic!cameron, slight aftercare, abrupt ending [i didn’t know how to end it gang 😭]
: ̗̀➛ 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑’𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: my official first tyriq[and characters project] I do have many more coming! I am trying to raise £200 to help with a short fall. I’ve had some shifts cancelled on me so I’m behind on bills! If any of you can donate I would appreciate it PayPal. 💕
Regardless, please reblog, comment and like 💕
“Damn baby, why didn’t you tell me you had all this good pussy?”
Cameron mumbled against your bare leg that were currently hiked over his broad shoulder, his voice dripping with admiration a lot sweeter than the way he was fucking you.
The question was rhetorical but emphasised just how much he was enjoying being inside of you.
Goosebumps broke all over the surface of your flushed and damp skin, choking on a whiny moan as your cunt tightly squeezed and pulsated around him. The throbbing sent a shiver down the length of his spine and settled in his bones. A flurry of chopped sobs poured from your mouth as your climax began to climb. You were so close. And he could feel it all.
You would have tried to answer his question but in truth - you didn’t know how to.
The two of you met during freshman in college - sharing the same physiotherapy classes and the two of you instantly clicked. When he first approached you - you couldn’t believe that he’d even talk to you. When you first arrived on campus, his name was uttered in every corner. He was the person to know because of his projected career. You had wanted to keep away from him - you didn’t like attention being drawn to you at all but Cameron just had to be enrolled on your course.
Even worse, he came to sit next to you.
You stilled at just making eye contact with him. Low sitting blue eyes, dimples deep as he smiled, rosy lips begging for attention and from his seated position alone you could tell that he was tall. He made sure that you couldn’t ignore him and you hated that fell for his charm, hook, line and sinker.
The attraction was shared and the chemistry intensified with each interaction but nothing ever came off it.
Football. Girlfriends. Endorsements. A great rookie career - all of it got in the way.
So friendship is what you settled for and you were grateful just to be a part of his journey.
Unfortunately for you, he was relentless. The friendship status did not matter to him at all and Cameron steadily flirted with you like the devil of temptation resided in his flesh. Always hanging around, giving you his undivided attention when you were close. Treating you just on the edges of a girlfriend, yet always teasing the word ‘friend’ in front of you. You always let it wash over you because being close to him in any capacity was worth it.
That attraction however, could not be denied and could not be hidden. And he’d picked up on it and he played with it - he played with you. He enjoyed teasing you. Kissing you on the neck, hands on your lower waist as he moved past you, hugs that lingered. Girlfriends be damned - you were the apple of his eye even if you denied what you were to him.
So that was how you found yourself in his penthouse - on a supposed regular night in with your best friend on his days off. So how you ended up in your current predicament was unbeknownst to you.
A movie, typical gossip, a game of tease.
From there all it took was a kiss.
A soft brush of your lips when he leaned down above you, whispering teasingly against your lips, fingers underneath your chin before gripping your jaw so that you couldn’t shift your eye contact away from him. So that he could see all of that want dripping out of your eyes.
“Do it.” You dared him.
And it was no surprise that he listened.
You had been so determined not to fall into his orbit and now you were on your back, sweating out your hairstyle, tank top ripped and panties pulled to the side as he manhandled you in every way. Your pussy stretched out and creaming around the thickest dick you’ve ever had in your life as you moaned in bliss. Fuck, you loved every second of it.
Cameron’s thrusts were deliciously brutal, his hips snapped into yours as your legs hang over his shoulders. He fucked you like you were a bitch in heat and you sounded just like one. Your mouth dropped open as your cries and whines could not be contained, sounding real pretty for him.
He breathed heavily through his nose at the sight your cream coating the length of his dick. Cam wedged his hands underneath the arch at the base of your back and gripped tight. He used your body as leverage to fuck into you even deeper.
The heat of the bedroom was making you delirious as much as the way his fat mushroom tip was pushing against your softest spots. You were so loud and Cameron drank all of your sounds by shushing you with rough kisses.
The wet clapping emitting from where your bodies connected was getting so loud, Cameron had to look down. His loud moan barely registered through the fog clouding your senses.
“You’re sooo fucking wet baby. Gushing all that good shit all over me, fuuuccckkk.”
You were looking up at him, doe eyed, a soft crease pinching in-between your eyebrows with your teeth biting onto your bottom lip as you tried to control it. He was hitting all of your good spots and it was so intense, it sat like a weight on your chest.
Then, Cameron pushed your legs back so that your knees were touching your ears and he moved to hover directly above you. He used his upper body to contort you into the perfect position for him - ready for his taking and you were in awe with how it left you feeling. The weight of pleasure sinking into your bones, deeper and deeper.
“O-oooh!” You gasped as you pulled on the sheets underneath your fingertips.
His beautiful, blue eyes never left your face as he watched your pretty face surrender into the pleasure he was delivering. Your eyebrows drew together tighter, as if you were about to cry, your lips forming into an ‘o’ form as he slowed down his strokes, letting you enjoy the feel of him. Inch by inch.
Soft curves and hard muscles colliding into each other. Naked,skin on skin - still, felt like there was a barrier between the two of you. The thought slamming into you, nothing will ever be enough, you will always want more. Cameron groaned as he felt the pain of your nails breaking into the skin of his back as you unintentionally brought him closer.
You were begging for him without words and that caused him to smirk in satisfaction. Cameron couldn’t believe you had been keeping this type of connection away from him. The type of connection that quenched your thirst but left you famished for more.
He was brought out of his thoughts by the feel of your trembling fingers tracing his bottom lip, tugging it free from his teeth. He placed a tender kiss on the inside pad of your thumb before his eyes drew back to where your bodies connected. The sight of it caused all of his blood to soar down to his aching dick.
Slathered all over his base was milky white. It built up generously and it accumulated so much the flapping wetness caused his eyes to roll to the back of his head. He couldn’t believe you’d ever get this wet.
“Yeahhh mamas, I can’t believe she’s this wet for me …”
Cameron doesn’t take his eyes off your cunt as he slammed back in, the wetness drawing a delicious drag with drag. He threw his head back as a deep groan left him. The sound was so primal it sent nasty shivers down your spine and settled in your pelvis.
But you didn’t move your hand away from his pelvis as he was folding you even deeper. In fact, Cameron, lowered his upper body until he was completely folded over yours. His pelvis ground against your clit, his trimmed hair brushing your clit - hard.
Cameron was wild in his lust.
He sucked bruising kisses into your neck, his tongue trailed hotly up to your mouth to claim it in a deep kiss. It was all consuming, overwhelming. His long tongue flattened against yours in maddening swipes, sucking the muscle sloppily into his own mouth which made you lightheaded.
Blood rushed to your ears as he ground his hips up again, hammering away at that spot inside you but not enough to make you cross eyed and your hand pressed on his abdomen.
Cameron kept his eyes on as you gasped desperately. Your eyes closed as he nipped at your bottom lip which caused you to sigh softly. His tongue darted out and soothed the sting of your bite before whispering inside your mouth- eyes glazed, “Move that hand, baby.”
You didn’t move your hand but he did it for you. He grabbed your wrist and trapped it above your head as he drilled into you. Your mind was mush the more he thrusted into you so you didn’t even try to think straight. Cameron was so caught up in the moment - not just from the heat of your pussy but how tight and how creamy you were.
Letting out a string of swears, Cameron captured them by bringing your mouth into another overwhelming kiss. His cock aching whilst he swallowed your wails as you twitched and ached around him.
Until you couldn’t take it anymore. Cam gave another harsh yet hard roll of his hips into your swollen opening while he was battering at that tender spot inside of you and then … you were coming.
And fuck! You were coming, hard. Your nails clawed at Cam’s rigged muscles as a swarm of stars completely eclipsed your vision whilst your body went into shock with wave after wave of vicious pleasure.
Your wails were so loud, you struggled to recognise your voice. But Cameron had a clear view to the ecstasy flooding your face he pumped his hips forward, pushing himself deeper into your body. Filthy words of praise and encouragement directly in your ear, prolonging your orgasm.
“That’s it, babygirl … I love the way you’re cumming all over me…”
Tears spilled from your eyes and you were close to passing out when Cam dropped his head into your chest and took one of your swollen nipples into his mouth, his thrusts slowing down in tempo as he shot his cum deep inside of your heat with a muffled groan.
He filled you up to the brim and then popped out your nipple out of his mouth with a satisfied sigh.
The both of you were riddled with tiredness, thighs were killing you, and your body was trembling like a leaf but a grin had etched onto your lips regardless as Cameron placed calming kisses everywhere his lips could touch.
He slowly pulled out, warm yet concerned eyes checking over you for any sign of discomfort as you basked in the glow of the aftermath. Your eyes closed as you sank into the softness of the blankets beneath you. You left his kisses on your cheeks in the tender way that you’d grown accustomed to.
“You okay sweet girl? I didn’t hurt you did I?”
“No, baby. I’m good.” You shook your head as you hummed in satisfaction. You felt him shift away from the bed, leaving you in your peaceful lonesome until you felt him wipe you down gently with a wet towel. You heard a thud as he tossed to rag onto on the floor when he was done.
You felt the bed dip beside you before Cameron slipped up behind you. Your hands reached behind you and brought him closer with a soft hum. You had crossed that line in your friendship and you couldn’t process what it meant for the future for the both of you. But you’d bask in whatever this moment meant for you.
Cameron nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck. “We’ll never just be friends after this.” He mumbled.
He was right about that. Nothing would ever be the same.
Cameron had you bent over the balcony, one hand wrapped in your hair and the other on your hip as he thrusted deep into you.
You two had met on Instagram a good while ago, Cameron would flirt heavy underneath your posts—not to the point where he looked thirsty, just enough to intrigue you.
One day he slid into your DM’s and you two have been talking since. Whether it was texting or on FaceTime until the sun came up, it was really all you two could do, with you being in different cities and all.
So when you told Cameron that you had to come to his city for a business trip, he took it upon himself to make all your biggest fantasies come true.
Balcony sex, in the front of the mirror, cockwarming…
You had told him all this on a late night, never thinking you’d get the opportunity to actually do it.
“Cam—“ you moaned out, you were on the brink of coming again. Eyelids heavy as you looked out at the city in front of you.
All he did was speed up in response, fucking you through your orgasm. Your legs felt like jello as you held onto the rail, Cameron holding you up as his thrust continued. Your moans turned into soft sobs of pleasure, you reached back to him in attempt to make him slow down.
“Nah, take this dick.” He moved your hand out the way, “all that shit you was talking in them messages, you better take this shit.”
“Fuckkk.” You cried out.
“You got it, mama. You got it.” He praised.
Your mind went blank, it was like his words were hypnotic. You pushed back against him, fucking yourself silly.
“You taking it so good, ma. Shit.” Cameron moaned, throwing his head back.
Your next orgasm came quick. Cam pulled you up completely, your back arching against him as his hand wrapped around your neck. For a brief moment you were impressed by how strong he was, until he pulled out of you now all you could focus on was how empty you felt.
He turned you to face him, planting soft kisses on your face as you melted into him.
“You good?” He tilted your chin up so that you were looking directly at him. You nodded. “You did so good for me, mama but I ain’t done with you yet.”
He guided you over towards the daybed that sat on this oversized balcony, he laid you down gently before crouching in front of you, leg placed on his shoulder as he kissed you softly. Starting from your ankle, all the way up to your inner thigh.
His tongue pressed against you in a long, slow lick that made your breath catch, savoring every reaction he got from you. He sat there buried in between your thighs, lapping up all your juices on his tongue. He took your clit in his mouth, releasing it with a pop. Your hand rested on the side of his head, moans escaping from your lips as you brought yourself to look at him.
“Cam, Cammmm, fuck I’m gonna come.” You managed to get out.
And with that, he stopped.
You let out a loud groan, that turned into a whine.
“Why?!”
All he did was let out a low chuckle, pulling you up before sitting next to you on the daybed.
“I’ll eat that pussy all day if I could.” He says next to you.
You turn towards him, “You can.”
It probably sounded pathetic or desperate but in the moment you didn’t care, you needed to feel him in some type of way.
His lips formed into a small smirk, “I’ll hold you to that, baby.”
His hand found your throat during the kiss, just resting there momentarily before he scooted back, making you follow him. You were on your knees, back arched like a cat as you chased his lips. Cameron took in the view, stopping you before you could kiss him again.
“You know where I want you.”
You bit your lip in anticipation, swinging one leg over him and lining yourself up with him. You slowly sunk down on him, not breaking eye contact once. You let out a soft whimper as you took him all in, eyebrows furrowing at the pleasure.
“Don’t move until I say so,” he warned softly.
You nodded, and his lips found yours again almost instantly. The kiss was messy and heated, his tongue slipping into your mouth as his hand slid back to your throat, fingers curling there with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch.
A quiet sound escaped you when your hips shifted instinctively beneath him.
He pulled back just enough for his lips to hover over yours, eyes dark and focused entirely on you.
“You wanna come, don’t you?”
You nodded quickly.
A faint smirk tugged at his mouth. “Use your words, mama.”
“Yes, Cam,” you whispered.
“How bad you want it?”
You placed your hands on his bare chest as you leaned up to kiss him softly again. “Please,” you breathed against his lips. “Please, baby.”
His jaw tightened slightly at the sound of your voice, like hearing you beg did something dangerous to his self control. His thumb brushed along your cheek before sliding down to tilt your chin up toward him again.
“That’s my girl,” he murmured. “Go ahead.”
You rolled your hips against him, immediately feeling your next orgasm creep up on you. You threw your head back as one of his hands caressed your boob, his thumb rubbing over your sensitive nipple. He took it between his two fingers, giving it a gentle squeeze. You rolled your hips faster, the pleasure building up inside of you. Your mouth fell open, body jolting forward because you couldn’t keep yourself up anymore.
“Fuckkkk! Cam. You feel so good.”
“Yeah? You gon come for me?” He whispered in your ear, “Come all over this dick, baby.”
Cameron wrapped his arms around you, fucking you through your orgasm. Your moans were so loud you’re sure the neighbors could hear you but you didn’t care. The whole city could hear you and you wouldn’t give a damn.
After you came, your head hit his chest. Panting, with your hair sticking to your forehead. Cameron rubbed your back, whispering soft praises in your ear.
“All that shit you was talking in them texts…” he murmured, brushing his thumb across your skin. “You was real bold for somebody that can barely keep her eyes open now.”
“Shut up.” You mumbled, playfully rolling your eyes.
Cameron pressed a kiss to the top of your head, still holding you close while your breathing slowly evened out.
“You good?” he murmured softly.
You nodded against his chest, too exhausted to say much. A lazy smile pulled at your lips when his fingers brushed the damp hair away from your forehead.
You gon argue with me or get your pussy ate?- Cameron Cade 18+
summary- Cameron’s long practices are affecting you more and more and you finally confront him. It doesn’t really go your way though.
cw- oral(f receiving), arguing(kind of one sided), uhhh idk if there’s any more
authors note- yall this audio has been stuck in my head for a minuteee and i had to write something😭 this is also rushed and i was half asleep writing but enjoy!
Cameron’s football practices have been long. Longer than usual and it’s been rubbing you the wrong way for awhile but you never said anything.
After he missed another planned date—which was supposed to be movie night—you were officially fed with him. You stayed up on couch with a cold bowl of popcorn, waiting for him to come in.
It was nearly 2am when he stepped in the house. He cut on the lights to see you sitting there, tapping your manicured nail on your knee.
“Baby I mean’t to call but-”
“I don’t wanna hear it Cameron.” You held up your hand before he could finish speaking. “I’ve been listening to excuses for weeks! It seems like every time we plan something, you end up having practice. You’re too busy in the day to try to even make plans, so I really don’t know what to do anymore! And-”
Just as you were about to continue your rant, Cameron dropped his bags of heavy football equipment at the door and walked into the living room. He dropped to his knees in front of you without a word.
Cameron's face was ridden with tiredness as he kneeled there. "Baby.." He swallowed hard, looking up at you. "I'm so sorry. I didn't realize how much this was hurting you—hurting us." His eyes flickered between your furious expression and the uneaten popcorn on the coffee table. The pain he caused was evident.
Without asking, he reached out slowly then gently took one of your hands in both of his—roughed up from practice—and pressed a kiss to your knuckles like a prayer for forgiveness.
He began to direct his kisses to your knees that were pressed together as you sat with your feet under you.
“Now are you gonna keep arguing or let me apologize the right way?” He looked up at you again, more assertively this time. His hands moved up past your knee, and began rubbing your thighs—higher and higher.
Your breath caught and your anger melted away into a different kind of heat. When you didn’t answer, he hooked his thumbs behind your knees and parted your legs.
“Are you gonna answer me or do I have to answer for you?”
“Apologize the right way…” You breathed out. He dragged your body forward to the edge of the couch and gazed at the wet patch on your lacy panties.
His thumb pressed down into your center, making you squirm. “You sitting here yelling at me knowing you’re soaking like you’re in heat.” He mumbled without even looking back up at you.
You couldn't even form a sentence before his fingers hooked onto the fabric and slid them to the side, revealing your dripping pussy to the cold air.
He leaned in, blowing air into that little button teasingly before diving in and licking from your entrance to your clit and wrapping his lips around it, sucking it into his mouth.
“Oh my- Cameron!” You gasped out loud as he suckled hard on your clit whilst swirling his tongue around it.
“Feel good, don’t it?” he groaned into you.
His hand splayed across your stomach, holding you down while he feasted on you. Argument and problems were far gone out of your mind.
Your mind was blank except for the way your boyfriend was eating you out, and it was really fucking good.
“Feels so fucking—shit—good!”
That feeling began to build up in your lower half the more Cameron lapped at your juices flowing out like nectar.
“I’m gonna cum, Cam.”
He smirked up at you and stroked two fingers up and down your slit before sliding them in, joining his mouth in the pleasure.
“Go ahead and cum for me, Ma.” He wasted no time curling and thrusting his fingers while still flicking his tongue around your clit.
Your back arched off the couch the best it could with his hand holding you down. Your words turned into incoherent rambles as he fingered and licked you into an intense orgasm.
“Good fucking job…” he teased mockingly, chuckling after.
“Shit, shit, shittt…” The orgasm was prolonged by Cameron’s fingers that were still plunging into you but now at a slower pace. He made sure to get all that he could out of you.
“Look at all that goodness…” He mumbled and leaned in to clean up the mess between your legs with his tongue. After about a minute, he lifted his head and sucked your release off his fingers.
“I’m sorry again. I’ll talk to Coach, try to get some days off.” He rose off his knees and bent down to kiss you, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.
What caught you by surprise was him scooping you up bridal style and hauling you to your shared bedroom.
“I hope you don’t have any plans tomorrow because I’m spending all night making it up to you,” you laughed, knowing he was dead serious about his promise.
Summary: Nate Jacobs and Cameron Cade has always been heated rivals with they're football teams and they're personal Intentions they have with each other. Nate has always envied Cameron.
And thinks he's just a pretty boy who's a spoiled nepo baby that gets everything handed to him.
But everything changes that night when Cameron confronts Nate about disrespecting his girl at a night club.
Warning: N word usage,Violence, Sexual Harassment, Language, Swearing, Alcohol,Smoking,Drugs and more.
The scenery of Raven's skyrise apartment was in pure chaos due to her getting ready with her two best friends Kylie and Ari.
Makeup products where plastered everywhere on top of Raven's glass vanity, clothes, Stilleto heels, designer bags where laying chaotically on the white leopard matt of Raven's walk in closet.
The girls where multitasking finishing they're last few touches of there hair and makeup putting on there vintage 2010s desginer Stilleto heels all while cheerfully singing to Partynextdoor's "Point me to the dancers".
The trio of three looked like some sexy and gorgeous video vixens getting ready to star in a music video that's just how determined they are to look like the baddest girls in the club.
Raven was wearing a black cross body jumpsuit that hugged her coke bottle body in all the right places. Her long luscious voluminous platinum blonde curls cascading down her back perfectly due to the help of her sliver pin curls, gold layered jewelry, her face was beat to the gods with lash extensions and a cute pink ombre gloss lip combo decorated her full lips.
She knew that if her boyfriend Cameron Cade was here to see her right now he'd would've gone into a frenzy about how beautiful she looked.
Her best friends looked just as good as her Kylie was wearing a black bandage dress with layered sliver jewelry face was also beat but more on the softer side. Her hair was styled in the trendy "Cassie braids" hairstyle she was also borrowing her friend's christian louboutin's heels and black chanel purse for the night.
Ari was working effortlessly with a half up half down hairstyle while wearing a bage cheetah print jumpsuit with a "V" line in the middle while also wearing bage furr Stilleto red bottom heels. Her makeup being 2014 inspired with a nude gloss lip combo also borrowing her friend's bage chanel purse to match her outfit.
You'd probably would've been thinking how the hell does Raven have all these expensive materialistic stuff it was because of her amazing boyfriend Cameron Cade who didn't mind spending his dimes on his princess.
Because he knew that she was a one of a kind dimes herself Raven was a independent woman who didn't really need to depend on a man for help but when her and Cameron started dating she didn't mind him offering to help her with her average everyday living and spoiling her with his money and love.
Raven loved him so much and so did Cameron vice versa they both are young in they early 20s but they know that they are just right for each other.
"Girls we are indeed gonna get fucked tonight look at us we all look fineee" Ari said while whining her hips in the mirror to Gunna's "WGFT" while checking herself out in the mirror satisfied with her look.
Raven and Kylie both shared giggles of joy laughing at they homegirl Ari already knowing she's gonna be the drunkest one at the club. They were getting there belongings together getting ready to head out the door to the function until Raven's phone ringed.
Incoming FaceTime call: "HUSBAE CAMMY😍😘"
Raven wasted no opportunity in swiping the green icon button with the biggest smile on her face showing off her pretty pearly whites.
"Hiii Sexy I miss you so much I'm so glad you've finally called me" Raven said with the jolliest tone in her voice with a hint of humor behind. Her boyfriend Cameron has been busy training and practicing for the upcoming super bowl and she was so happy and proud of her man and his team accomplishing such a honorable goal.
Cameron was on the other side of the phone looking as fine as ever. He was wearing a black button up t-shirt with his signature two gold chains laying neatly on his collar shirt his cross necklace shining he was biting and licking his lips at how good his girlfriend looked his blue eyes slightly darkening.
"I miss you more babygirl and shit you look good as fuck you always looking gorgeous I hate when you tease me Ma"
Raven ran her tongue over her lips with a soft giggle escaping her lips as she herd her boyfriend groaned at the other side of the screen "Babe you know I love teasing you it's just shows you that you gotta earn it I know you want this boy" Raven angled her phone to show Cameron her sexy outfit while running her long black and white Stilleto designer nails down her outfit while letting out another giggle as she heard her boyfriend cursed under his breath.
"Girl stop playing wit me wit'cho pretty ass you know I earnt all that shit fair and square you're mine baby" Cameron said on the other side of the phone licking his pink rosey lips while slightly furrowing his eyebrows at his girl teasingly.
Raven bit her lips at cam and gotten all shy as she turned to laugh at her friends "Baby stop talking to me like that my girls are here with me and you making me hot" Raven fanned herself playfully as her girls where clowning her for being geeked for her man.
"Can y'all two seriously get a room like hello y'all so nasty" Kylie beckord playfully side eyeing the blushing girl right beside her.
"Baby you started it and now I'm just finishing the game princess" Cameron grinned causing Raven to playfully role her eyes. "Tell yo homegirls I said stop bullying you"
And as on cue Ari snatches the phone away from her bestie's hand and pointed her manicure finger at Cameron. "FIRST OF ALL NIGGA WE AIN'T BULLYING HER" Ari playfully yelled at the quarterback star "SECOND OF ALL YOU GONE MAKE US LATE TO THIS DAMN PARTY RAVEN TELL YO MAN TO HANGUP THE DAMN PHONE"
Raven and Ari both burst out in a fit of laughter "NOT TOO MUCH ON MY MAN KNOW" Raven playfully yelled while still laughing hard at her man and her besties going back and forth on the phone.
"Ight ight I'm done fooling with y'all" Cameron exclaimed calming down from his comebacks he had for you're homegirls who was checking him down and turning all his attention back to his girlfriend.
"So baby how are you feeling about the upcoming super bowl are you nervous, excited on a scale to 1 to 10"
"Well this is something I have always dreamed of since I was a little Youngin with big dreams and goals so I can fully admit that I am super excited and besides I'm the motherfuckin' goat baby"
"BOY BYE YOU AIN'T SHIT" Kylie exclaimed while Ari snorts and put her ten cents in "You really think you're bigger than the program but you're not" Ari and Kylie both stick they're tongues out at Cameron clowning him and Raven rolled her eyes at her two besties clowning her man slightly getting annoyed.
"Can y'all stop for real y'all heard my man he said he the MOTHERFUCKIN' GOAT" "EXACTLY BABY THANK YOU" Cameron hollered through the phone matching his girlfriend's energy.
All three of the girls walking out of the apartment complex they're friend stayed at as the cool breeze of the city nightlife scenery hits their faces effortlessly.
The girls made they way to Raven's Mercedes AMG grey vehicle as Raven inserted herself in the driver's seat, Ari in the passenger seat and Kylie in the backseat sitting in the middle.
Raven propped her IPhone pro max in the case that held her phone effortlessly. Disconnecting her Bluetooth from the radio so Kylie can connect her Bluetooth.
As Raven put her seat belt on as well as the girls and getting they belongings situated in the back seat as raven slowly but carefully pulled out of the parking lot and started driving.
"So baby I heard y'all was gonna play against the east highland Seahawks this year in the super bowl" Raven nervously said as she slightly looked at her boyfriend through her phone screen the reason why her sudden mood changed from playfulness to nervousness was because she knew that the Seahawks was the Saviors biggest rivalry in football.
And to make matters worst the Seahawks quarterback star Nate Jacobs was Cameron Cade's biggest enemy of all times.
Cameron ran his huge left hand through his shaved head his whole mood and body language turning into all serious mode his sexy husky voice deepen as he parts his lips to speak.
"To be honest yeah we're going to be playing against them niggas in the NFL lead this season and I can't even front I was pissed as fuck when coach confirmed the news to us but I can't let my emotions get the best of me this time we have to take this trophy home with us despite no matter much I fucking hate Nate Jacobs"
Raven frowned effortlessly at her boyfriend's changed of mood she knew that the seahawks and the saviors didn't get along with each other too well but however Cameron did get along with one of the teammates from the Seahawks and that teammate being the one and only "Fezco" well actually ex-member cause Fez hated Nate his damn self. He actually ended up beating Nate up on the field during a football game due to him disrespecting Cameron's late father who was a famous NFL athlete and every sense then cam couldn't be more thankful that fez had took up for him.
And they've been cool ever since.
"I'm so proud of you for realizing that baby you've got this and we're all gonna be cheering for you and the saviors to win the super bowl you're father would've been soo proud of you Cammy" Raven Said as she tried to lighten up the mood by trying to cheer her man up by giving a big smile.
"Thank you so much princess I appreciate you're support and words of encouragement just now that you're the one that keeps me going for real over here trynna make me cry and shit" Cameron says sarcastically while pretending to whipe away his fake tears which earning a laugh from his girl and her besties.
As Raven pulled into the driveway of the packed night club "11:11" and was lucky enough to find a empty parking spot she parked the mercades effortlessly and neatly while pushing the power button off signaling her boyfriend she's getting ready to go inside the club with her friends.
"Oh y'all getting ready to go inside and turn up i ain't gon hold you up i just wanted to say hi to yo pretty ass cause I missed you a lot and also y'all gone be straight in there?"
Cameron immediately went into protective boyfriend mode. he had a serious facial expression on his face that read "I'll fuck a bitch ass nigga up on who play and touches on what's mine"
Raven chuckled and giggled at her boyfriend finding him so adorable that he gets all overprotective and possessive over her "Yeah Cammy I got it I'm a big girl I can handle myself" Raven sweetly cooed to her boyfriend being so caring and thoughtful.
"Ight I trust you mama but if I have to come up there and blow a nigga's brains out then I fucking will" Cameron said playfully but she could tell by the way his tone of voice deepening at the last threat he was not fucking playing at all.
LATER THAT NIGHT
Antitode by Travis Scott was booming throughout the club atmosphere with sweaty booties moving reckless on the dance floor, some people were in the VIP rooms hooking up some we're doing all types of drugs like molly, co-caine, coke and more sinful drugs and the group of people who we're doing those things were none other than Nate Jacobs and his seahawks teammates.
Nate was faced down snorting coke off the table while his obnoxiously loud friend group cheered him on while doing so Nate got up and threw his head back taking in the antitode slowly.
"YO NATE YOU WILD AS FUCK BRO" a Seahawk teammate hollered over the loud rap music playing from the speakers of the DJ sipping out of a glass bottle of Ciroc running his fingers through his blonde hair.
"I know I am" Nate said with no emotion shown on his face "man I'm bored as fuck where the hoes at" nate said as he put the brown 1942 Don Julio bottle to his lips eyeing every girl in the club to be his next victim and one night stand.
McKay stood leant against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest smoking a Cuban link blunt while having a scowl on his face staring his teammate nate down
"C'mon nate please don't start no shit with these females tonight next weekend is the biggest day of our lives bro and you're going to jeopardize it by doing some dumb fuck shit"
"McKay I wish you would shut the fuck up sometimes wit yo pussy ass i ain't gone jeopardize shit in this bitch I can get any girl that I want" Nate says while having the most devilish smirk on his first while staring McKay down.
"Well all I know we gotta take this shit seriously because we're playing against The saviors next weekend and they quarterback star Cameron cade ain't noting to be fucked with that nigga's ice cold when it comes down to the field" McKay exclaimed taking three more pulls of his Cuban link blunt before dipping it in the ashtray.
Nate swore up and down everything stopped around him when McKay said that everything stopped especially after hearing his biggest enemy name Cameron Cade.
"What in the everlasting fuck did you just say to me McKay?" there was no emotion in Nate's voice nor in his facial expression he was actually pretty fucked up and numbed to the feeling but when he heard Cameron's name that what he wasn't so numb he was actually pretty bothered.
Nate ain't wasted no opportunity charging at McKay his face is so close to his face that McKay uncomfortably shifts underneath Nate's grip
"DO YOU UNDERSTAND THAT I CAN TAKE EVERYTHING THAT CAMERON CADE HAS AWAY FROM HIM YOU MOTHERFUCKER?!"
Nate screams in McKay's face entirely his spit and saliva showcasing after every word he says his dark brunette hair slightly messy from all the drugs,weed and alcohol he's been doing all night.
"NATE IT AIN'T EVEN THAT SERIOUS NIGGA I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHY THE FUCK YOU HATE CAMERON SO MUCH HE'S A GOOD CHILL DUDE I MET HIM BEFORE AND BACK THE FUCK UP BEFORE I HURT YOU"
Nate hadn't responded to McKay's threats right away instead he calmy walked away from him going back to the coke table slightly bending down taking the small grey metal card up to his nostrils and inhaling the co-caine through his nose slowly taking in the drugs in his veins.
Nate's messy brunette hair had covered the side profile of his face while he started laughing historically while having the most delivlish grin on his face.
The way he was laughing you would've thought this nigga was the joker or something.
Mckay stood there slightly clenching his Jaw at Nate as he opens his mouth to speak "look man I'm just trying to help you out ight? Cameron cade ain't noting to be fucked with man I'm telling you"
"Yo Mckay why you all up on Cameron's dick you must be his bitch or something?" A seahawks teammate says while bickering and snorting technically high off Molly.
"Fuck No, I'm just trying to warn y'all and tell y'all Cameron ain't the type of nigga you would all wanna fuck with he's a menace" McKay's says rolling his eyes clearly tried of his teammates clowning him for warning them about the saviors quarterback star.
"Hey speaking of Cameron and bitches isn't his girlfriend here? I think I saw her earlier with her two homegirls and I can't even lie she's fine as fuck"
Nate says slowly walking over to the white curtains pulling them over to watch a gorgeous curvaceous brownskin girl swaying her hips to Jeremiah's "Planez" ft J-Cole.
Raven and her two best friends Kylie and Ari have been having a good time all night Free drinks, Free food, Good music they were all having a good time.
Until the fun they were having slowly dies down when none other than Nate Jacobs shows up.
Nate had slowly but quickly walked up to Raven and her homegirls slow grinding on the dance floor enjoying each other's company.
Nate's white button up shirt was unbuttoned revealing his solid hard rock abs, he wore an devilish evil smirk on his face but his eyes held no emotion whatsoever. All while his fingers gripping on the don Julio bottle tightly.
Kylie immediately stops dancing and notices Nate tall 6 foot frame walking towards them immediately her smile and happy energy slowly dying down becoming horrified by Nate's Jeepers creepers presence.
"Aw hell no man what the fuck Nate's doing I told this nigga- you know what I'm done i'mma just let him fuck around and find out for himself. on top of that he's literally the dumbest quarterback we have we gone lose the super bowl fa'sho"
Mckay quietly says to himself overly irritated at Nate's descion to mess with Cameron's Girl.
"R-Raven girl" Ari's shaky voice says out loud over the music while her body language changes from happy to creeped out. "I don't know if you notice but there's a tall creepy looking white boy getting ready to approach us getting ready to approach you"
"What are you two on about?" And as on cue raven turns around to face Nate already standing in front of her his 6 foot tall frame towering her 5'3 frame eyeing and staring her down greedily while checking her out and inhaling her Good Girl perfume scent"
"Cameron Cade got one bad ass bitch" Nate thought to himself biting his lips at the pretty girl before him.
"Can I help you?" Raven placed her hand on her hips slightly becoming annoyed and irritated that her girls night out with her two besties was getting ruined by Nate's Energy.
"Yes the fuck you can Pretty girl" I know who you are you're Raven Cameron Cade's Girl right" Nate says while pointing his fingers at Raven whilst holding the Don Julio bottle.
"Yes I am and if you don't get the fuck away from me and my friends you'll be dealt with you're creeping us all out" Raven said firmly bottle up her fists and clenching her jaw now more pissed off as ever.
She didn't want to pull her phone out of her chanel purse and call her boyfriend Cameron to come pick her up because she strictly told him that she was a big girl that can handle herself whenever he was not around to save her.
On the other end her two best friends Kylie and Ari wanted to get the everlasting fuck up outta there and call the police immediately but they trusted they're homegirl Raven for standing her ground around the tall brunette man that was preying on her.
"Woah woah wait a minute you a mean one aren't you" Nate eagerly cooed walking up more closer to Raven "I just wanted to come say hi to you Baby and then take you back to my penthouse to see if yo man Cameron really gets the Job done"
"Okay now I'm pissed the fuck off" Raven though to herself "excuse me?! But yes my man Cameron does get's the job done just like he gets the job done mopping you and the Seahawks off the field at those games"
Raven bitterly spat in Nate's face while having the most meanest mug on her face.
Nate's mood had changed from flirtatious to him going back to his signature emotionless angry self again.
He didn't waist no opportunity roughly grabbing Raven by her waist gripping her jaw with his free hand causing the girl to squeal underneath him.
Mckay immediately runs out to the scene to try to stop nate from hurting the girl. "NATE MAN WHAT THE FUCK LET HER GO YOU'RE GOING TO HURT HER"
Ari and Kylie had ran off to go ask for help leaving one of them to call the police to arrest nate.
"MCKAY SHUT THE FUCK UP THIS BITCH RIGHT HERE JUST HAD THE NERVE TO DISS US AND OUR TEAM FOR HER PUSS ASS NEPO QUATERBACK OF A BOYFRIEND "
Nate turn his head around to scream at mckay as he pushed Raven on the floor roughly causing her to fall hard to the ground with defeated tears threatening to fall from her eyes.
Her two best friends ran up to her quickly helping her and comforting her letting they're friend know that the police is on there way.
"AND ON TOP OF THAT CAMERON AIN'T GONE DO SHIT HE AIN'T ABOUT THAT LIFE SO STOP TELLING ME ABOUT THAT DUDE, HE AIN'T COMING TO SAVE HIS BITCH"
Mckay just stands there angry more than ever at Nate slowly mouthing the words "I'm so sorry for him" To Raven and her friends.
And as on cue the atmosphere of the club slowly comes to a hault everybody paying there undivided attention to the pure chaos surrounding the club.
But until a 6 foot 5 man walks up to Nate from behind his light blue eyes are dark with Anger and Possessiveness of a man ready to put a cocky motherfucker in his place.
"So you think I ain't gon' do shit huh" on cue Nate turns around to be face to face with his biggest rivalry none other than "Cameron Cade"
Nate's mood slowly changes again with fake amusement as he sarcastically claps his hands together with the fakest smile on his face.
"Well is it ain't the one and only Cameron fucking Cade" here I was talking all that shit about you not showing up for you're bitch but here you are" Nate let's out a throaty laugh while clapping his hands loudly.
"HEY EVERYBODY WE GOT CAMERON CADE IN THE MOTHERFUCKIN BUILDING MAKES SOME NOISE FOR THIS FRAUD"
Nate screams over the crowd to get everyone hyped up raising his half drunken Don Julio Bottle to the ceiling.
Cameron didn't say noting he just stood there with the most coldest emotionless death stare changing at Nate while everyone hoots and hollers for him.
Cameron's deep voice was husky and steel like cold metal his body language was firm and serious staring at his girlfriend and her friends on the floor with fear in their eyes.
"Raven take you and you're friends to my car the doors are unlocked and the engine is on go wait outside for me cause I don't want neither of you to see what I'm about to do to this nigga"
"B-but Cam baby-" Raven stood up off the ground to protest but Cameron's loud Deep voice made her squeal and body jump.
"JUST GO! please baby" Cameron said and Raven and her friends did excalty just that having no problem to wait outside for Cameron after he was done with Nate Jacobs.
"I Swear on my father's life if you put you're hands on my girlfriend i'mma kill you nigga"
Cameron said as he walked up close to Nate. The sliver metal gun slightly glistening underneath his black button up shirt due to his gun case holding it.
"I did actually" nate replied that devilish smirk that he'd been wearing all night slowly making it's way back on his face. And speaking of you're deceased father he was one hell of a fraud. Too bad he died to see that his son was gonna become just like him.
"Oohs and oh shits" Decorated the club atmosphere as party go-byers took they're iphones out to record the heated intensity interaction between the two quarterback stars Nate Jacobs and Cameron Cade.
Cameron just stood there and said noting the same emotionless stare plastered across his insanely handsome face as his dark blue eyes began to water a little bit as his jaw clenched.
Nate obviously noticed and decided to take the opportunity to clown him. "Awwww are you about to cry Cameron?"
Nate says mastering the sweetest baby voice he could find.
"Is it because I keep on talking shit about you're deceased NFL father? Or is it the fact that I'm about to take you're girl and fuck her raw-"
Cameron immediately charges at Nate punching the brunette boy repeatedly over 39 times knocking his tall frame over.
Screams and choas started to erupted through the club as tables were being knocked down and glass bottles were breaking on the floor.
All you could here were Cameron's loud grunts and Nate whimpering in pain due to Cameron's violently devouring him.
Nate awfully punched Cameron won time in the face which cause his bottom lip to bleed. Cameron's head was also bleeding due to Nate pushing him on the floor.
But that didn't stop Cameron from turning Nate every which way lose. He dragged Nate's large body through the floor. All while gripping his brunette hair and slamming his head repeatedly on the club's marvel floor.
Until you could hear Nate's head skull visibly cracking.
Cameron turn Nate's almost lifeless body around and took out his big sliver gun and angeld at Nate's Jawline.
"GIVE ME ONE FUCKING GOOD REASON NOT TO TAKE YOU'RE LIFE RIGHT NOW NIGGA?" Cameron violently shouted at Nate's face drenched in deep red blood.
Nate couldn't open his mouth to speak due to his lips being busted and half of his teeth were practically gone from Cameron violently slamming his head on the hard floors.
"UH HUH NIGGA YOU WAS COUGHING ALL THAT SHIT TO ME AND MY GIRL NOW YO ASS WANNA GO MUTE" Cameron was damn near was about to pull the trigger to his sliver gun and blow Nate's brains out. But he decided not too.
Instead he slowly nods his head pulls nate closer to him and wack him hard with his cold metal gun until the brunette boy fell unconsciously on the floor between the tables.
Cameron stood up from his crotch position and fixed his posture up wiping the access co-caine powder from Nate's shirt.
He clenched his jaw staring down at nate's body drenched with blood and dark purple bruises as he spat his copper blood onto nate's body.
"Y'ALL NIGGAS GONE LEARN HOW TO STOP PLAYING WITH ME" Cameron shouted as he ran his bloody sliver gun on his neck like it was a knife. "DEAD BODY ALERT DEAD BODY ALERT AYE MCKAY COME PICK YO DEAD HOMIE UP"
And as on cue Cameron left up out of the club with the cockiest grin on his face a deep red cut decorating his lower bottom lip all while the side of his head was bleeding.
Drake's new song from his Iceman album "Janice STFU" played on the speakers.
A seahawks teammate was looking at Cameron in disgust like he was really that nigga not until Cameron jumped up at him causing the dreadhead male to fall down in fear.
Mckay walked over to nate with the straightest poker face he could master up while shaking his head.
"If fuck around and find out was a person I told you nate but you just can't seem to shut the fuck up all the time and now you had to deal with Cameron putting belt to ass for disrespecting his girl"
Mckay says as he starts to drag nate tall frame body to his car to take him to the hospital.
Cameron and Raven had made it safely back to the apartment complex. Ari and Kylie were safe and sound at there own homes too.
In the meantime Raven had put on her two peace Black lace camisole pajamas set all while still wearing her jewelry.
She was in her bathroom with her boyfriend pressing a alcohol pad to his bottom lip.
Cameron was shirtless his layered chains stuck to his tan skin like glue he was wearing his black sweatpants with his Calvin Kieln's boxer sllighty showing.
He decided to break the awkward tension between him and his girlfriend due to all the chaos they had to deal with.
"I thought you were a big girl Rav? I thought you could handle yourself" Cameron said lowly his light blue eyes meeting his girl's hazel brown ones.
"I know baby I'm sorry I tried but Nate just had gotten the best of me" Raven frowned lightly padding a large cotton pad up against Cam's head were his stitches were placed.
"I can't let these niggas hurt you and let something happen to you Raven you know I care so much about you and you're safety thank God that you were alive when I had gotten there cause that psychopath coulda had did anything to you"
Cameron was serious gazing at his girl throughout the mirror his icy blue eyes slightly changing colors again.
"I know baby I know I'm really truly grateful for you, you've saved my life and I couldn't be more grateful I love you so much Cameron"
Raven said sweetly staring into her boyfriend's eyes and admiring how handsome and sexy he looked with a cut lip.
"I love you too Ma, just know i'mma have to roll wit'chu wherever you go now" Cameron chuckled as he pulled his girlfriend in by the waist and kiss her passionately.
Raven rested her hands on Cameron's chest as she kissed him back they're tongues colliding deepening the kiss.
Cameron slowly pulled away and ran his hands down from Raven's waist down to her hips and then to her ass to cuff her right butt cheek in her lace shorts.
"Tell me why I shouldn't fuck you in front of this mirror right now mmmh?" Cameron said grinning staring at his girl with intensity.
Raven scoffs and removes herself out of Cameron's grip "Baby as much as I would love to do that. I'm tried and sleepy as hell it's 3:25 AM in the morning and we all had a long rough chaotic night.
Cameron shakes his head and chuckles a little as his girl's antics the veins his arms and biceps showcasing as he moves up off the counter and walks over to Raven towering her frame.
"You're pussy print in them lace pajama shorts telling me you ain't that tried for real" Cameron took the time to admire how beautiful his girlfriend was her. He was getting so turnt on at how pretty her titties was sitting perfectly in that camisole top and how them lace shorts was hugging her tick hips and thighs with the curve of her ass showcasing.
"You just gone wait for me to leave from out of you're apartment and then play with that soaking wet pussy finger fucking yourself into oblivion all while thinking about me and how I have you moaning and screaming my name"
Cameron says all of this while having the most sexiest smirk on his handsome face chuckling at his girlfriend's startled facial expression.
"You ain't gotta be shy or startled baby I know you like the back of my hand girl" Cameron says while pulling his girlfriend closer to kiss her intensely as they both fell on her queen sized bed"
Cameron hovering on top of his girlfriend while his gold necklaces dangling infront of her face as he placed soft intense kisses in the crook of her neck causing Raven to softly moan at the action.
"Mmmh Camm Daddy~" Raven softly says as her Stilleto nails softly gripping Cameron's back muscles carefully not to poke his skin with her sharp nails.
Raven knew that her man Cameron cade was the greatest of all time. She wouldn't want to trade his love in for anything else in this world. He was the motherfucking Goat at everything that he does does telling niggas off and putting bitches in they place when they tried to start some shit with his girl. He ain't played about his girl not one bit.
And if you tried to pull some shit with him and his girlfriend trust and believe that you would get dealt with just like how Nate Jacobs did tonight.
PAIRING: tyriq withers as “cameron ‘cam’ cade” from “him (2025)” x black!fem!reader
SUMMARY: in which your grades unintentionally start to slip, so Cameron prohibits you from any kind of sexual act until you fix them, which motivates you to put forth more effort than you did before. so the moment your final grades get released, you waste no showing them to him so you can get what you need. 🩷
you didn’t mean for it to happen, but once the damage was done, you knew you’d be in trouble.
you may or may not have goofed around with your friends for the first month and a half of the semester, unknowingly prioritizing fun over your academics. sure, your attendance was on point and you never missed an assignment, but when you started going out to frat parties almost every weekend with your homegirls, your grades unfortunately started to slip.
it all happened so fast — the parties, the drinking, the Friday night outings, the reckless fun that practically took over your life — but it all stopped as quick as it started once your midterm grades got released. Cs and below stared threateningly at you, and you swore you felt your heart drop straight to your ass at the sight.
you didn’t know how it happened. you had always been an A and B student, so the sight of multiple grades below those made you sick to your stomach. but when Cameron found out? you felt like you could’ve vomited right in his face.
Cameron wasn’t the type to really fuss at you or even be strict on you, but when he found out what your grades were, he practically turned into your father. he got on you about your grades firmer than you expected, but the moment he told you that he’d stop fucking you and touching you sexually until you got your grades up was when you went rigid.
granted, you weren’t mad at him for taking away those privileges — you shouldn’t have even let your grades slip this bad anyway — but you knew your sexual frustration would eat away at you until the semester ended and final grades were released.
so what did you do? you worked your ass off for the rest of the semester to fix your grades.
no more parties, no more drinking, no more Friday night outings — nothing. when the weekend came, you had completely sheltered yourself in your room with nothing but your laptop and notebooks as you completed assignments and studied for upcoming exams.
you were determined to get your grades back up, but you were even more determined to be rewarded by Cameron for getting your grades back up.
once the semester came to an end and final exams wrapped up, you were practically ecstatic. you had a good feeling that you brought up your grades, but you knew you couldn’t say anything to Cameron about them because he’d ask for proof, so you waited until you were notified that final grades had been released — which came quicker than you expected.
you wasted no time logging into your Banner account and clicking through it to see your grades, your eyes lighting up at the sight of As and Bs staring back at you. satisfaction and relief coursed deeply through you as the realization settled in — you recovered rather quickly from what could’ve been a horrible blow to your GPA.
you didn’t bother celebrating on your own, though. the moment you saw your grades, you were already in the driver’s seat of your car. you drove to Cameron’s apartment with nothing but intense excitement and suppressed sexual desire inside you — though your excitement seemingly overpowered everything else because when you arrived at his apartment, you practically bursted through his door.
“Cameroooon!” you called out excitedly as you quickly pushed open his door and unintentionally slammed it behind you, swiftly locking it before taking off through his apartment, “baby! where you at?!”
Cameron jumped at the sudden sound of your appearance and his eyebrows furrowed in confusion mixed with amusement as he sat up on the couch and watched you practically pace through his humble abode to find him, “i’m in the living room. why you screamin’, you good?”
a squeal flew from your mouth before you could catch it at the sound of his voice and you ran into the living room as you threw yourself at him and into his lap, making him grunt before laughing at you while his arms instinctively wrapped around your body to steady you.
“what’s goin’ on with you, ma? why you runnin’ around here like somebody after you or some shit?” Cameron laughed as both of his eyebrows raised and he leaned back against the couch to properly look at you, his arms loosening around you and his hands moving to hold your waist.
“look!” you practically shoved your phone into his chest, but his reflexes kicked in and one of his hands caught it before it could actually come in contact with him, “i did it, Cam!”
Cameron let out a soft snort at your frantic joy and he adjusted his grip on your phone as he lifted it and his eyes averted to the screen, an understanding smile crossing his face once it clicked in his mind why you were so excited.
“see, that’s what i’m talking ‘bout. congrats, baby, i knew you could do it.” Cameron smiled, looking up at you, as you smiled back, yours wider than his, and you leaned down to him, peppering kisses across his face before moving your mouth to his and pecking his lips multiple times.
“okay, now eat my pussy,” you mumbled between pecks as Cameron laughed lowly and sat your phone aside, his hand on your waist sliding around to rest against your back while his other gently grabbed the back of your neck and slightly pulled you back from his mouth, “Cameron, come on— i haven’t felt any part of you in so long, i need this.”
“that ain’t how you ask, pretty,” Cameron teased, a small smirk creeping onto his face, as you groaned softly and rested your hands against his shoulders, a pout absentmindedly forming on your face at his denial, “ask for it properly.”
“can you please eat my pussy, baby?” you asked sweetly, batting your eyelashes at him, as your thumbs traced small circles against his shoulders and Cameron’s smirk slightly widened, “i need you, Cam, you know that.”
Cameron looked at you silently for a moment, letting the weight of your words settle into the atmosphere, before he suddenly wrapped his arms around you and flipped you over, eliciting an abrupt squeal from you while he laid you on your back.
“well… since you asked nicely,” Cameron paused and gently pecked your lips before slowly maneuvering down your body, “and you brought your grades up like i wanted you to,” he paused again and hooked his fingers into the waistband of your sweatpants as he teasingly tugged at them before pulling them down and throwing them aside, “i should reward you for that, huh?”
“yeah,” your voice was softer than before — a bit breathy as well — and you raised your hips as you helped him remove the last barrier of clothing that covered your lower body, “you should.”
“i got you, mama.” Cameron’s arms wrapped around your legs and he spread them wide as he dipped his head between your thighs and pressed soft kisses against the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, gently nipping at them before sticking out his tongue and slowly licking a long stripe of your pussy.
your body shuddered from the familiar yet forgotten feeling and you whimpered as your hands came down to cradle the back of Cameron’s head, your fingertips running over his buzzed hair and slightly grazing the stapled scar by his hairline.
Cameron groaned under his breath, though he didn’t know if it was coaxed out of him by your taste or touch, and his fingers slightly tightened against your thighs as he began eating your pussy like a man who hadn’t eaten in years, a small furrow forming between his eyebrows while he buried his face into your cunt.
your head fell back against the couch cushions and a high-pitched moan fell from your mouth as your eyes rolled back and your jaw went slack, a yelp erupting from you at feeling Cameron’s mouth lock around your clit.
“oh, fuuuck, baby— C-Cam!” you cried out, your eyebrows furrowing, as your back started to arch up from the couch but you suddenly felt his palm press into your stomach to hold you down, a whine falling from your mouth while one of your hands slid down to hold onto the back of Cameron’s neck, “uuugh, shiiiit! mmh, don’t s-stop!”
Cameron’s long fingers splayed across your stomach and kept you from running away as his other hand slid between your legs and he dragged his middle finger through your folds, collecting your arousal before he eased it inside of you.
“fuck!” a broken whimper fell from your mouth and your legs jerked as your head raised and you looked down at Cameron, pleasure displayed across your pretty face and mixing with a hint of bewilderment.
you had been so wound up for the past few months from Cameron’s “no sex or head” rule, but it seemed like you weren’t the only one affected by it. Cameron had always been skilled at eating pussy, but the way he was feasting on you today felt different — as if he was practically starving for another taste of you.
Cameron’s eyes found yours and you watched the corners of his mouth slightly lift in what you assumed to be a smirk, the sight of shock mixed with pure bliss in your expression telling him more than you even needed to.
pulling his mouth off of your clit, Cameron rolled and wiggled his tongue against it as he pushed his ring finger inside you and slightly scissored them to stretch you further open, eliciting a desperate mewl from you while you watch him torment you with his mouth and fingers.
“you gon’ cum for me, ma? hm?” Cameron murmured against your clit, flicking his tongue against it, as he slightly pulled back and spit on your clit before replacing his mouth with his thumb, rubbing it in quick circles while his fingers thrusted deeply inside you, “you gon’ let me taste how much you been missin’ me, pretty girl?”
“y-yes!” you whined, your head falling back for a second time, as you gasped sharply and your legs jerked again, your eyes rolling back and your eyebrows furrowing deeply while a small scrunch formed in the bridge of your nose, “ohhh, my G— C-Cameroooon! shiiiit, baby, i-i’m—”
“uh-huh, i know. i know, baby. keep soakin’ my fingers just like that. gimme’ all that good shit.”
⋆˚୨୧˚⋆ WARNINGS— flashing, teasing, dry humping, orgasm denial? , jackson being down bad, slight choking, word count: 0.8k
𝑴𝑰𝑵𝑶𝑹𝑺 𝑫𝑶 𝑵𝑶𝑻 𝑰𝑵𝑻𝑬𝑹𝑨𝑪𝑻
The living room is fairly quiet except for the low him of the AC in the background. You quietly tiptoe down the stairs to see that Jackson is still here. You groan internally, but another part of you is relieved that he never leaves unless your father tells him to.
Your footsteps are incredibly light, making sure to avoid creaky parts of the floor. Finally, you spot him on the couch, just sitting there in complete silence. After a few moments, you decide to sneak up behind him only to notice him typing away on his phone.
Your breath hitches when you see his veiny hands and thick fingers. There have been so many times when you imagined how his fingers would feel inside of you.
How it would feel if he curved his fingers just right, hitting that sweet spot inside your walls. You imagined the pads of his fingers rubbing your clit in a slow, sensual pace that would drive you insane.
You clamped your legs together at the thought of him being inside you. It wasn’t surprising that you were already getting wet just from thinking about him. You fantasized about Jackson almost every single day.
Without hesitation, you carefully lifted your oversized tee to reveal your bare pussy. You weren’t going to touch yourself, atleast not this time. You just wanted to feel how wet he made you.
You took your middle finger and slowly dragged it along your folds and you were soaked. A tiny smile crept up on your face as you saw the sticky mess that Jackson had caused.
He shuffled a bit from his spot on the couch and you froze, terrified of him catching you. Thankfully, he was still glued to his phone.
Suddenly, you decided to pull your large tee down and come into his view.
Jackson flinched when he saw you appear out of nowhere, silently cursing at himself for not hearing you come down the stairs. “Wh-What are you still doing up?” He asked.
You shrugged your shoulders. “I’m thirsty.”
He simply nodded and turned his attention back to his phone.
You smiled and headed straight to the kitchen to get something to drink. You knew he’d watch you and he certainly was.
He tore his focus away from his phone to get a good look at your retreating figure. His pants began to tighten the longer he stared at you. What drove him even crazier was the sight of your tee barely covering your ass when you bent down to grab something in the fridge.
“You want something to drink?” You asked. At this point, your shirt rode up completely and your ass was on full display.
Jackson felt himself getting harder while his mind was racing. All the things that he wished to do to you started to cloud his mind. He was truly at a loss for words.
You finally decided to stop teasing him. Slowly, you made your way over to him and he started to get nervous all of a sudden. You saw how he began to wipe his palms on his pants and looked at everything else but you.
“Eyes up here, Jackson,” you urged, placing your fingers under his chin.
You instantly sat on his lap and he never took his eyes off of you. You felt how hard he was through his pants and let out a quiet moan.
His hands immediately gripped your ass and he squeezed it hard, making you arch your back. He lets out a low groan as he moves his hands to your hips. “F-fuck… you’re gonna get me fired.”
You ignore him. You didn’t give a fuck.
You slowly roll your hips back and forth, taking in how good his length feels against your throbbing clit.
He throws his head back from the overwhelming pleasure. You decide to go even faster, letting your hands find their way to his throat. Something had awakened inside of you as you squeezed his throat even harder. Your stomach was fluttering with butterflies as you felt the sensation of his jeans on your clit.
Jackson’s breath was getting heavier and his grip on your hips got even tighter, reminding you that he was just seconds away from cumming. You stopped your movements completely and he cranked his head up in frustration.
“N-no, please…” he whimpered softly. He tried so hard to make you roll your hips with his grip, but you wouldn’t budge.
You liked seeing him like this. All desperate and needy for you. So fucking desperate to cum.
You removed your hands from his throat and guided his fingers to your soaked pussy. Another moan came out of him as he felt your wetness. You leaned down to whisper in his ear. “Have a good night, Jackson.”
You quickly got up and made your way upstairs as if nothing ever happened.
Jackson let out a loud groan, aggravated at the pathetic state that you left him in. He looked down at his pants to see he that he was embarrassingly hard, and noticed the small wet spot that was left by you. He threw his head back in anger, leaving himself with no choice but to finish himself off for the third night in a row.
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